Title: Paint It Black

Author: Princesspepper

Pairing: Harry/Draco

WARNINGS: OOC, slash (back away if you don't like! xX), self-mutilation, MAJOR dark themes, exaggerated angst (heh, it is ME), suicide, insanity, manic-depressed!Harry, dead!Draco... must I go on? If you're fragile, don't read it.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or the song "Paint It Black" by The Rolling Stones.

(A/N): Hah, I've been working on this for five months (literally) and I finally decided to post it! w00t! In case you didn't catch the above WARNINNNNGSSS (hint hint, if you didn't read them already, go do that), this has uber depressing themes. Like, scary depressing. Like, if a psychologist were to read this, they'd think I was suicidal just for writing it (for the record, I'm NOT), goddamit! So... be warned o.0 But read it anyway! Sorry for the OOCness, but... bah, just read it. I hope it doesn't suck too bad!


(Paint It B L A C K )

I'm lying on my bed. Staring at the ceiling has become a favorite pastime of mine. I can't seem to detach myself from the feelings that are lurking in the pit of my stomach. Instead of my giving them a home, they are consuming me. Depression is like quicksand; the faster and harder you try to struggle out, the deeper you sink in.

Colors burn my eyes. I find no use for them; they are mere distractions. They hide what is really important, blinding people from the truth. Horrible, ugly things are bright colors. Like blood. Smeared across a white wall, it could look like an abstract work of art rather than a murder scene. I've come to enjoy the color black.

I see a red door and I want it painted black.
No colors anymore, I want them to turn black.
I see the girls walk by dressed in their summer clothes,
I have to turn my head until my darkness goes.

A soft knock on my door awakens me from my light slumber. I can never fall into a deep sleep lately; nightmares plague my dreams. I hear the mattress creak as I lightly roll off my bed. My bare feet touch the bare floor. Everything about my apartment is bare. The walls, the floor, me. I walk over to a chair and put on my robe. Black, of course. I now pad over to the door, careful not to touch the wet paint as I open it. In steps Hermione. I can tell she is worried about me.

"Hi, Harry," she says loudly in a bad attempt to cheer me up. She's been trying to cheer me up since this whole thing started. Needless to say, it still hasn't worked.

I don't say anything. She is used to that.

She looks around warily. It is apparent to her that all her coaxing has gotten her nowhere; I have sunken in too far. Given in to this depression.

"This place seems to get darker every time I come." She whispers, looking around at the ceiling, the walls, and the drapes covering the windows. Black, black, black.

I don't say anything.

She looks at me for what was probably the first time since she arrived. She's always afraid to look at me.

"Why are you wearing sunglasses, Harry? It's not even bright. I can't even see anything."

I don't say anything.

She reaches over to pull them off my eyes.

I do nothing to stop her.

"There, that's bett—" she stops speaking as her breath is cut short in her throat. The pair of sunglasses she is holding falls to the ground. Her hand shakes as she reaches up to touch my face.

"Harry, what's happened to you?" she whispers, badly disguised horror apparent in her voice. She was referring to my eyes, of course. I don't blame her for being startled; I was too, that first time I looked into the mirror to discover my eyes had lost their emerald green color. I decided I liked it, though. They were now black. Like everything else. So I decided to exaggerate the fact by putting on copious amounts of black eyeliner. I would imagine my eyes had a sort of a sunken in appearance.

I don't say anything.

She walks around, looking all over for any trace of color. She wanders into the bathroom, whose door is black, and open. I sit on my bed. My back is straight and my eyes stare straight ahead.

I knew she was looking for razor blades. She knows I hurt myself. I knew she would look so I hid them.

She's back. "Harry," she's saying. She says my name too much. I think she's trying to get me to remember who I am. But it's too late. My identity died with everything else around me. She's talking again, so I listen. "I know what happened devastated you. Everyone knows. But you have to move on with your life. Do you think he would want to see you like this?" I don't know what he would want. He's dead.

I don't say anything.

