Morality Play

Authors Notes; So I wrote this last night while having trouble sleeping. I swear I'm nocturnal. Anyways, after watching The Half Blood Prince this weekened I was really moved by Tom Felton's performance as Draco. He did a great job and I knew I just had to wrote a fic. Truthfully, I think I could have done a better job on this but I rearely write drama, comedy is where I'm at lol So go easy on me. Not to mention it's written in Malfoy's POV I always have a hard time with POV's. Anyways, I hope you like it! Reviews are always appreciated!

Rated; M to be safe for semi explict scenes.

Disclaimer; All Harry Potters characters belong to the brilliant J.K. Rowling, not me. -sobs in corner-

Enjoy~

I can hear the subtle sound of his breathing. Very faint. Though almost vivacious. Even in sleep his very presence shook me right down to the core in unfiltered vexation.

It was although his very existence on this planet was to afflict me with unfathomable self doubt and bafflement. Yet in his aversion he was also the only one who made me feel like this.

That was the worst part.

He heaved a low sigh in his sleep, lolling hastily over to his side so that his face was inches away from my own. Behind those closed eyelids, graced by long feathery lashes were those eyes. Green. Such a distasteful color, although I would never care to admit it, being the colors of my house and all. Of course his hair was a mess. The matted mop of black tresses straying every which way, really it looked no different than it usually did even after such vigorous motion. Annoying. I reached out to brush the hair away from his face. The distinguishing lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead peered back at me. I frown. Always a fuss over such a little pathetic mark. The mark left behind by the Dark Lord himself. My eyebrows knitted together further. He mumbles something unintelligent and I suddenly feel the petty weight of his arm coiling around my waist, the sheets tangle further around my legs as I involuntarily push my body closer to the warmth of his own. It's as if my body's discipline is thrown away when I'm with him.

His mark.

So that was it. No matter what silly notions floated into my mind when my guard wasn't up, the solid truth remained, unyielding in its vigor. I could never have him. He would always belong to him.

The corner of my eye warms and I blink away furiously.

I hate these thoughts. I'll be rid of them soon.

His breathing is steady. Monotonous. Numbered. Yet it hitches just the slightest as my cuspids sink into the ivory flesh almost seamlessly. He frowns in his sleep and I watch with satisfaction as two small crimson beads seep from the wound on his shoulder. My own mark.

Adamant in it's meaning, but fleeting in its promise.

. . . . . .

"You look terrible, Draco. Haven't you slept at all this past week?"

The Great Hall was full of noise as usual, though the sound filtered through my ears like static in the background. Pansy is looking at me, I can see her mouth moving but the words are muffled over the deafening thoughts plaguing me.

"Draco?"

"Hm? Oh. I slept a few hours last night, I'll be fine."

She makes a face, I ignore her. The truth is I haven't been sleeping again. I can't. This unsettling feeling won't leave me alone, it's like walking through a dark room, uncertain of what's in front of you, just bracing yourself for the fall but it lingers mockingly leaving you only with uncertainty.

I was well aware of my appearance, the dark circles around my eyes were anything but flattering but it wasn't as if I needed to impress anyone at the moment. Unless you counted the countless random objects tossed about the Room of Requirement. It seemed I spent all my time in there lately. No, it didn't seem, I did spend all my time in that room. Though I really never noticed what else was in there. The other objects were meaningless to me, no different then faces in a crowd. The Vanishing Cabinet was my only concern, and concerned I am. It's taking longer than I thought to finish mending. Am I panicking?

Pansy urges me to eat and I unwillingly take a bite of whatever it was on my plate if only to stop her pestering. Its taste is bland on my tongue and I swallow it down dryly like sand.

Snape is glowering at me again from the teacher's table. I ignore him. He always does this when he thinks I'm sulking. I continue eating to appease him and as I thought he looks away, satisfied. He's treating me like an unruly child who won't finish their vegetables. Lately he looms over me like a hawk. I know he thinks I might fail.

There's laughter ringing through the halls, I peek over Goyle's shoulder. He's with the mudblood and the Weasley, big surprise. My eyes automatically zero in on his shoulder, I wonder if the bite already healed, or if he wondered why I had done it, if he was angry or curious or even cared at all.

We never spoke after our nightly rendezvous. I preferred this, but the silence screamed the truth.

In fact the only words uttered between us at all were the incoherent words of pleasure, the feel of cool breath as ones name was gasped out from between moist lips. The sweet nothings and cooing urges that only lasted in the heat of the moment before they meant nothing at all.

