drarry oneshots

You Have To

A/N:
Hello! Thank you for your interest in this oneshot! :) This is just a little warning; this book is incredibly angsty -- just letting you guys know in case there are some sensitive readers here; This book involves depression, assisted suicide, suicide, and evental psychopathic behaviours. Anyways... enjoy, somehow!

PS: I might edit this later, perhaps include the final suicide instead of skipping it? Hm...

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Death is a body or shadow that lurks in the dark, he crawls under little children's beds and he is always there. He is always there, following you and the closer he gets the sooner he will take you as his own. He is the ghost that people fear and he is the tormentor of the many corpses claimed by death. You know when your time is nearing its end because you can feel the chill of his icy breath as it tickles the hairs on the back of your neck.  Death wasn't kind. Draco knew that. It snatched where it could, taking people who were far too young, far too good. It didn't pretend to care, it didn't pretend to distinguish.  The hooded vale of death had hung over the world for a long time, always threatening. It had never touched Draco quite so close. Death had ripped away a part of him, the part of him that was most loved.  Now Draco would sit staring for hours. His face sunken and haunted, his mind cold and empty.  All his life he had feared death, suppressed dealing with the notion, never ready to depart. Always for him there would be tomorrow and the day after. Time was no longer his casual acquaintance, but leading him steadily onward whether his feet wanted to follow or not.  Many say that when you die, you will meet a robed skeleton holding a scythe. Some say you go to Heaven or Hell. Some say that you are reincarnated. Some say you turn into a ghost, while some say you sleep for eternity.  Draco was unsure if he believed any of that, or if it was just 'lights out'.

He snapped out of his deep thoughts as he heard a firm knock against the door of his dorm.  He already knew who it was, based off the way the pupil knocked.  It was Harry.

'Crush' was such an infantile word, one that must have been invented by older folks, the ones with an interest in belittling young love. Draco hated it. He didn't have a crush on Harry, he loved him with the passion hotter than a thousand suns. He was the one. He knew it. He was all that was in Draco's mind; he was his true north, his everything. One day they were supposed prove everyone wrong, run away together, start a family of their own.  But now, he couldn't.  Today was the day Draco would admit the truth to Harry, about Voldemort's wishes.

"Draco, honey? How are you?" Harry asked him softly, sitting on the bed next to Draco.  There was so much to admire about Malfoy, but his raw honesty is the best part. Harry loved how his words spill out real slow as if the truth can take its time. It's as if there is a force behind them, yet the kind that is respectful and quiet - a determination that's observant and patient. And in those words is a wonderful compassion, an awareness of the vulnerability of others, of the sort that is born of painful experience. So when Draco tells Harry of his sorrows, Harry believed every word of it, because it's right there in everything he was, from his eyes to the pattern of his thoughts. The respect Harry held for him was like an aged cheese. It became stronger with age, more mature, more robust. Draco was unfailingly kind, he always put others first and himself last. No matter how tired he was, he was never short with anyone. Harry's admiration for him was deep seated and long lasting. Draco's gaze slid to the side. Harry pulled him against his chest. His nose tickled his ear. Malfoy let out a tiny gasp and squirmed. He liked being intimately handled. He felt his lips softly graze his slender neck. Draco's face heated. He summoned enough courage to meet his gaze. His emerald eyes twinkled.

"I'm... coping.  And yourself?" Draco sighed, turning away again.  All he could think about was the night before, when he received a letter from his parents about what Voldemort had commanded.  He rocked back and forth on the floor of his dorm, mumbling at himself; I am not enough, I am not enough, I am not enough.  He tugged at his hair, tufts come out, his heart beating loudly like a drum only he could hear.  Malfoy forced himself to look at Potter, making all his worries disappear.  For a second -- a mere second -- he had completely forgotten about everything.