"I'll be back in a few days. Try to lighten up. It's been six months." She says that every time.

And every time, I don't say anything.

I see a line of cars and they are painted black.
With flowers and my love both never to come back.
I see people turn their heads and quickly look away,
Like a new born baby it just happens every day.

Left alone at last, I retreat to the depths of my mind. I spend a lot of time there lately. Memories hold a shadow of happiness that I once felt. But this time, the memory consumes me. I feel as if I am there. And maybe I am.

I'm dressed in a black suit. I'm on a hard wooden bench in a room that is lit by candles. The room is packed with people, but I might as well be alone. None of them really care.

Shadows dance in hypnotic rhythms, casting darkness across their faces. They look evil. And maybe they are.

I look up to the podium and see some preacher saying good things about a man he never knew. A man nobody knew. A man nobody but me knew. I am sitting in the front row. My face is straight. My back is straight. I stare straight ahead. But my heart is twisted into a knot. I let a tear slip, and it rolls down my cheek. I think, if he were here he would kiss it away. But he's not, so I let it fall onto my lap.

The preacher is talking about all the things my lover had done in his life. He talks about school, career, and friends. Names are mentioned. His best friends. But not me. The preacher does not mention me, although I was his partner in life. Maybe I wasn't as important as I thought I was. My mind is numb throughout the rest of the service.

I'm outside. The rain is pouring down on my head, but I feel nothing. I don't remember my legs carrying me here.

Everyone is comforting his father. His father, who never loved him. His father, whom I know aided in his murder. But there is nobody there comforting me. I was a mistake. I wasn't supposed to happen. I disgraced his family. Him being with me disgraced his family. So everyone pretends I'm not there, when in reality I am the only one there.

The rain falls harder but still I feel nothing. The people around me take out umbrellas. But I just stand there, getting soaked to the skin.

People on the sidewalk turn to watch the procession as they walk by, but as soon as anybody looks their way, they would quickly look in the other direction. It's rude to stare, especially at mourners. But those of them who go on the same path every day must see this often. They don't realize they see different people every day. Different people with different stories.

A boy walks up to me and offers to share his umbrella. I reluctantly accept.

"Hey, weren't you that Malfoy guy's boyfriend?" he asks me. I nod. But I don't say anything. He looks at me with sympathy. I can tell he's faking it. I suppose he was cute, but I make a point of not noticing. I'm dimly aware of him flirting with me throughout the service, which was extremely rude. Maybe it's his deranged way of trying to make me feel better. Or, maybe he's just looking for a quick fuck. Either way, a quick fuck's all he got.

Thinking back on it, I don't know why I let him. I probably just didn't care enough to stop him. It's a horrible, dirty thing to do, picking someone up at a funeral. Again, I don't remember what I was thinking. Maybe I was so desperate to feel wanted that I resorted to a one night stand. But it didn't make me feel wanted. It made me feel dirty.

While the boy was fucking me, all I would see was my lover's face, leering at me with disapproval. When it was all over, the hole in my heart left by my lover seemed to have widened, as if that boy had stuck a knife in it and twisted it around.

Upon arriving home, it finally hits me that my lover is dead, and I had just slept with someone whose name I didn't even know. My lover is dead, and if it weren't for me, he would still be alive. My lover is dead, and with him died my will to live. These thoughts run across my otherwise vacant mind as a hand fumbles in the darkness for a razor blade. I watch as it sinks intp my colorless, willing skin. I take great relish in dragging it across the smooth surface, ripping the skin and with it the veins. Blood oozes from the gash, swirling with my tears. I am open and bleeding. But I feel no pain. I wanted to, too. What was the point of bleeding if you feel no pain?

I don't like the color I see. The tears with the blood make a pinkish color. Pink is a color that reminds one of love, and happiness. I can't feel love, for the one I love can no longer feel. And I know that never again will I be happy. So I wipe the blood away. It took a while to clot, but it did. I get an idea.

