Author's note: So, I read HBP and not only did I wail for my long-time favorite Potter character (Draco, not Dumbledore), but I also wondered at Rowling's casting of Harry as a sort of anti-hero. Hey, I'm not the only one who noticed how quickly Harry picked up that spell, am I? He goes to classes to learn all his spells; sectumsempra, on the other hand, he gets right on first go.

I saw a really interesting fic the other day which was written backwards. I decided to try it out. That's what this fic is; written backwards. Don't go reading it backwards though—it doesn't really make sense that way, since it jumps a little in time.

Disclaimer: Harry blah blah Potter doesn't belong to me but it should, blah blah disclaimery stuff. Don't sue.

Blaise is a fucking liar. A well-established fact, but Draco thinks it anyway as he runs helter-skelter across hard, stone floor, his breath hitching in his throat. His chest feels on the brink of explosion, his heart angrily THUMP-THUMP-THUMPing on his ribcage. Draco trips and stumbles over a body lying on the floor, feels a pair of hands grab him by the shoulders, righting him.

"Keep going, Draco," Snape pants, and Draco does, trying to ignore the fact that he's probably just ruined some poor bastard's face beyond repair. He runs, trying to ignore the cacophony of shouting, the whizzing sounds of spells shooting by and the screams as people, classmates fall around him.

"Impedimenta!" he hears behind him. He hears a pig-like squeal and a thump, and thinks dryly of knights in shining lightning-bolt scars, of a world without headmasters and Dark Lords. Blonde hair sticks to his face in a mess of gel and sweat, and Draco could swear that he's never run this much in his life.

"P-Professor Snape!" A pale, round-faced boy runs up to him and Snape, "what's going—oof!" Draco barely registers his face as he pushes him aside, hand making contact with a thick wall of fat. Footsteps behind him, thump-thump-thumping, like the blood in his ears, in his face, too hot, his shirt clinging to him, his tie strangling—he wants to rip it off, he can barely breathe. He slips again in something sticky and wet that splashes his sneakers and the hem of his trousers, but he rights himself quickly and runs on the floor that now seems all too slippery, too—

Oh, God. Blood. Draco's running in blood, covering his sneakers and he wants to throw up. He wants to stop, he wants to clean himself off, be clean, wash away everything he's done, no more blood, no more, just rest—

And he's at the grounds. The grass is harder to run on than the stone floor, but at least he can wipe the soles of his shoes clean on them, cover the blood with dirt and grit and pretend that it doesn't exist.

"Impedimenta!"

Draco stumbles as the spell hits him, falling hard and skidding on the ground. Snape trips on his robes and falls heavily on him before scrambling to his feet. Draco knows that he must too, even though he wants nothing more than to lie here on the cool grass, soothing the burn in his face and skin and chest, waiting for the drums in his ears to slow and return to a quiet heartbeat. He picks himself up and continues doggedly on, seeing the Hogwarts gates. Just a bit more. He thinks of younger days, running with Pansy around the mansion in the summer heat. He can do this.

"Stupefy!" A jet of red light sears past Draco. Merlin, does he stop?

"Run, Draco!" he hears Snape shout behind him. Well, obviously, he thinks, and keeps going, stumbling over dirt and stones, heart hammering so hard he thinks he might just go into cardiac arrest.

I wish. The drumming is like an eternal scream, and for a moment Draco feels like screaming too. He darts past Hagrid, hears Snape and Harry yelling – keep going, keep going, almost there – and he reaches the gates. He turns and doubles over, clutching his sides and gasping hard. The stitch in his side feels like he's about to be ripped apart, tiny shards of broken glass twisted and buried in his appendix.

Where to go? Doesn't matter. He closes his eyes and breathes.

This is before the end:

Draco blinks the sleep from his eyes; slow, lazy movements that make his eyelashes flicker and catch the sparse candlelight coming from Blaise's bed. He stretches, feeling an ache ripple from his chest to his back and ass. Pulling the bedcovers aside Draco walks to the front of his bed and crouches, opening his luggage chest, not caring that he's naked; has been naked since the previous night when he stumbled from the Prefect's bathroom all the way down to the dungeons. He chooses a freshly pressed pair of gray trousers – gray to match my eyes, bloody hell – and pulls them on.

