19 Years (HP - Drarry)

Chapter 48: Every Rose Has Its Thorn

         A/N: TRIGGER WARNING - SUICIDE ATTEMPT! I'm so sorry I forgot to add this you guys. Eek.
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Wednesday, February 14, 2018

Draco closed his eyes, Harry's words echoing around the inside of his skull, around the empty space in his chest where he thought his heart might once have been.

Well. That went well.

He'd known this would happen, of course, the same way he'd known what he had to do, all those years ago. He knew that Harry would never be able to forgive him. It didn't matter what Draco's reasons were - he'd still hurt him, hurt him worse than anyone else ever had, in a life spent bumbling from one hurt to another.

The breeze picked up, teasing the edges of his hair and investigating the hem of his robe, setting it gently flapping. A stray scrap of parchment skittered across the stones. Draco could smell snow on the breeze, cold and damp, with a hint of leaf mold from the forest. The scent of the wine - a good vintage, one of his favorites - and rich chocolate wafted up to him, along with...

Draco knelt, careful to keep the hem of his robe from trailing in the creeping pool of wine, and picked up the rose.

It was perfect, soft as velvet, and a red so rich it looked almost black in the moonlight. Its fragrance was sweet and dark, almost magical. He rose smoothly to his feet, idly stroking the frilled edge of its petals.

He'd hesitated so long in returning Harry's memories because of this. Because it didn't matter that it had happened 20 years ago. He'd never fully dealt with the grief or the burning, aching hole in his chest that had always - always - belonged to Harry. And it hurt. Merlin, but it hurt. Draco was honestly not sure he would survive it. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

These last few weeks with Harry had been more than he had hoped for. Even with all the tension, the layers of hurt and anger, Harry had been a friend, almost. Draco couldn't recall a time that he had ever been happier. Except... his brain shied away from the thought before it formed. To have that ripped away, even though it was his own fault, and he absolutely deserved it...

The wind grew bolder, sending the sleeves on his robes flapping. The temperature slid lower. Draco didn't notice. He shifted the rose to his left hand, slipped his right into the inner pocket of his robe, fingers questing until they found the tiny vial. He smoothly drew it from his pocket and held it to the light.

The potion inside gleamed darkly. He shook the glass, just a fraction, and the viscous liquid sloshed, leaving an oily residue on the tapered glass.

He'd not meant to use it, tonight; hadn't meant to take it from his storeroom at all. But he'd had to run back to his classroom to fetch some pepper-up, dreamless sleep, and extra-strength pain potions for Bones - as she'd tartly informed him she preferred to be called - on his way to get ready to meet Harry that evening.

She'd accosted him in the hall, scowling, demanding to know why he hadn't sent them already, as she had nearly twenty third-years that had all come down with a new - thankfully far less lethal - strain of Dragon Pox. The fact that her request had gone awry had mattered not the least to the fearsome witch who had once been his classmate, and Draco had meekly agreed that he could bloody well fetch them now.

The store-room was a disaster - he'd made a mental note to assign it at the next detention he presided over - and it had taken much longer to find the bloody things than he had wanted to spend. Bones, of course, had snatched them from his hands as he emerged, brushing off the stray cobwebs clinging to his robes, to find her tapping her foot and scowling impatiently at the storeroom door.

He'd suggested, not altogether politely, that she could fetch her own bloody potions next time, and she'd had the gall to laugh at him. "If Snape didn't manage to make me enter that storeroom in the five  years he spent teaching us this benighted subject, do you really think you're going to be able to, Professor Malfoy?" She'd left then, shaking her head and laughing to herself, to tend the gaggle of third years tucked away in the infirmary.

Draco had glared at the door for several minutes after she'd flounced through it, and hoped that she came down with Dragon Pox. Then he'd sighed and turned to go and get ready to meet Harry. It was pure chance that he'd noticed on the way out that the storeroom door hadn't shut properly, and, as he didn't want his students - or worse, Peeves - to get in there, he'd gone back to shut it. The vial, snugged up against the edge of the shelf nearest the door, had caught his eye as the candlelight glinted off the glass, and he'd absentmindedly reached out, plucked the bottle off the shelf, and tucked it into his pocket to examine later.

Maybe he had meant to use it, after all.

He studied it, now, detached, noting the oily sheen that indicated its potency. It wouldn't take long. Wouldn't hurt - well, not too much, anyway. Certainly not as much as watching the lines of Harry's face hardening in hatred the next time their eyes chanced to meet. As watching from the shadows as Harry finally moved on.

He knew it would happen. It wasn't like the school was big enough for them to successfully avoid one another forever - certainly not with their meddling exes around, poking their delicately freckled noses in where they didn't belong.

And if he died in pain, well, it was better than living in pain, wasn't it? At least it wouldn't last long. And, anyway, he'd caused enough pain and suffering in his life. He didn't deserve a painless death.

He nodded sharply, once, decided. He took a long, shuddering breath, blew it out slowly, watching the faint puff of steam as it hit the now-frigid air. He reached up, brushed a few stray strands of hair off his forehead; his fingers came away faintly damp, with tiny crystalline snowflakes clinging to them, but he hardly noticed, too caught up in memory.

He'd stopped gelling his hair for Harry, after he'd remarked idly, one morning that Draco had been running too late to take the time for even that much primping, that it looked much nicer that way; he'd never been able to bring himself to start again. He remembered Harry's sturdy fingers, carding through his hair; fancied he could feel those fingers reach out of his memories, ghost silkily through the blonde strands, feather-light. His lips parted involuntarily; the rose fell from his trembling fingers to land soundlessly on the stones at his feet.

He slid the stopper out of the vial, the movement achingly slow. He held it for a moment, as he looked up at the sky, staring into the inky blackness dotted with stars that shimmered in the icy air. The moon shone pearly-bright, cold and unforgiving. He let the stopper fall from his fingers, raised the vial in a toast to his memories, the ghosts of his past.

"Cheers, Harry," he whispered. Then he brought it to his lips. The glass rim was smooth and cold, impersonal against his lips. He wrinkled his nose at the astringent herb-y smell, tossed the contents back in one smooth motion. He swallowed quickly, before his gag reflex could kick in. He had a few seconds to worry that it wouldn't work, and then the world tilted sideways.

Everything seemed suddenly fuzzy and far away, and he blinked, slowly, watching the colors run and fade as the buzzing in his ears intensified, hammering relentlessly at his nerves. Distantly, he felt himself fall to his knees, then slump sideways onto the chilled stones. Then everything faded to black.