The Selfish Death of Draco Malfoy

The Selfish Death of Draco Malfoy - by Veronica L

They told me to come here, and so here I am. Don't make the mistake of thinking that I am here because I feel that I needed help. I don't. Need help, that is.

My friend Hermione thinks it's unhealthy for me to bottle emotion like this. I can tell by the disgustingly neutral look on your face that you agree with her. Whatever.

I've lived for thirty years and naturally, a lot of shit has happened to me - you know all about it, I suppose, from reading the Daily Prophet.

No? Don't follow the newspapers much? Haven't heard everything there is to know about me?

Well, I suppose it's fair since I don't have a fucking lightning bolt scarring my face anymore. Don't get me wrong, I'm kind of relieved. I know it sounds all cliché and shit, but I really do get sick of the publicity.

Like when I was fourteen, I remember, this journalist - Rita Skeeter (I still remember her name) - would make these horrible stories of me in the paper. The other kids at school would tease me about it, quoting embarrassing passages. This guy, Draco Malfoy, he was the worst.

Oh. You want to know more about Draco Malfoy, eh? Hermione told you all about him?

Well, I'll tell you all about Draco Malfoy. The real Draco Malfoy.

Everybody thought that he was the world's most selfish git, and guess what? He was.

Back in the old Hogwarts days, we weren't good friends or anything. In fact, as I've mentioned before, we were sort of rivals. He hated me, and I hated him. He tried to make life hell for me, with his bullying posse.

I remember sweaty fights after Quidditch matches. Insults and... wild ... illicit kisses along my collarbone. He would run his tongue there, teeth grazing the skin and....

Then when we were seventeen and our school was closed down, things started to change. He disappeared for seven months. Not that I really cared. It was just a tiny twinge, every time I looked at his empty chair, and sometimes I'd lie there on my bed, just thinking about whether he was alive or not.

I saw him again during the First Battle. He was much thinner. I remember that because we fought, jumping like wild dogs. We tried to rip each other apart. In that moment, it was just the two of us and nothing: not the war, not Dumbledore and certainly not the carnage around us existed. Nothing - we were alone.

I was only aware of sharp hipbones digging into my skin, of nails scraping at my face, trying to make me bleed. Of cries and kicks in the stomach as we both fought for life. In that moment, we were alive.

Nobody won that particular fight, because right at that moment, the rest of the Aurors came and he fled, leaving me staring at the empty patch of grass, longing for something more. Something I didn't understand.

Coincidentally, I met him again a few sleepless nights later. I was patrolling the streets of Knockturn Alley, when I saw a shadow. I chased that shadow and down went the hood, revealing silvery blond hair I knew too well.

"What are you doing here?" I hissed. "Did you think I wouldn't see you?"

"I was counting upon it," he said and he laughed, and it had been such a long time since I heard somebody laugh.

"Don't think I won't kill you, because you're Draco Malfoy," I said, gritting my teeth.

"Then why aren't you killing me?"

That did it. I sprang upon him, and we were at it again, tumbling along cold stone streets, warmed by our bodies fusing. Searching for any reason, any at all, to touch each other again. We fought, I could feel the blood rushing towards the head. He punched me, and God, it hurt a lot. I reached for my wand, and he twisted my arm so brutally, there was an immediate snapping sound.

I wanted to win the fight so badly, a little broken arm wasn't going to stop me. Crying like an animal, I took his wand to his throat. "I'll kill you."

His eyes looked up into mine, and I think that was the only time we understood each other. "Go ahead, Potter," he said. In time, I might forget what he really said. But I'll never forget the look in his eyes. They were completely unafraid.

Draco Malfoy was never afraid of death.

Of course I couldn't do it. I threw his wand and swore angrily that one day I'd kill him, even if I had to kill everybody else in this bloody world.

He just snickered and said, "Tomorrow, the Fountain of the Founders."

Of course I went. Thinking back now, I wonder at my own carelessness. It could have been a trap.

But it wasn't. There he was, sitting on the ledge of the fountain, legs bare in the moon. I remember the swoop of my stomach, watching him for a moment. He was so alive, he represented life in my world of death.

I watched him from behind and he, as if sensing my presence said, "Come out, birdie. Play with me."