"I wanted to go back and get your clothes for you, but I forgot the password," Blaise comments from his bed. Draco rolls his eyes at him and walks to the bathroom. He washed the previous night but he washes again, feeling like he'll never be clean. He rubs soap into his skin and shampoo into his hair, turning the water on almost-scalding until his body is red and raw, then he steps out and towels himself off, dripping water and thin rosy tendrils of blood where his scar reopened. Draco brushes his teeth until he feels spotless – brush thoroughly, there's nothing more unseemly than yellow teeth – and rakes a fair amount of gel into his hair. He returns to his bed and silently straightens the covers.

"Feeling better?" Blaise asks.

Draco's eyes flicker to him. "Where's everyone?"

"Breakfast." Blaise follows Draco with his eyes as the blonde walks to his trunk and pulls out a white shirt, buttoning it up meticulously. "About last night—"

"Don't talk about it," Draco says shortly. Blaise shrugs as Draco fumbles with his tie.

"Just wondering if you were feeling any saner today."

Draco hurls his tie to the floor in a fit of anger. "Don't talk about it, Zabini," he says. He glanced at Blaise then sighs, picks up his tie and slides onto the boy's bed to where his feet lie, toes hidden shyly under cotton sheets. Blaise wordlessly spreads his legs and brackets Draco with his knees, taking the tie and slowly knotting it around Draco's neck, the blonde leaning forward like an obedient dog.

"There," he says, giving it a smart tug.

"Move up," Draco says and Blaise obliges, shuffling aside so Draco can lean into his chest with a small sigh.

"Feeling cuddly all of a sudden, are we?"

"Sod off," Draco says flatly.

"Bloody good way to treat a friend," Blaise snorts, but returns to his book, toying gently with the harsh ridges of Draco's hair.

"Blaise?" Draco doesn't wait for the dark boy to respond, continuing in a dreamy voice. "D'you ever think there's a reason we're here?"

Blaise snorts. "God, not this existentialist crap again."

"No, not here. I mean here. In the dungeons." Draco's eyes are vacant, a sea of dull gray. "The Gryffindors get the seventh floor in the north tower."

"They would. Dumbledore favors them."

"Maybe its punishment," Draco murmurs against Blaise's chest. "Maybe this is where we belong. In the dungeons, where it's dark. Where's there's no light."

"You make us sound like vampires."

"It doesn't feel right today. Something doesn't… something's going to happen."

"Don't be an arse." Blaise states.

"I fixed up the Vanishing Cabinet last night. Contacted all the Death Eaters last night. Before I met you."

"Oh." Blaise puts down the book and stares at him. "Well."

"Yeah."

"The Dark Lord will be pleased, Draco."

"I suppose." For a moment something ghosted through Draco's eyes then flickered out and died. Draco rolled over. "What's that book you're reading?"

"The Picture of Dorian Grey, by Oscar Wilde."

Draco snorts. "Christ, you really are a sodding pouf, aren't you?"

The corners of Blaise's mouth pull up into a lazy smile. "You'll be alright, Draco." He runs a hand through Draco's hair. "You always end out on top."

But before that:

Draco gasps, short and hot as Blaise undoes his fly, yanks his dust-gray trousers fiercely down. He grabs Blaise's head with both hands and pulls Blaise to him, kissing in desperation. Draco thinks he hears Blaise moan, but the sound is faint, like dissipating smoke, and he ignores it. His hands reach to Blaise's tie only to find it gone and falling from Blaise's hand, so he fumbles with the buttons of the Slytherin's clean-pressed shirt instead. His fingers shake, he is shaking, and he breaks lip lock with a slight popping noise and simply rips the whole shirt off, buttons flying. He drops it carelessly to the floor where it flutters and pools on top of his shirt, burying it. Blaise is out of his trousers now, dropping his boxers to the floor and Draco kisses him again, hard and needy and painful as their teeth grind together. Blaise penetrates Draco's mouth with his tongue and forces it along Draco's palate; Draco whines and presses himself against the dark boy's body, arms criss-crossed across Blaise's back, fingernails hiding like terrified ostriches in lean shoulders that are turning red and look ready to bleed. Blaise's hands snake up the curve of Draco's back, push themselves in Draco's unyielding hair and pull as he bites down on Draco's lower lips and sucks.

