Draco's POV

I stood up groggily in the middle of the night. I felt incredibly nauseous and staggered out of bed and into the bathroom to throw up.

The Lumos light from my wand burned my eyes as it flickered on and I stumbled through the door, closing it behind me.

I hated being drunk. I have absolutely no idea why I allowed myself to consume so much alcohol, on a Friday no less!

Well, that's not entirely true. I do know why.

I wanted to forget my problems.

Just for one night. I didn't want to think about how unfair it was that Potter had such a stunning body yet was completely out of my reach and unattainable. I didn't want to be reminded of the war every time I looked at the scars across my arms. I didn't want to see the Mark grinning up at me whenever I looked down. I wanted to have a night of peace. The only way to achieve such a thing is through alcohol in my experience.

For some reason, as I stood up and wiped my mouth, the image of Potters eyes was burned into my brain. Almost like I'd been staring at him all night long.

'Oh fuck.'

Would I really know if I had been staring at him all night long? I pressed a hand to my forehead, leaning heavily on the porcelain sink as I focused on keeping upright and not swaying left and right. I struggled to remember something - anything - from last night.

The last thing I had any recollection of was glancing over at Potter as he took a shot at the same time as me. I'd been surprised at the time, but now the details were foggy.

One thing I remembered crystal clear though, was Potters hesitation near the beginning of the game.

I think the question had been something about ever having a crush on a boy. I'd drank, unfortunately, I hadn't been able to stop myself. I remember my humiliation pretty well. I'd been outed to the entire circle, but no one had really seemed to notice, which was good.

Potters hand had twitched forwards, almost reaching around the glass, but stopping suddenly and sitting still.

What the fucking shit did that mean?

Did Potter fancy someone? A guy? Did he not know if he did or not? Who was this person? Did they like him back?

I glared at myself in the mirror.

'They better not like him back.'

Then I frowned at myself.

"Merlin Draco, ge' a grip" I sighed to my reflection, turning the tap on and splashing my face with cool water. It's not like I could control what Potter did. It also wasn't like he knew I had a crush on him, and if he did, it wouldn't really change anything.

I still found that idea ridiculous, even after so long. I had a crush on Harry Potter. It was the most absurd thing that could ever have happened to me. I sank down to the floor, leaning against the wall.

If it wasn't for fucking Potter, I'd probably still be talking to my parents. I probably wouldn't be such a disgrace to my family. I wouldn't feel like someone was slowly dicing up my heart and destroying my soul.

But.

If it wasn't for Harry Fucking Potter, I wouldn't be alive.

Would that really be so bad?

Really?

What would change? I wouldn't be terribly missed. If he'd left me to die in that blazing fire, who would really have cared?

Pansy and Blaize maybe, but they'd have gotten over it before long. My mother wouldn't bat an eye lash, father wouldn't have cared if I'd lived or died, I had 'come out' to him by that point. Potter would have made my parents lives ten times easier, they wouldn't have had to worry about me anymore, wouldn't have had to feel so hurt and betrayed when they found out that their son, the sole heir to the Malfoy Estate, was gay.

I was causing everyone so much grief simply by breathing. It would be kinder if I was dead. Better for everyone. I leaned my head back against the wall.

I was done, utterly and totally done. There was no reason for me to get up in the morning and no reason for me to sludge through the day. It was all for show. None if it was for me.

I'd keeled over and given in to the harsh reality of my life a long time ago, and even then, nothing had been easier. I could decide to end it all now and the world would spin on. There may be uproar for the first few days, shock and precious little despair from the smattering of people who had actually known me. But after that? Nothing. I wouldn't be given another thought, it would be like I'd never existed.

I felt a flare of pain in my wrist suddenly and for a moment - just a moment - I was enveloped in such a tide of panic that my pulse must have flatlined.

In that second, I thought I was being summoned by The Dark Lord. Just the sheer fear and panic I'd felt made me wince at my own weakness.

Then, almost immediately afterwards, my common sense had kicked in. The Dark Lord was dead. He had been defeated in the war. I was safe. He would never call for me again.

It was all ok, I'd just been worrying at my arm again. At the Mark.

I pulled my sleeve back slowly, almost as if I expected the image depicted on my forearm to be glowing anyway, even though it was impossible.

In the brightness of my wand, still propped up where I had left it when I first came in, I noticed that the Glamour charms I'd placed over my scars had worn off.

I'd yet to find a more permanent spell. The longest that the Glamour held was eighteen hours, even that wasn't exact, so I had to apply it every night.

My lip curled in disgust as I looked down at the mottled skin.

The Dark Mark sat like the prize act of a sadistic circus, outlined with deep pale scars from the many times I'd taken out my anger, fear and feelings of worthlessness on my arm.

What had used to be pale, clear skin was now marked with the telltale signs of a weakling. A coward who couldn't even own up to his self. A worthless Malfoy stuck on the wrong side of the war.