It had started about a year ago. The contract made between our bodies. I don't even remember the one who had brought it on. It was sudden. Before we knew how to make sense of it all, we found ourselves meeting up almost every night at that same room on the seventh floor opposite the distasteful tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. Being the Room of Requirement, it yielded to us only a plain white king size bed pushed against a large oval window. The room was always dim lit, illuminated only by whatever light the moon had cast.

Our meeting was quiet, our eyes would only meet briefly before entering the room and our clothes were shed, and our bodies intertwined. Our eyes would meet again in bed; his green hues were always intense even in the haze of pleasure they stared so keenly into mine as if he would drift out of consciousness if he even dared to look away.

He was never gentle, but I never complained. It was a carnal pact. Romantic gestures and shallow affections were left for outside of that room with other people. Inside were only lewd bodies, only barbarous movement, only the feeling of release and of sweat; void of all rational thought.

No words were exchanged as we dressed, and simply parted. On some nights we would sleep late into morning. We didn't look at each others faces. His reason for ignoring me is unknown, but my reason had changed since then. It may have been the slightest hint of shame, I ignored him or maybe even the fact that I simply didn't care, he was just an object to me as I definitely was to him.

When did that change?

I began avoiding his eyes because I knew if our gazes locked, I wouldn't want to look away. I would be entrapped forever in those consuming green eyes, I would lose myself. This frightens me.

As I became more aware of these inept emotions seeping into me, as I felt myself cling tighter onto his body over mine, I began avoiding the obscene nightly rituals. They became less and less until the night before last. I wasn't on my way to see him, and yet there he was. Waiting outside of the Room quietly, expectance glowing in his eyes.

I humored him.

He won't go there anymore, I knew from that night. He looked at me and did something neither of us had ever attempted. He kissed me.

I was shocked. His hand was so gently placed behind my head, only slightly reeling me in as he leaned forward and I was met with the soft feel of his lips against mine. It was short, but my heart had never fluttered in such a way, almost violently threatening to spring out of my ribcage. He said goodbye for the first and last time. Then he left without another word.

The next day I was half expecting to see him sitting by the door like a stray dog begging for hand outs. I won't have to worry about him appearing on the seventh floor anymore, my path was cleared yet my head was cloudier than ever before.

He feels my gaze and looks away from his mingling. Our eyes lock for only a split second before we both quickly look away.

. . . . . .

There were dusty old pieces of damaged furniture, dull in appearance and unusable for the most part holding more lost items gathering dust. Tattered books, ratty old clothing, chipped or broken bottles some empty some containing fowl liquids or even strange potent perfumes. A highly repugnant bust of some old witch sat on top of a pedestal adorned in ancient cobwebs, and forbidden childish prank toys littered the ground, some new and in tact others old and broken. Even a large bloodstained axe sat disenchanted in some unmarked corner of the large room.

Everything unwanted, anything that had been thrown away rots silently in this room, drowning in its own pitiful uselessness.

I make my way through the chaos, taking in the peculiar objects people had hidden away from view for their own reasons. I had never stopped to look around nor cared to, but for some reason my mind was elsewhere. The Vanishing Cabinet glowered at me viciously the whole time I dawdled to continue fixing it. It was maybe half complete, but I don't care right now.

I haven't slept again.

My eyelids wilt and I see everything through a hazy transparent sheen of white clouds. I catch my reflection in a cracked mirror. I look terrible, like a phantom, gaunt and drab. It's almost frightening.

The Cabinet creaks in annoyance at my neglect and I walk back to it obediently, running my fingers along the thick carvings and brass handlings. It's cold against my fingertips.

. . . . .

Snape is pestering me again, he's my mother. He says I look too thin and I'm bringing too much attention to myself. I've lost my appetite.

It's late now, at least four. I can't sleep. I stare up at the green upholstery in nausea. Why green? I'm tempted to take my wand and burn the wretched color out of my sight. It's a familiar ritual, I toss, I turn, and it's although I've forgotten how to lie. My arms don't feel like my own and I don't know where to put them as if they're some foreign object attached to my torso. How many nights have I lie awake in unease? I would be watching the sun rise again no doubt.

I try to close my eyes yet all I see is the Cabinet, it's plaguing me, driving me to brink of insanity, so heavy on my chest I feel as if my lungs may give out under this gargantuan pressure at any moment. I'll never have peace until it's finished. Or at least I pray I will. Even after the wretched thing is complete, what will happen? How drastically will things change? It's maddening.