The blonde hisses. "God, Blaise—" His tongue flickers shyly out onto Blaise's top lip as he says the dark boy's name.

Blaise releases his grip. "I'm—"

"No." Draco pulls back, fixes Blaise with an icy gray glare, flecked with bloodshot red. "Harder."

Blaise shoves Draco then, places night-black hands on Draco's pale moon-shoulders and pushes as hard as he can. Draco stumbles back; the side of the bathtub hits the back of his knees but before he can fall Blaise grabs him by the waist, wrapping a warm arm around him and helping him in. Draco falls against the tiled wall and Blaise kisses him heavily, caging the blonde with his chest and arms. He licks the saline tear tracks off the sides of Draco's mouth, follows the trails with his tongue, small and eager cat-licks until they reach Draco's closed eyes.

The tap squeaks indignantly as Draco reaches and turns it on. The boiling water spurts out like a scream, burning both boys' skin into a bloody red.

"Fuck!" Blaise races for the other tap. The heat decreases but the water spurts like hail, droplets beating their already-stinging skin. Draco recaptures Blaise's mouth with his own, tracing the outlines of the boy's face with his thumb.

"Deep," he murmurs, "deep enough to drown in," and Blaise isn't sure whether Draco's talking about his cheekbones or the bathtub. "Like the lake," Draco continues, his eyes taking on a watery sheen, "deep. Dark. A place to hide."

"Stop it." Snatching Draco's hands from his face, Blaise holds them at chest-level and glares angrily into Draco's eyes. Draco is painfully thin; the deep shadows under his eyes make him look like the dead. "You look like hell. What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing," Draco says dreamily. Everything, his brain says, and he leans forward to kiss Blaise again.

"Damn it, Draco!" Blaise hits Draco across the face, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to whip his head away. "What is it? Is it the Potions essay? Damn it, I know you're stressed but—"

"Potions." Rivulets of water plaster Draco's hair to his skull in clumps of peroxide-blonde, the color of dandelion tufts floating in the breeze. "Yeah. Potions."

"You should've just asked me for help, you twat."

A sardonic laugh catches in Draco's throat and he forcefully swallows it down. "You wouldn't understand it," he murmurs. He runs his hands down Blaise's spine, fingers skittering spider-light on warm, wet flesh. He follows the trail with his mouth, kissing and nibbling delicate skin; teasing Blaise's nipple with hot breath and a flickering tongue. Blaise arches into Draco's mouth and moans as Draco scrapes his teeth lightly over the flesh.

"You wouldn't—" A tremble runs through Draco's body. Draco sinks to the bottom of the tub, kneeling in front of Blaise, head bowed. "You—"

"Draco?" Blaise is genuinely scared, and just a bit irritated. He doesn't know what to do; he wants to hit the blonde until he bleeds because Draco's shaking now, and gasping, and Blaise has no idea what to do. He kneels down in front of Draco, warm water sloshing up to chest-level. "Stop being a weakling," he commands.

Draco raises bloodshot eyes to Blaise. Tears mingle with snot and dribble off his chin in little rivulets. "You w-wouldn't understand," he says before he starts crying again, painful shuddering gasps that tear through his slight frame, his breath coming out harshly choked and constricted.

"Oh, bloody hell," Blaise says in disgust. He watches Draco for moment then leans forward hesitantly, as if the blonde were a bomb about to explode. He places a hand on Draco's shoulder and pats it awkwardly. "Cheer up," he says.