I came from my hiding spot in the shadows, and tried to read his expression. "What are you playing at, Malfoy?" I asked, reluctantly.

"I don't know," he said honestly. His foot, white skin gleaming, kicked back black water and sent a little spray of wetness my way.

I watched that foot, fixated, not wanting to meet his eyes.

I stared at the section of hip, the flash of pale skin beneath rolled up denim jeans. It was like white chocolate.

Like in a trance, I sleepwalked towards him and we were just an inch away from each other.

He wet his lips, an unconscious action which showed that he was just as aware as me, as I was aware of him. "I...."

He had no chance to answer, for my fingers were already gripping onto those thin shoulders and I kissed him furiously, making up for lost time.

I hadn't seen him for a few years, and it was like... taking a drug that I was addicted to. It was a breath of fresh air, made my blood run hot. I could feel the hot happiness running through my veins.

I knew then, that I'd never be able to quit Draco Malfoy. He was my downfall.

We met regularly, even though our affairs were taboo, him being on the wrong side and all. But I think we were happy. I don't know actually. My memory's not what it once was, and we never broached the issue of communication in relationships.

You might wonder why I was risking it all, just to spend a few fucks with him. I can tell you that it was definitely worth it. When I was with him, nothing existed for me anymore. There was only that feeling of flying, of seeing the world as beautiful, when my chest was against his. I remember counting his protruding vertebra one-by-one as we went at it, spending our nights in twisted orgy.

The war ended, I killed Voldemort and Draco managed to escape persecution as a Death Eater. I... vouched for him. I shouldn't have, it was a waste of influence, but the sex was too bloody good and as I've said before, I was addicted to him.

You ask me whether it bothered me that Draco was a Death Eater. After all, he was partly responsible for all those deaths.

No, it didn't bother me. I don't know why it didn't. Sometimes, I'd resolve to turn Draco in (trying to do my bit as a fellow citizen) but when I'd see him, my heart would fucking melt and I knew that I'd die, if he wasn't standing by my side.

But things weren't all fun and games. No, there were times when Draco would get all moody with me. Like everybody else, he was traumatised by the war, but unlike everybody else, he wouldn't admit it.

Sometimes Draco would have nightmares, where he'd cry, biting his tongue and he'd cough on his own blood. He'd spend days, watching the ceiling, the twitching pupils the only sign of life.

I watched, sighing. I thought that it was would just go away.

I was never more wrong.

Draco's first attempt was on a lovely Sunday afternoon. I remember that the sky was a gorgeous azure blue, with not a single puffy cloud in the sky and I found Draco, hanging from the ceiling, body swaying to gravitational rhythm.

Hyperventilating and shaking, I set to work, like during the days of the war when mothers would hang themselves and their children (preferring death to Voldemort, sorry, You-Know-Who). The impossible knots and cords were familiar territory for me. So was Draco's limp body, head lolling sickly on the shoulders, his extremities already blue. I set him down on the wooden floor, gently, and shook him.

There was no response, and as if I were in a play and this was routine, I administered EAR on him immediately, giving him life again. I did this, not because I wanted to save him, but because I didn't want him to die on me.

If you think about it (as I have for ten years), there is quite a difference.

Draco jerked, awake and regretting it. Then there was something in those colourless eyes, something I was afraid of understanding.

"Why?" I asked, petulantly.

"Because I hate this world," he stated, emotionlessly. "Tell me, Harry. When was the last time you were happy?"

I didn't reply because I couldn't remember. It wasn't because I wasn't happy, no, no. I was at that stage of life where everything was sunshine and merry-go-rounds. I just couldn't catch those elusive happy memories. It's the sad, painful ones that stay with you, you see.

Well?" Draco asked, mocking smile on his face.

"Fuck you," I stated, angrily. "If I wanted you to die, I would have killed you during the war, and saved you a hell of a lot of trouble."

Draco smiled, said nothing and the issue was closed. Until the next attempt, of course.

'Course I tried to prevent all of this from happening. Prevention is better than cure (because there is no cure for death). I read his journals. Draco's entries were always half-completed, like he couldn't be arsed enough to finish. There were always little phrases inside those entries though, phrases which made me shiver and want to burn his journal.

He caught me reading it, one particular not-so-special day.

"What are you doing?" he shrieked, vulture-like. "What the bloody fuck are you doing?"