Restless, I slide out from under the covers and hastily slip into my school robes, placing my wand in my pocket before slipping quietly out of the dormitory.

The halls are pitch black yet I don't light my wand. I know my way to the seventh floor by memory, light isn't necessary. My pupils dilate in a futile attempt to make out my surroundings, so I begin to walk with my eyes closed to ease the strain.

The seventh floor. It's dark and I finally light my wand. I nearly cry out in shock at the sight.

He's there, lying on the floor like a nomad in his uniform, his glasses precariously perched on his nose, his head leaning against his arm, his eyes closed. They blink open as I shine the light in his face. I'm torn between running back to my house or kicking him in the face again, it would be an easy shot.

He looks up at me and rubs his eyes before standing. He's only slightly taller than me. I glare wordlessly, even if I did know what to say to him I was too furious to utter it. I thought he was done playing with me.

"What are you doing here?" I snap venomously. He furrows his brow, glaring his eyes under the blinding light of my wand. He roughly pushes my hand away from his face.

"I could ask you same question."

I fume. I wanted to curse him right there or at least attempt to gouge his despicable green eyes out with my wand if nothing else….Yet I keep composed and look down, staring keenly at the stone floor. I would rather have him misread my emotions rather than he suspect I was up to something, which I clearly was. I didn't need to act very hard. My body shakes in anger as I blink away a tear. I hate looking like this in front of him; I'm not some woman he binned.

He sighs and runs his hands through his unruly hair, as if it needed to be ruffled any further. I look at his shoulder and he catches my gaze. He wordlessly pulls his clock off and slides his school shirt down over his arm enough for me to see. The bite mark is healing, but the skin is purple and bruised around the penetrated wound. I can't help but feel satisfied.

"Why did you do that?" He asks curtly, staring at me intensely. I avoid his eyes and smirk.

"Who can say? Maybe I wanted to gnaw off you're arm."

"What are you doing here, Draco?"

I shudder. He only calls me by my first name when we're alone and the sound disagrees with my ears.

He continues, walking closer to me, I can almost feel him breathing. "I know you're up to something, you can't keep it a secret forever. I'll figure it out."

"Of course you will, Potter. After all you can't seem to keep that nose of yours out of people's business even for a second. It's no surprise you'd be up here trying to play the hero."

He narrows his eyes dangerously and I smirk at him. If I pester him enough maybe he'll leave, or at least attack me in which case I would surely attack back. I needed to blow off some steam and hexing The Chosen One would be just the ticket. My fist tightens around my wand and I notice his hands in his pocket, no doubt cautiously grabbing his wand as well. Maybe he did want to fight.

The plain wooden door leading to our bedroom appears in the wall.

"Get inside." He orders. I blink at him in question before narrowing my eyes, a scrupulous smile spreading smoothly across my face.

"What are you talking about? Don't tell me you came up here just for that? If you need something to catch you're come, go find the mudblood. I'm done playing with you, Potter." I wave my hand away and turn to leave when I'm suddenly pulled back. His hand is wrapped tightly around my wrist and the friction burns as I twist, trying to escape. His grasp is solid. I can't help but gasp and I'm flung against the wall. My head collides with the stone and my vision blurs.

His lips are over mine. His skin is smooth and he subtly smells like soap, it's soothing. But I fight it. I wasn't going to let him take me, not again. It was over. He pins my arms above my head and I thrash and flail about violently no to avail. Maybe I'm not even trying.

A cold shiver runs down my spin just as his lips make contact with the nape of my neck. I can distinctly feel his tongue slide moistly across my skin. My eyes shut close and my fingers lax around my wand. It falls to the floor with a slight clatter; the light still illuminating the hall.

I'm done fighting.

My taunt body becomes limp and puppet like in his arms and I press my lips against his, melting into the perception of the moist warm flesh. Nothing more than a wanton marionette, putty in his unwavering grasp.

His hands snakes up under my shirt and my body jolts as cold fingertips make contact with the nubs on my chest. I lean my head back, hissing in pleasure and he trails kisses down my neck, biting gently into my shoulder. My mind is already lost to him. All I know is the heat.

He breaks away from my skin and laces his fingers with mine. His hands are bigger. I'm pulled limply to the door. It creaks open and the familiar bedroom meets my hazy gaze. Like a rag doll I'm then tossed onto the downy white sheets. They mold around me, still cool from lack of body heat.

I can only watch in anticipation as he loosens his gold and crimson embroidered tie, tossing it so some corner of the room. He pulls his shirt off and my eyes glide shamelessly over his sinewy body illuminated dimly in the moon light making his pale skin a ghostly blue. I feel my body being straddled. He bucks his hips against mine and I can hear my voice cry out breathlessly. I'm already at my limit.