Draco looks at him. Blaise removes his hand as if it were on fire. Then Draco is kissing him again, hard and salty against kiss-bruised lips, and he's murmuring nonsensical things as he grasps desperately at sodden clumps of Blaise's hair.

Fuck this heart-to-heart bullshit, thinks Blaise, pulling Draco forcefully up and slamming him against the wall. He fucks Draco hard and fast, and when they come he screams while Draco buries his face in his hands, moaning.

And this is why:

The night breeze is softly caressing the pale blonde's skin. He stands, calm and collected, staring at the sky. He sees a star and reaches an arm out to touch it, to steal it. What a brilliant thing, to steal a star. Like stealing a life. Catch it, light's all gone. He reaches out both arms; tiptoes and leans forward to catch it.

"Accio Draco!"

Draco is punched back by an invisibly force, skidding hard on the floor with a yell of indignation and slamming bodily into the back wall of the Astronomy Tower. "What the—"

"That's a bloody good question!" Slanting, angry eyes meet icy stone-gray. "What the hell were you doing?"

"It's none of your business," Draco snaps.

"You were standing on the edge of the Astronomy Tower! You were leaning over!"

"I was sending a message to my father." Draco wiggles a thickly gloved hand at Blaise.

"We have an Owlery downstairs."

"Weasel was there."

"Really?" Blaise arches an eyebrow, "That's funny, because I just saw him on my way up."

The glare Draco shoots Blaise is switchblade-sharp. "I came up here to be alone," he says. He repeats himself, slowly and deliberately. "A-lone."

"So you could—what? Fall off the Astronomy Tower?" Blaise snorts and mimics Draco's voice. "'Alone'?"

"Not unless you want to join me," Draco snaps, removing the glove and dropping it to the floor.

"In falling off the Astronomy Tower?" Blaise smirks and leans on the wall beside Draco. "I'll leave the theatrical romantic tragedy to you."

Draco quirks an eyebrow at the teen. "Really? Cheers, mate."

"Hey!" Panicking, Blaise lunges forward and grabs Draco as he strides determinedly to the edge of the Astronomy Tower. "I was jo—" He pauses, seeing Draco's expression, and drops his hand. "You bastard."

Yeah. Bastard. Me. Draco's mouth is quirked into an especially sardonic smile to hide the fact that he was only half-joking. You also forgot failure and wimp.

"What, no response?" Blaise stares. "Crap. Something's wrong, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Draco wants to say. "Yeah, something's wrong. What's wrong is that the Dark Lord wants me to kill Dumbledore, and I should be able to do it, it's bloody glorious and Dumbledore's a moronic old git anyway and I've dreamed of this my whole life, and now I can't do it. I'm a coward and now I'm going to die, and I know that and I still can't do it. I can't save myself. I'm not a hero."

"I have cold feet," he says instead, distantly.

Blaise shoots him a strange look. "It's that scar, isn't it?" He walks forward and runs his fingers spider-lightly over Draco's chest; Draco winces and jerks back. "Where Potter hit you." He laughs. "Who would've thought Potter had it in him. He should have been a Death Eater."

"Instead of me," Draco mumbles. He feels a surge of anger, and… envy? Harry doesn't know how lucky he is. To be on the right side—Draco wants to laugh. The right side. The side of righteousness, the side where you're worshiped for every bloody thing you do. Draco knows that now. Harry is so damned lucky, because he… God, he has people who understand. People to cry on. He's the damned hero, he saves everyone—well. Better at Quidditch, better with friends, better at inflicting pain. A better killer.

Hell, Draco thinks dizzily, he even scars better. Dark magic, both of us, and he gets a bloody fancy lightning bolt. All I get is one long slash.

"What?"

I just want to go home. It's not… this isn't what I want. It's not glorious. I can't do this. God, I've tried, and I can't—I can't, I can't, I can't. Mother, why are you so far away? I wish you could hold me. I'm so tired. I just want to rest. Hold me, please, please.