"Trying to prevent you from doing more stupid things," I said coldly, heart suffused with dread.

"It's my diary!" he yelled.

"What are diaries for then, if not to be read?" I answered calmly, dropping the book in the fireplace and lighting it up with a flick of my wand - it took a lot in me to be calm. I wanted to break down in tears and beg him not to do anything too hasty and irreversible, but pride restrained me. "Draco, you need help."

I left him hunched over the roaring flames licking and eating away half of Draco's soul.

I sought psychiatric help for Draco. Draco refused to go, quite selfish of him.

"You didn't go to Dancing School when I enrolled you in," he pointed out.

"Dance was not a matter of life and death," I said, hardened expression on my face.

"It is for me," said Draco, shrugging. He placed his hands in his pockets and walked away, whistling. This annoyed me immensely. He was avoiding the issue here.

No, I had to be strong for the both of us. I had faced Voldemort. I helped save the world. Why couldn't I help Draco?

"You need help, Draco."

"Yeah? Well, so do you!" Draco challenged rudely, pushing me away.

I knew that everything could be resolved by violence, so I punched him (taking care not to do any damage to his face though).

"Don't you dare leave me," I breathed heavily, shaking. I couldn't comprehend the thought of a world without smiling Draco. Draco, who was always so alive.

Draco placed a light hand on my shoulder. Even then, he was fading away slowly. "Some things you lose, some things you just give away, Harry."

"Don't... don't talk like that." I shuddered.

Perhaps he could sense my fear, or insecurity, or whatever. In any case, he didn't reply.

I dared to look up and I saw him, staring away into space with an expression of utmost misery on his face, like a wild animal which wanted to get out of its cage, to freedom and happiness.

I knew things were getting serious when Draco was found, unconscious, on the roadside. According to witnesses, he stepped onto the road and was immediately struck by a car. The driver apologised profusely (and offered to pay for any medical bills), and the hospital recorded it as an accident, but I knew better. It was time for me to take action.

"A cat has nine lives," I said, as I watched Draco blink incoherently at the tiny Muggle hospital TV. "How many have you used up?" I asked, knowing very well how many suicide attempts Draco had made so far.

"Two," said Draco, dully. "Seven left, eh?"

"Don't talk like that!" I spat, angrily. I wanted to shake Draco hard. I wanted to kill him, to teach him a lesson.

Draco shrugged, and his expression softened. "Look, I'm sorry, it was an accident. I didn't mean to. I have trouble with my impulses - it's like impulse buying."

I believed him because I wanted to.

His third offence occurred in the form of his upright body, eyes closed, silk tie around his neck. I was stunned by the sight. Partly because he had such a beautiful expression of ecstasy on his face, and also because his hand was wrapped around his cock, pants down ungracefully.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I slapped him.

Draco didn't reply. He was unconscious. Cursing, I loosened the tie. Draco had gone too far, I thought, looking at the welts on the beautiful neck. I didn't want to touch them. It repulsed me. It represented Draco dying, leaving me. And where would I be without him?

Draco regained his consciousness. He made a slight sound: a mixture between a whimper and protest, when he saw me. "Harry, I wasn't trying to kill myself. It was an accident."

I raised a hand to stop him. "Stop, this is making me sick, Draco. Tripping over your own feet is an accident. This isn't. This... this disgusts me, it has to stop now."

How did I feel? How the hell would I know how I felt? I think I remember that part of me was furious, furious at Draco's weakness and how he just wouldn't listen to me. He was twenty-one years old, for bloody fuck's sake. He knew better.

I was also tired. Tired of Draco's bullshit. I felt guilty. Guilty, because there was a sliver of a thought, a tiny thought, like Satan's whisper in my ear, wanting Draco to stop doing things half-arsed. I blamed Draco for putting me under such emotional strife.

He was fucking with my mind. I was tortured... by him. I wanted to stop worrying, to live my own life. Why couldn't Draco be normal?

"Suicide is stupid," I pointed out. "It's pointless and these days, they won't even bury you, if they find out that you killed yourself."

I stormed away, before Draco could reply.