I go into the other room and rummage through my desk for an inkwell. Once I find it, I set it down and continue looking. I emerge with a needle. I begin poking little holes in my skin.

I cry out with the equal pain and delight. This seemed to quench my masochistic thirst. But that isn't all. I work for hours, making the design I poke just so. Once I am satisfied, I reach once again for the bottle of ink. I unscrew the cap and laugh at the brilliance of my idea. Once the cap is off, I slowly and gingerly pour the ink onto my arm, where I had poked all those holes. I watch as the black, black ink seeps into my skin, becoming one with me, and never again to leave. I had given myself a tattoo. I again wait as the ink finishes setting. I wash the excess off my arm and admire my handiwork. On my arm is a patch of ink in the shape of a heart. My heart. My black heart. My red blood mixes with the ink on the surface of my skin, turning it a much darker red. I like that color better.

I look inside myself and see my heart is black.
I see my red door and it's heading into black.
Maybe then I'll fade away and not have to face the facts.
It's not easy facing up when your whole world is black.

I emerge from my reverie suddenly and sit upright in my bed. I get the urge to give myself another tattoo. My needle and ink are already nearby; I do this quite often. I pull up my sleeve, and, needless to say, I am running out of room. That was almost six months ago that I made the first one, and since then, I did many, many more. I observe the various markings. There is a snake wound around my left arm with a sword clamped in its fangs. There are many bats and other such things, like speared hearts. I have obviously become very morbid. It's hard to be sane when you have lost your will to live.

I ponder what to put on my arm. Suddenly, I get an idea. It excites me; I have never done this particular thing before. I am about to get to work when I remember all of a sudden when it was I learned about this thing…

I'm lying in my bed. I look at the walls. They are white. My room is filled with color. I turn my head. I'm not alone. My lover looks at me, and smiles warmly. He turns over to put his arm around me. His soft, straight hair brushes my bare chest, giving me gooseflesh.

He raises a hand and rests it on my cheek. "Harry," he whispers, "you're beautiful." I watch, transfixed. I enjoy the way his soft pink lips form my name. It has never sounded more beautiful than when it came from his mouth.

A tear slips down my cheek and he kisses it away. He doesn't have to ask why I'm crying, he already knows. I see sadness in his gray eyes, and I know he is sad for me. It makes me feel like the most important person in the world. I smile through my tears. I know these beautiful moments between the two of us are in short supply, but I don't want to believe it. I try to make the best of them anyway.

I roll him over onto his back and begin kissing him. First, on his lips. It lasts for a long time, and I never run out of breath. When I pull away, I start kissing down his neck and keep going, my body sliding down his. He moans every time I move, enjoying the skin against skin contact. I am now down to his navel. I am about to move on when the odd symbol tattooed onto his left hipbone distracts me. I had noticed it many times before, but never chose to ask about it. I supposed now was a good time.

"What is that?" I ask, placing my index finger on the strange marking.

He props himself up on his elbows to see what I'm pointing at. "Oh, that? It's a Japanese symbol. It's called 'ai' which means 'love' in Japanese kanji."

"Oh," I look back up at him. "It's lovely."

"You're lovely." He says, pulling me up towards him by my hands. It always bothers me when he says things like that, because I don't feel like I deserve it.

"Don't say that," I whisper.

"You've got problems," he says, only half joking, "if you can't take a compliment."

"I don't deserve it."

"You deserve everything." He smiles and takes me in his arms.

"Everything is my fault. This can't go on. People are going to find out. And it will be all my fault."

"Nonsense."

"I love you… Draco."

The last word spoken in my mind is also spoken aloud. And my world goes crashing down. I hadn't spoken anything in so long. For almost six months I had kept my mouth shut. I had vowed never to speak again. Especially not his name.

This was my way of shutting out all that had happened. If I don't speak his name, I won't remember him. But that was stupid. Of course I will remember him. But upon speaking his name, memories of that horrible night come flooding back to me.

