Cut Forever by TragicDraco

One

Work Text:

The halls fell silent as he passed through them. He knows they see him. He knows they watch him. Judge him.

He keeps his eyes fixed ahead, and his expression blank. Father always said to never show weakness. To give them recognition is to give them power, so to speak. Wouldn't he be proud, Draco thought bitterly.

But no, he wouldn't be proud. There was no reason to be such. After all, over half way into the year, and the obscene task he'd been set was no closer to being achieved.

Draco knew both his and his parents' lives depended on it. He couldn't bring himself to care.

How was one supposed to achieve an impossible task?

Well, Draco supposed, perhaps that's the point. Punishment, and all. That sounds exactly like Vo-- ... V--. You Know Who.

The last (feeble) attempt Draco had made on the Headmaster's life got Katie Bell hexed. It didn't even kill her, so needless to say it wouldn't have mattered even if it had gotten to the Headmaster's office.

I will never survive this War.

Draco found himself looking into the Great Hall. He idly felt his ribs ache in hunger, but felt no desire to eat. Regardless, he numbly let his legs carry him into the hall. He could kill the rest of break sat at the end of the Slytherin table. The day would be over soon.

He froze when he saw the back of a black head of hair. Potter.

He'd recognise him anywhere. The boy he would inevitably have to fight against, in a war he wanted no part in. The boy he'd likely watch die.

"I've been trying to remember, honestly-"

He's talking to Katie Bell.

Suddenly the walls felt like they're closing in. When did it get so hot in here?

Fighting for breath, Draco turned around and hurried out of the Great Hall. Potter hadn't seen him. He prayed it would stay that way as he promptly made his way to the other side of the school, stubbornly forcing back the tears stinging in his eyes.

He tried to tell himself he had no choice in this. Really, he didn't. But the nagging voice in his head continued to remind him that he was exactly what they said he was. Pathetic. A coward. A traitor. Guilty.

When he reached the bathrooms, he instantly pulled his jumper over his head. It made him feel no better.

Stupid fucking Potter. He splashed cold water onto his face. His chest still felt tight, and he felt no better.

He's suffocating me.

He gripped the cold basin and looked into his pale reflection in the grimy mirror. The man who stared back at him looked expressionless and broken. And utterly lost. Draco didn't recognise him. He hated him.

He's ruined me.

He let the tears fall from his eyes. They stung at his cheeks. He could hear his sobs echoing off the walls, and he didn't care.

He clenched his eyes shut and gasped for air. It didn't make him feel better.

He wondered if he'd ever feel better. If it would ever be better.

Draco collapsed onto the floor, and knelt with his head pressed to the cold stone. The floor was wet beneath his knees. He didn't care.

His hands clenched into fists, and he heaved in breaths between sobs. He dug his nails into his palms, hard. He furrowed his brow, and welcomed the pain. When he felt blood under the tips of his fingers, he dragged his nails up, further breaking the skin.

He sat up weakly and looked down at his palms. They were a mess. Blood was smeared across in four lines on each hand.

Not enough.

More tears streamed down his face. He wiped them away in frustration, but didn't bother stopping more from falling.

His eyes landed on his left forearm. Hesitantly, he pulled up his sleeve. His Marked arm was left exposed. Draco stared down at it, unfeeling. This Mark is proof of his fate.

Suddenly, unwarranted, a spell came to the forefront of Draco's mind.

He vaguely remembered seeing it on a scrap of paper in his Godfather's house when he was young. Severus never told him what it does. Draco hadn't heard of it since.

Strangely, he felt a pull toward it. He glanced back down at his Marked arm, and minutely nodded. This was it. Somehow he just... knew it.

Draco reached to dig his wand out of his pocket. He sighed deeply, wiped his face, and looked down at his arm.

With resignation, he silently pointed his wand at the Mark, and croaked out, "Sectumsempra."

The word was barely audible in the room.

For a moment everything was still.

Then he felt magic slowly creep up the skin of his forearm. It was cold as ice. As it travelled, it tore open his skin, leaving gaping wounds from which thick blood poured.

He quickly began to feel lightheaded. It felt as if he was floating.

He would finally have freedom.

He let himself fall so he was lying on his back. The water on the floor was cool and felt distant.

Tears slid down the side of his face. His body relaxed.

The noises from outside the bathroom faded to silence. His eyes glazed over, and he let himself fall asleep.