Though Draco never made another attempt again, my life was still shit. It was the little things that made it a nightmare. How, when I was talking to Draco, he only responded by nodding and one-worded replies. Soon he refused to leave the bed, and I was forced to scream at him and get him to eat, by shoving a spoon of muesli in his mouth (ripping his bloodless gums in the process). Draco had nightmares which woke me up; I never slept enough first place, due to spending nearly all my life tending to him. He was little better than an invalid, and the agonising thing was that he'd refuse to get help, or even acknowledge that there was something wrong with him.

He was being a big bloody idiot about it, like a little kid of four who refuses to acknowledge an embarrassing bed-wetting problem. Or an obese person who has the opposite of anorexia, even if they are ten stone overweight and are suffering from a hundred different kinds of maladies.

One day he was sleeping, and I was watching him sleep. He was in tortured slumber, he'd toss and turn, and moan in pain, like he was sick (except he was sick... mentally).

I'd watch with bitterness. "Why couldn't I fall in love with somebody saner? What did I do to deserve this?"

His eyes opened, and I realised that he had been awake, and had heard every single thing that I had said.

"I'm sorry," he confessed.

"Sure," I said, dubiously.

He turned to me, old shadow of anger on his face. "I'm fucking sorry, all right? I didn't tell you to stick with me. I can't help it."

I looked at him, and he was so pathetic, with his paleness and the sharp collarbones, which could collect water in the rain. With disgust and shame evident on my face, I remember I said, "Yes, you can. You're just bloody useless. Why can't you be who you were before?"

He whispered so softly, I had to strain to hear him, "The problem is, I've forgotten."

"No, you haven't. You're just too goddamn lazy to remember," I said abruptly. "The truth is, your selfishness is killing me. I'm sorry, Draco, I'm telling you the truth."

Draco didn't answer.

He was all right after that. Slowly, he dragged himself out of bed and had coffee with me. He even went shopping again, after so long. He went back to being his old obnoxious self and I was so happy, because he was back and I didn't have to be so worried anymore.

I remember sometimes, sitting there at dinner parties, watching him. He was so animated, laughing much too loudly and I would be proud, because it was I who helped him talk, walk and function like a human again.

A girl complimented him on his hair. He gave her a flirty wink, before dropping a kiss on the back of my earlobe, and would say, "Sorry darling, maybe after I fuck this one?" And she would laugh at his outrageousness, and so would I, because he was past the danger of dying.

He walked with extra bounce in his steps. There was always an insane light in his eye.

But that period of time was good. We were happy, and never mentioned the past because it brought back a sour taste, memories which were best forgotten.

I've realised now that the past always stays with you, no matter how much you try to exorcise it.

I'd ask Draco many, many times, "Draco, are you happy?"

And as usual, he'd laugh (but never look me in the eye) and he always said, "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

I wanted him to be happy, so I never questioned it.

Nobody was more shocked than me, when they found him (they, being the faceless Muggle paramedics) lying on the couch; arms crossed across the chest, and an empty bottle of antidepressants lying on its side, next to him.

The expression on his face... it was just empty. Death was always empty. His lips were parted slightly, the tiny froth of poison stained the lips. The eyes were bright, reflecting the rays of the sun, and his hair was all over the pillow of the couch. His slim legs were hooked over the edge, dangling, like they did in the moonlight.

He looked peaceful. Empty, but peaceful. Lying dead on a couch, on a warm summer's day.

I... I was not so lucky. I shrieked like a banshee, there was this hole torn inside me.

I... I think about him everyday now. It's been ten years, but that image of him - with that bottle of pills - is embedded in my memory forever.

Sometimes I curse him, because he's at peace and happy now, while I'm stuck in this hellhole, stuck among the living, harangued by memories of him. I can't get him out of my head, and I see him everywhere, no matter how many lovers I take.

At night, sometimes, I swear I see his ghost lying on that couch. But whenever I look twice, he is never there. I burned that couch.

His acts were acts of selfishness, because he only thought of himself. He never thought about how killing himself, would affect me.

That's why I'm here, because I've changed into somebody who scares people. I scare little children! People think I'm not quite right in the head.

Maybe I'm not. Guess whose fault is it? Too bad, he's dead, away from the accusing finger of blame.

I miss Draco so much, it hurts. And ten years later, I still think about what I could've done to save him. People tell me that I'm not to blame, but you know what?

I think I am.

Fin

It is always so easy to blame the dead.