59 days. Help me (Draco/Garry)
Everybody's got a moment when "everybody" comes sooner or later. There is no strength, no desire, nothing. Then they say that the limit is over.
Everything happens differently for him.
It happens that the heart hurts. It did not hurt Draco anymore. It just fell to the ashes, settling at his feet, immediately picked up by the wind. There were no tears. They dried up a long time ago when the pale father came with the news that the Dark Lord was calling him for service. Despite his upbringing in the Malfoy family, who worship the purity of the blood and the power of Voldemort, Draco was frightened. For the first time in him was such a horror, which revealed itself in the form of tears that flooded the stream of light eyes. Lucius said nothing about his son's weakness, but silently clenched his shoulders and left the room, leaving him alone with his pain. He did not want to follow the darkness. He did not want to turn to her. His family was always in darkness, but now she was eating them, giving no chance to get out of her net. Dad had no choice. So did my mother. He was also not allowed to do what he would have liked to do, building a life for him, giving the fate of the Death Eater.
Draco wiped away his tears and ordered himself not to cry. He left the room and found himself in the smothering arms of his mother, who was crying herself, trying to beg forgiveness from her only child for breaking his fate without being able to protect him. For her sake, for the sake of the closest person, Draco pulled himself together and promised to endure everything.
He held on. He held on for a long time. He endured all the trials for an innocent soul, over which he put a sophisticated experiment of a dark wizard, more using him to subjugate Lucius and Narcissus and influence the Albus Dumbledore. Draco was clenching his fists and biting his lips. He didn't want anything to happen around him.
He was just left with no way out.
Malfoy hoped that he would be helped by the very same Living Boy who would pay attention to him and see behind his cold and arrogant smile and daring look a cry for help. But he hated him and did not want to notice anything. "The Death Eater. "Malfoy.
The contemptuous views and caustic phrases. Draco holds his face like always, as absorbed along with pure blood. But it hurts him that the ray of hope for which he wanted to cling to, leaves him, illuminating everyone except the lost slutsman, who was in dire need of it.
"Help me! - shouting at Potter's back, not daring to say it out loud. He didn't want to be weak.
Draco saved Harry from Bellatrix, trying to help him to free himself, though his will was weakening day by day.
The snake on his hand burns with fire, burning his heart. The limit is almost exhausted. The fire burns it when it all ends.
When Potter leaves him forever, not wanting to look at him. When his father is sent back and forth for questioning and investigation. When Mom hides her red eyes from her men, wearing a mask of arrogance and pride, even though her fragile shoulders were twitching.
Despite everything, he was left alone.
"Please help me," prays Draco, as he encounters Potter again and his eyes shine with greenery. But they only have pity and alienation, as always. He has no sympathy or understanding, no desire to help.
His heart burned and turned to ashes at his feet. The eyes burn from the impossibility of crying. Fingers clench the handle of an elegant stick, which did with the master unforgivable things. Its end touches the devil's mark on the hand and pierces the head of the snake.
The pain of the forearm, the body trembles, but Draco stubbornly presses his lips and squeezes his eyes, again seeing the image of Harry, who goes away from him. The flesh cuts too easily. Thin veins are even easier. Ruby droplets hail from pale skin onto an old, expensive rug that has seen more than one generation of Malfoy. Today he will see the death of one of them. The stick slides down the cursed pattern, crossing it once and for all, inexorably opening the vessels. Fingers shake, but the scarlet stripe is still smooth. Perfect. He smiles almost happily and smiling.
Even Malfoy must die beautifully and correctly. That's why the stroke on the skin is deep and even, dividing the hated mark exactly in half.
- Why do you hate me so much? - Draco whispers with pale lips, looking blurry in front of him. And again, Potter is seen the opposite - with a sunny smile, emerald eyes and cute whirlwinds of black hair. He pulls his hands to the vision, hoping that his cold palms will squeeze back, but they pass through the mirage, and Draco powerlessly falls to the floor.
Why is that?
Is Draco not worthy of love? Unworthy of being saved?
- Why didn't you kill me? - Malfoy barely speaks, feeling that the remains of tears still spill, rolling on pale cheeks, carrying away the last warmth.
He exhausted the limit of his will and strength. He exhausted the possibilities to live and endure.
And nobody can save him anymore, except for one person.
He turned his back on him and did not see Draco dying in a puddle of his blood, frozen with a barely noticeable smile and tears in his glazed eyes.