My father had always said that those who mark their own skin are useless and broken in the mind. He'd always spoken so harshly of them before me, never realising that I was a part of those he despised. I used to agree with him. I too used to think that if you found a relief in pain, there was something pretty fucking wrong with you.

I traced each gouge in my skin, ran my fingers along each individual scar as I did every day before applying the Glamour. These scars would never fade, they'd never disappear, I would always carry their mark no matter what I did to conceal them.

Tattoos wouldn't work - nothing would obscure the Mark - though I had considered it at one time, not that I'd made anything of it.

My right arm was clear of scarring, porcelain in the low light and deathly pale, practically skin and bone. I scowled down at that too. I was wasting away, and no one had noticed or cared. Not a single person had paid attention to the differences that I knew they all saw. I was certain that this was because no one cared enough to look so close.

I'd never been particularly popular, not properly anyway. My fame had been because of my name and nothing more. From the moment I'd first arrived, I had been singled out for my heritage. I was Draco Malfoy. Everyone wanted the Malfoy, nobody gave a rats arse about the Draco. I hadn't realised that at first. After being homeschooled all my life I hadn't had much experience with people.

All I had had to guide me were the manners I'd learned from Lucius, which if I was honest weren't anything great. Yes, I knew how to make and uphold conversation, I understood the fine art of polite interest in the most mundane of conversations.

But I had never been told how to make and keep friends, that was a whole new thing to me.

When I'd first met Potter in Malkins, back before first year, I had tested out a few conversational techniques on him, just to see how he would react. I'd known I was doing something wrong after he faded into silence for the fourth time, but I had no ideas as to what.

I had wanted nothing more than to connect with someone in some way, but I couldn't. I hadn't been taught how to. I could speak with adults, I had had plenty of practice at that from mothers extensive gardening parties.

Talking to children? It wasn't nearly the same. I learned from my short conversation with Potter that children spoke in short bursts and provided little detail to their conversation.

Once again, Potter had come to my rescue. Whoopee.

I pushed myself up from the wall, sliding upwards before shoving myself from its cold grasp. I'd lost a childhood because of fucking Potter.

If he'd been my friend, there was no way my parents would have slunk back under the clutches of the Dark Lord. Everything could have been different, all of it.

But no. Potter had rejected my plea for survival. I suppose I hadn't known it was a plea then. I'd just wanted to be friendly with the-strange-boy-at-Malkins. I'd done everything right, there was no reason for him to decline.

And yet, he did.

And with his declination he took my chance to escape the war.

A stab of pain brought me back to reality again. Blood dripped down my fingers and into the sink. Somehow I was standing in front of the mirror, taking in my gaunt expression, haunted eyes like twin tunnels set into my face.

There had been a time when my eyes had shone with laughter, happiness, a contented childhood. Back in the days when my mother read me newspaper articles speculating the survival of the Boy Who Lived after mysterious sightings in a city of Muggles. I would be bouncing up and down in my seat. Reading about the magnificent Harry Potter was similar to that of reading the superhero comics I'd picked up in a muggle store one day.

He had not turned out as I had expected though. No, I hated Potter. With a burning passion that made me angry just to look at him. He was so frustratingly annoying and insufferable, I despised him.

The problem was, I also loved Potter. Merlin, I loved him more than he could ever guess, more than anyone could ever know. His strength, his looks, his personality. He was gorgeous, in every meaning of the word. His eyes contained trapped meadows in a summer breeze. His skin was tanned and smooth; I guessed. I'd wanted so many times to run my hands through his mahogany hair. Was it really as soft as it looked? It was always such a mess that I'd never been able to make an accurate judgement.

He contrasted me in everything. Personality, looks, hair style, eye colour. Even his skin colour made me look like a sheet of paper. 'You know what they say, opposites attract.'

"Stop." I chided myself in the mirror. That was it, time to go back to bed. No more torture.

I stumbled out of the door, pulling my wand with me. It escapes me how I was miraculously able to form such concrete thoughts so few hours after heavy drinking.

Just my luck, I suppose.

It felt as if a fog had been wrapped around me suddenly. Everything swam in front of me and I didn't know why I was on the floor a second later. I didn't even recall falling down.

I pushed myself up groggily, careening off to the side and hitting something tall and wooden; a bed, one of the four posters. But which one?

Surely I hadn't walked far enough to be at Potters bed? Would that have been possible?

I felt sick again as I tried to think and almost had to race back to the bathroom. The nausea faded after a minute, thankfully.

I slipped into the bed and lay on my side, not really seeing what was in front of me. These covers felt like mine, but I couldn't see what colour they were to tell if they actually were. My thoughts were slow, thick and sluggish like a rusted machine, it was fruitless to attempt to hold onto any singular train of thought, like grabbing at clouds.

Before I knew it, I'd closed my eyes and I didn't think anymore.