"I'm cold," Draco says.

Blaise rolls his eyes. "Should've thought of that before you came up without a coat, shouldn't you?" He doesn't hold Draco, a heavy, cold presence around Draco's arms. A pause. "You should go back to the Infirmary. Another two days should help. The wound doesn't look fully healed."

"Could you—" Draco hesitates. Right, that's a good way to prove your sanity, ask Blaise for a hug. Because hugging is so very sane, like the singing purple dinosaurs that muggles seem to like so much. "I don't need the Infirmary," Draco says instead, hugging his arms around himself.

"What do you need, then?" Blaise asks quietly. "Tell me, because you obviously need something."

"Tell me," he says. Like a bloody order. Yes, sir. No, sir. Just like the Dark Lord. Draco's mouth twitched mirthlessly, earning him another arched eyebrow from Blaise. Dark. I made a pun.

"Draco?"

"Yes, Lord?" The words barely leave Draco's mouth before he begins to shake and bursts into peals of laughter. He clutches his side and bends double, palm pressed over his wound as he laughs, tears beginning to form at the corners of his eyes. The noise sounds wild and manic to his ears.

Evidently it does to Blaise too, as he involuntarily backs away. "I wasn't aware that I made a joke."

"You didn't. I just. I, oh," he looks at Blaise, "hee, Lord." He dissolves into laughter again, loud, sharp gasps that slice through the air.

"God," Blaise says disgustedly, "you're fucked up."

"Yeah." Draco says, sobering quickly. "Yeah, I did." Then he's pressing his lips against Blaise's; ignores the teen's surprised, muffled cry and wraps his arms around Blaise's chest; clasps his fingers behind Blaise's back like a safety lock. Blaise moans against his lips and runs his tongue tentatively along Draco's mouth, but Draco pulls back, yanks Blaise toward him forcefully and arches himself along Blaise's body. He places his head on Blaise's shoulder. "Lord, Lord, Lord," he murmurs. "I can do this, you know."

"Do… what?"

Draco removes his arms, takes Blaise's hands and wraps them around himself so they rest on the small of his back. He brings his arms up so they make a cross on Blaise's back; wrong, incorrect, or multiplied, like Draco's trouble. "I can do this," he whispers, rocking his hips against Blaise's. "I can do this, Lord. Anything. Kill—die for you. I will die for you. Give me something to do."

"Draco?"

"Yes, Blaise?" Draco looks surprisingly attentive.

"D'you still remember the password to the Prefect's bathroom?"

And in the beginning:

Everything is breaking and falling down in shards. Water pours down Draco's face, tracing old tear tracks like a cold, dead finger. Droplets flow over the curve of his lip into his mouth; he can taste salt, although whether it's from stale tears or from snot he doesn't know. He wants to blow his nose – so undignified, being caught in a toilet, nose still runny – but there's no time, no time, the hero's here to fight the villain. Take care of it, quickly, get rid of the just-crying expression on his face, do it quickly—

"Cruci—"

"Sectumsempra!" Harry shouts from the floor.

Oh—

Shit. The pain tears through Draco like a lightning bolt, and Draco faintly wonders if he'll scar that way too before his legs lose strength and give way. He staggers back and falls, splashing water everywhere, tasting something else now, something coppery. Blood? Gray eyes flicker quickly to his body; his shirt is all torn up now, and red, like roses. Thump, thump, thump. Something—he starts scrabbling at his chest, panicky. What is that? Why is there… why… Pale white hands stain red, like tissue.

Murderer.

Me? No, I—

Murderer.

I have to, he'll kill me, he'll kill Mother, I—

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer, and Draco is convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream, shaking, showering himself in his own blood; a girl screaming, a loud bang, and—

Peace. Draco's eyes flutter closed, feeling warm arms encase him. He feels a hand run over his face, doing—what? Cleaning him. He exhales softly, so quiet that it goes unnoticed.

Rest. I just want to rest. Can I rest now? Can I sleep?