It was wintertime and we had been huddled together on a park bench in the snow. We had thought it was secluded so that nobody would see us together. We were holding hands, and he was smiling. He was always smiling, which was how I liked it.

That day he had told me he needed to ask me something important, and I was very excited. I was sure it had to be good, for he wouldn't be smiling if it were bad. We had been sitting on that bench in silence for quite a long time. A few muggles walked by, but nobody paid us any notice. We were just a pair of eighteen-year-olds enjoying a calm winter's day. The park began to empty out as the sun set, and he drew closer to me. When he was sure that we were alone, he leaned in to kiss me and I received the kiss graciously.

When he pulled away, he took my hands in his. "Harry, I'm sure you realized I brought you here for a reason." His eyes were sparkling with happiness. I nodded. "I wanted to ask you if… well, how would you feel about moving in with me?"

I just stared at him; my brain was still registering what he had asked me. He looked slightly worried for a moment, afraid that I was going to say no to his offer. When I finally came to my senses, I threw my arms around him and buried my face in his hair.

"How could I say no?" I said, my voice slightly muffled. When I pulled away I saw the smile spread across his face. He kissed me again, but upon moving back, I saw a look of horror dawn upon him as he stared at a fixed point somewhere over my shoulder. I quickly whipped around, but it was too late. Whatever it had been that he saw had departed, leaving me perplexed.

"I'm sorry, love. There's something I must attend to." He said before quickly kissing me on the cheek and running into the woods behind me. Now I wish I could go back in time and run after him, but then, I just sat there like the fucking dumb ass that I am. When five, then ten, then fifteen minutes passed, I decided it was time to get off my bum and find him.

Upon entering the forest, I was sure my eyes were deceiving me. There was a great circle of hooded figures surrounding one person whom I could not yet see. When I got closer, the hooded figure nearest to me whipped around and cast some spell on me that froze me where I stood. He then stepped aside to reveal what was in the middle of the circle.

Draco was lying on the floor, bruised and bloodied, curled up into a fetal position with his eyes clamped shut as tight as they would go. He must have sensed movement, for when the Death Eater had moved away, Draco tentatively opened one eye. He saw me and gasped.

"Why did you have to follow me?... Don't hurt him… please…" I heard him faintly whisper.

But I was positive it wouldn't be me the Death Eaters were trying to hurt this time. The one positioned directly in front of me stepped forward. I felt myself shiver despite the fact that I couldn't move of my own accord. He slowly walked nearer and nearer to Draco's shivering form and raised his hand to remove his mask.

I inwardly gasped as I realized the identity of the person leaning over Draco, but he himself looked only mildly perturbed. He must have always known it would be his father that would take his life.

Right at that moment, time seemed to freeze as I realized that I was about to watch my lover be murdered, and I would be able to do nothing because of the horrid spell they had put on me. I was frozen to the spot, unable to defend him or myself. I couldn't even close my eyes. I just prayed that he would do it with the killing curse; that was supposedly painless.

As usual, I discovered I was out of luck. I saw the glint of cool metal as it emerged from the depths of Lucius's robe. I trembled as much as I could and fought to shut my eyes. I didn't want to see this. But the Death Eaters knew I wouldn't, so of course they made it so my eyes were forced open. A tear slipped down my otherwise motionless face as the sharp, sharp blade was driven into the side of the man I loved. I was unable to make a sound, but if I could, it would have been a deafening screech. It was undoubtedly the most awful feeling I had ever experienced. I felt this horrible scream build up in my chest, but it was trapped there, with no hope of escaping. He, on the other hand, let out a deafening cry that pierced the night, making the trees shudder and the insects freeze where they were.

There was a malicious grin on the face of Lucius Malfoy as he slowly withdrew the blade from his son. Draco was writhing in pain, tears making his silver eyes glassy, and letting out little gasps and screams. I just stared in horror. Lucius was laughing at me, and the look I had in my eyes. With a snap of his fingers, all the Death Eaters had disapparated and the spell upon me was lifted. I fell to the floor, in a great quivering heap. I crawled over to Draco's side, not taking my eyes off him for one second.

