Until the End ~ A Dransy Fic

XIX - The Shard of Glass (TW)

Draco stood dumbfounded and watched her run down the long driveway. 

He took a couple steps back inside the house and slammed the door behind him. Leaning against it, he massaged his temples and tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened.

She's gone. She's gone. She's gone.

His heart pounded. His throat ached.

I can't believe she's gone. This is exactly what I was afraid of. 

Venomous guilt was incessantly gnawing at his insides, and his knees were growing so weak he could barely stand. He took a seat on the hardwood floor, once again noticing the eerie silence of the lonely house.

What am I supposed to do now? Do I go after her? Where is she even planning to go?

He tried to get himself to stand up and look out the window for her, but his body wouldn't move. He just sat and stared at the floor, fingers tracing the lines on the hardwood floor.

This is all my fault. I should never have kissed her. She isn't mine. What is wrong with me?

He did not feel like he was part of his body any more. Like he was watching a stranger control him from above. But he was the stranger. The stranger was him. 

I guess I'd make a perfect Death Eater. Souless, heartless, cold...

He was startled by a sharp pain that shot through his whole left arm. His head automatically snapped to the monstrosity that was still exposed by his sleeve. It was significantly darker and more pronounced than it had been the last time he'd looked.

"No..." he caught himself gasping out loud. "This isn't happening..."

He ran his fingers over each of the ink tendrils in the design and tried to ignore the burning in his eyes. He coughed, and it felt as if there was a whole egg stuck in the back of his throat.

Birds could be heard twittering outside the large windows, and an intense urge to smother them coursed through his veins. 

"WHY IS THIS MY LIFE?!" he suddenly screamed out of nowhere, making the china in the cabinets rattle. He furiously ran his hands through his hair and took in fast, quick breaths. Head spinning, he scrambled up off the floor and made a beeline for the stairs. He ran on shaky legs all the way to the door to his room that he tore open and locked behind him.

He threw a hard kick into his dresser and started pacing quickly around the room. His cold and clammy hands flapped at his sides as he stepped over the spot where Pansy's sleeping bag had been less than five minutes ago. She'd been right there and they'd kissed and she'd been so close and they were so happy and that was it and they were in love and it felt amazing and now it's gone and and and and and

Creak. Creak. Creak.

The floor made a sound every time one foot fell in front of the other, and it was driving him insane, but somehow he couldn't stop moving around the room. His teeth chattered noisily and his breath was heavy and making noise and he was sniffling and she was gone and his heart was pounding and his forearm hurt and his eyes were watering and his throat burned and and and and and

He finally flopped face-first onto his pillow and let out a long, wet sob. His body racked and his face scrunched up as he let out all of the anxiety and longing that had plagued him for what felt like forever. He cried about Pansy and he cried about the task and his family and his mother and Voldemort and the man he ought to have killed and Blaise and Theo and Snape and Myrtle and and and and and

All of a sudden, he noticed something in his pocket.

(TW)

He stopped moving, mid-sniff, and bolted upright. From his pocket his hand slowly drew the single shard of glass he'd found on the floor earlier. It was a couple inches long and about as thick as the cover of a book. It wasn't great, but he knew it was sharp enough to pierce flesh and painfully give him what he deserved.

His dirty hair got stuck in the tears and beads of sweat rolling down his face and he could barely see but his body knew what it wanted to do before his pounding head did. 

He ripped up his sleeve and exposed his forearm. The design on it wasn't like his father's, it was still puffy, red, blurry, and encrusted with blood and ink, but you could just barely begin to see the outline of a tiny circle over a figure eight. 

His trembling hands could hardly grasp the shard, but he slowly lowered it onto the damaged skin. In one quick motion, he cut a two or three inch long slit right over top of the skull. Sweet pain seared through him. He winced and squeezed his eyes shut, but felt himself line up the shard again in slow motion.

He sniffed and pressed it this time against the bottom of the snake's tail and forced it in a long diagonal line. It was bigger and deeper than the last time, he was desperate to feel something. Anything. Both cuts were turning red, and a single trail of blood oozed out of the second one, but he was in too much of a frenzy to care. 

He reset the shard on the side of the figure eight continued to gouge into his arm. Slice by slice he cut until the Dark Mark was barely visible among open wounds and fresh blood. 

He was sure he looked ridiculous, using a piece of glass on the floor of his bedroom to try and get rid of the tattoo (while literally covered in his own blood, sweat, and tears), but he didn't care. No one did. No one ever does.

As he watched redness spread out over his entire arm, he poked the shard one more time into his skin. He gritted his teeth and impulsively sliced a line perpendicular to the cuts he'd already made, striking right through each one with a burst of agony.

I deserve pain. I need to feel. This is what I get. I am evil and awful.

When he felt his fingers start to tingle, he threw down the shard and covered his face with his hands. He hiccuped and rocked back and forth.

God what have I done what have I done what have I