My clothes are pulled effortlessly from my body; the cold air hits my exposed skin. It's somewhat refreshing, but also humiliating. The room is empty; any voices echo throughout the corners bouncing back into you're ears making them surreal and precise. My moans always echoed back at me. My cries, the way I whimpered his name under my breath. I hated it. It's entrapment. His arms are a curse, and I fall to them every time. I hate how he makes me feel. But I love it.

The moon is full. I can see its face; I stare into it through half lidded eyes. My legs are being spread open. My breathe hitches thickly in my throat and my body writhes biter sweetly, twisting and churning inside out as he enters me. It doesn't hurt but the sensation is always odd at first. I throw my head back; the moon is still looking at me. I cower under its gaze, and cover my eyes with my arms. They're wet. Tears slide down my face and I'm shaking. Why?

I choke a little as he begins to move.

His hips slide rhythmically over mine and I bite into my lower lip. It feels amazing. More tears.

The room throws my moans back at me, they ring in my ears. I sound like a woman now, crying out for him. He rarely makes any noise, only slight pants and low thick grunts but he never cries out. This irritates me and I tighten my muscles over him. He moans quietly and leans his head back; I can see his breath from his lips in the cold air like a thin fog.

"Draco…" He coos. My stomach churns. I move my arms from my face and meet his intense gaze. His eyes are sad. "Draco..." He whispers again and I reach out to him. I want to answer but I can't. My voice is lost. I touch his face; it's hot and moist covered in a thin sheen of perspiration.

My body tightens and convulses, I jolt my hips and my voice explodes from my body, my back lefts off the bed in orgasm. My vision whitens but I can hear him above me. He moans my name; I can hear him choke it out, his body taunt before becoming limp and collapsing on top of me. His chest is against mine and it cascades and ascends roughly with every release of his breath. I realize I'm crying again, I can feel the wetness on my cheeks and the tears threatening to fall from my eyes. How pathetic. I reach up to wipe them away but my hand is stopped.

His lips press softly against my cheek, his fingertips brushing away the tears. I stare up at him blankly wondering what he was thinking. What exactly went through that thick skull of his? How I wanted to crack it open and find out…..But maybe another time. I'm warm. My arms wrap around him and pull him closer, the feel of skin against skin is like ecstasy.

I would have to let go, but not right now.

. . . . . .

The cracked mirror in the Room of Requirement stares jauntily back at me. There is some dark brown rust eroding the once smooth clear surface but now I have to struggle past it to see my reflection. My skin is white in the dimly lit room, but it glows apart from the dark dusty and dull objects behind me. I can see the lines of my rib cage jutting out of my flesh. I haven't been eating again.

But I pay no heed to that. I pay no attention to the dark circles around my eyes or the fact I was starting to resemble a banshee. I was staring at the three large scars slashed sideways across my chest, very thin yet visible only in certain light.

They had healed, all the cuts were gone and only but the two scares remained. They were too deep to be properly mended and the magic was dark. In fact I was lucky.

I trace the thin faint lines with my fingertips. They're smooth.

If he had the intent to kill me, I have no doubt I would have died there in that bathroom with that ghost girl. I was becoming more and more exceedingly pathetic as the days went on. But not tonight. Tonight was my glory day, the day the Dark Lord had betted on, I had finally succeeded in carrying out his orders. I was the one responsible for such a feat; I would be praised by him.

The Cabinet was finished.

I sat waiting for the Death Eaters to arrive from the sister Cabinet in Borgin and Burkes. The objects scattered around the Room waited patiently with me. I stared into the mirror, lost in the lines of my new scars. Scars left by him.

So that was his answer.

And this was mine.

I was chosen for this. This was my glory day yet why am I so lugubrious? I'm shaking in my skin. I can't stop sobbing. My chest is heavy as if the scars hold mass. They weight me down so heavily, I feel as if I can't stand. Now I can never be rid of him.

He's marked me.

Unlike the mark I left him, this one was infinite. It wasn't going to heal, the skin wasn't going to close, the scar wasn't going to sink into my skin, I wouldn't forget about it over time. It was now a part of me.

My eyes are red and swollen.

I've made my decision. Things will change. This is the end of our world as we know it. Am I happy? Am I doubtful?

In the rusty old cracked mirror I see his face for the last time, hear him whisper my name. And then he's gone.

The Cabinet's knob turns, and the door creaks open.