After what seemed like an eternity, I was next to him and holding him in my arms for one last time. He lazily blinked tears from his eyes as his body slowed down. He had stopped screaming--apparently he was numbing. When tears began falling onto his face, I noticed that I was sobbing. I had not realized that; I was too focused on what he was doing.

"It could have been worse," he whispered, a ghost of a smile haunting his face. This just made me cry harder.

"No, this is the worse thing that could have happened." I said, depression already filling the crevices of my mind like the disease that it is. I gingerly touched his stab wound. When I pulled my hand away, it was completely covered with blood. His blood.

"At least you're okay, and that's more important." he said, his hand moving up to caress my cheek. I figured now wasn't a good time to argue, so I didn't say anything.

"Don't go." I whispered.

"I can't help it. And neither can you. Just know that it's not your fault. I love you, and I know that you will continue to remember me, and love me. Just… don't try too hard not to forget. Sometimes it's more healthy to forget."

"I don't want to forget." I sobbed out, hanging my head.

"I know. I'm sorry..."

"This sounds so... final." I whispered.

"That's because it is. But that's not necessarily a bad thing." He gave me a tragic smile. He was always smiling.

I kissed him deeply. When I pulled away, he smiled for one last time before his eyelids drooped and the muscles in his face relaxed. He died in my arms. I watched, helpless, as he died in my arms. He looked so fragile, so breakable. He had always had this powerful demeanor about him, but when he was nothing but a body, an empty shell…

I really don't remember exactly what happened after that. All I can recall is that I cried. A lot. It attracted the attention of muggles, I believe, and they called the police. I passed out by that point, and when I woke up, people were trying to pry him from my arms. I wouldn't let go. I'll never let go…

And now, here I am, in my dark apartment, with black walls and ceiling and door and me and my heart. That scream is still caught in my chest. Six months later, I still haven't let it out. Now I have a lot of anger. Towards myself. So once again, I grasp the needle on my nightstand and begin working.

My eyes cloud over with tears, but I don't notice. I'm too focused on what I am doing. I take a book off the one bookshelf in the room to make sure I am copying the symbol correctly. It takes longer than it should; I am putting extra effort into this one. I see a little droplet of inky blackness fall onto my arm, but I don't give it a second thought.

Once I am finished, I walk over to my full-length mirror to admire my handiwork. My eyes are glued to the one spot of my body that I had just been working on: my left hipbone. On it is an intricate symbol in kanji, much like the one my lover had on his own hip. Except, this one meant something completely different. His was love. Mine, however, was death.

When he got his tattoo, he was young and full of life. Me, however… well, I feel years older than I really am, and all I have left to do is die. Death is my companion. Death will learn to be my friend. Death will visit me soon, and I will make sure of that.

Somehow, I didn't realize that I had been crying. When I finally tear my eyes away from my newest tattoo, they rest on my worn face. I feel that it is wet, and I see black streaks running down my cheeks.

No more will my green see go turn a deeper blue,
I could not foresee this thing happening to you.
If I look hard enough into the setting sun,
My love will laugh with me before the morning comes.

At first, I don't believe what I see. I walk over to the mirror and touch my face. The wetness is on my fingers now, and I look at it. Sure enough, my suspicions were correct. My tears were black, just like the ink in my skin. Fresh waves of tears come on, and I look at them closely. It is hard to believe they are my tears. They look so thick; like ink or oil. But I taste them, and they are normal. Just… black.

Suddenly, I am laughing. It's all so… stupid. Why am I even bothering? I had been thinking about taking my own life for months now, why hadn't I just… done it? Here I am; my eyes turned black, my skin turned black, my tears turned black. My room turned black my life turned black. Why was I still here? Why?

I find my knife and, still laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face, I sit on my bed. I stare at the sharp blade, marveling at the fact that no light reflects off it, as the black hues of the room absorb all light. I press the knife to the skin of my arm and start tracing patterns with the blade. I go up, down around, back… then do the same with my other arm. I end it with a deep slit in each wrist. Then, I look down so I can see the blood. The horrible red blood. Ugly color.

But, to my utter amusement, there is no red. The blood that seeps from my wounds is black. Black as my hair, black as my eyes, black as my tears, black as the ink in my skin.

I bring the blade back to my arm one more time, and slide the blade the rest of the way around my left wrist, leaving the trail of black to circle it like a bracelet. As the knife cuts through my skin, I feel that trapped scream bubble up inside of me again. The same scream I couldn't let out six months earlier. And, as I see the blood seeping out of my wound, the scream comes out. It is loud, and furious, and horrified, and blood-curdling, and glass-shattering, and vocal chord-ripping. Once the scream has left, I feel better and fall limply back onto my bed.

I'm feeling lightheaded and I think of my lover. Where is he? I'll be seeing him soon, I hope. He never liked black. Thought it was a depressing color. I argued it was plain, and pretty. He never understood that.

My lover hated black, and that is the color I bleed. It's the color I submerse myself in. It's the color I have become: Lack of color.

Why am I still alive? I want to die already. I start to see red and blue spots on my walls. I don't like the colors. I get off my bed, and as soon as I'm on my feet, my legs give way and I fall. But I still see the red spots on the wall. I stagger over to the wall and smear my black blood over the red spots. Cover the color. Cover the color. Paint it black.

I have somehow managed to get myself back on my bed. My face falls into the pillow and I inhale. I smell his scent! How could that be so? He's gone for so long. His presence is in the air though, I can feel it. He's like a vulture, sensing the death and moving in.

My eyelids droop and my muscles stop moving. My heart pumps a few times before giving up. I stare at the ceiling, knowing I'm officially dead. Finally. My body is holding hands with my soul, anchoring it to the Earth. But the heavens are pulling and the current is too strong. My body lets go, and my soul slips out of its limp fingers, drifting upwards. I cast one last glance at my body. You know, the one I've left behind. I see the tattoo, that last one I gave myself? I see the symbol slowly fade away, coming back as a new one. I watch in amazement as the symbol on my hip changes slowly from death… to love.

My body stays there and I move on. I move on, and see the sun set for the last time.

In the fading light of the setting sun of my last day on Earth, I see my lover smiling at me. He's not happy about what I did, but he's happy to see me anyway. Tears sting my eyes and I rush to him and settle into his embrace. His warmth fills the emptiness that once plagued me. My eyes squeeze shut, and I know I don't need black anymore. I don't need death, because I have love.

I wanna see it painted, painted, painted black.
Black as night,
Black as coal.
I wanna see the sun blotted out from the sky…

And then the fragile mirage all fades to black…

(End)

(A/N): Hm, not too happy with the ending. I wanted to make you people cry more. :goes and adds stuff: hm, still not happy. Pfft, that sucked. I was happy with the middle bit, but I don't like the end:bangs her head on the wall and insists that she can do better: Oh well.

I know Harry changed a lot in the part right before he died, but he was going crazy from the blood loss. Hey, would YOU stay in character if YOU were bleeding to death? So… if he sounded crazy, well… I achieved my goal.

Hm, do you think I left this a little too ambiguous? Did Harry really start to cry and bleed black? Did the kanji on his hip really change from death to love?

PLEASE leave a review. PLEASE. I worked for months on this (I'm not kidding—I know it's a piece of crap, but I did work hard). If it made you cry, please tell me (although I doubt this could make anybody cry, I didn't add in the right tear-jerking elements). I like to make people cry. I know that's mean, but it means it affected you. So please. I'll go into a depression if you don't review. SO REVIEW! Oh, and for those of you who read "I Will Not Forget" erm… it's almost finished, but I'm so lazy lately. It'll be up soon. REVIEW OR I'LL NEVER POST AGAIN:throws a temper tantrum:

XOXO Princesspepper OXOX