Coma Black

Title: Coma Black.
Author: Carrie DeMarchi.
Website: Carrie\'s Slash Fiction, CarrieFic on on livejournal.com.
Fandom: Harry Potter.
Pairing: Draco/Harry.
Genre: Horror, Gore.
Rating: Strong R.
Status: Complete. 3,102 words.
Series: No.
Spoilers: Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
Warning: Suicide, blood, character death(s).
Archive: All mailing lists posted to, otherwise, ask, please.

Disclaimer: The characters and their portrayal within this story belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. Studios, and this story is based on these and related works done by these persons and/or organizations. The situation, story line and interpersonal relations between said characters in this work belong to the author. No monetary exchanges occur for this fiction, and no copyright infringement is intended.

Notes: This was inspired by one of my favorite songs, from which I borrowed gratuitously from; read \'stole.\' I realize that doesn\'t really say great things about my sunny disposition, but that doesn\'t hinge on what kind of music I listen to. If you think otherwise, you\'re a horrible person. That is all.

Summary: Harry and Voldemort are dead, and so is everyone else, including Draco.

The sky was beginning to lighten, the red sun raising its slow march over the horizon. It had been a long night for all of them, but most especially for the lone soul sitting alive among the cold bodies of his friends and enemies, and even his lover. He\'d been in the same place since the final stroke of battle; in the cold sludge of blood and rainwater that had fallen to the dirt the night before. By whatever twist of fate that had come to pass, leaving him alive when so many others had unnecessarily been wiped clean from the world of the living, he had no wish to contemplate why it had to be this way.

He\'d felt a sick feeling, standing behind the strong body of his lover, just before the explosion ked ked through them all with such centrifugal force that there was a clear path of mud for nigh twenty meters around the four p fig figures in the middle of it all. It had been dusk at the time, and when Draco\'s sore eyes first opened through the pain, it was dark save for the full moon in the sky. Strangely enough, the first thought through his mind was where the many werewolves in the battle were lying; he\'d never been close enough to see any until today and at least now he wouldn\'t have to worry.

They were all dead. If he\'d bother to stand, he wouldn\'t have to guess all there was to see would be a sea of bodies stretched around the clearing. It was easy to see that far from where he sat, but he\'d seen enough already the first time he\'d opened his eyes to it. The silence was disconcerting as his senses came alive when he returned to consciousness again. There were no birds, no rustling of animals in the trees that looked as they sustained a lot of force pushing into them. He saw some of them were half torn from the ground, their roots dangling in the air as they leaned back on their trusting companions.

They were strong enough to be something he obviously wasn\'t, since it came to this. He\'d failed himself and his lover by being alive; not having borne the weight that was as feather light as letting go and succumbing toth. th. The heavy weight that settled in his chest was pulling him down so much as he thought he\'d never be able to stand even if he wanted to, and the pull seemed to be drawing him back to something more close to home. He could barely hear the rasp of another\'s breath, struggling in their dying throat. It had to be close, and as naturally as wind would ripple water, at the sound, Draco turned to his lover.

He was dead; but there was someone else who wasn\'t, unless the dying chuckle was his own, sighed out from the madness that was sure to overcome him. He turned, not wanting to believe it, as he looked down on his father. He was just as cold as anyone else, though he hadn\'t far to go to join them, and the older man\'s eyes were barely open to look at the hazy view of his son. Draco couldn\'t bring himself to move to his side, even as he drew his last breath, lending back the quiet to his son. He watched as the imperceptible rise of his father\'s chest dropped for the last time, and then looked to the fourth body.

It was slung half over his father\'s and on its back, just like the rest of them. A dead hand, still clasping the splintered shaft of a broken wand, lay on the ground, lifeless. The Dark Lord\'s eyes were still open, though they had faded to grey, and stared up into the scarce clouds. Draco had to turn away from the sight, the long so empty shell of a man lying there, almost welcoming his death when it came unexpectedly, to judge by the expression on the man\'s face. There was a trickle of blood running, though now dried, from the corner of his mouth. It made no difference for his blood to be shed; it was over.

They were both over and gone. There was nothing in a strange prophecy that could tell him what to do or expect now. There was nothing he could do to ease the pain that welled up from the heavy heart he carried inside. There was nothing left to do but look back at his lost life, lying there devoid of anything at all. He felt too warm, still in his heavy cloak, mostly dried now from the cold night air after the rain stopped. He didn\'t want to be warmed; he wanted to be where he should have been, instead of where fate thought he should be. If he had something to learn from this, he would have to do it soon.

As he lifted his unnervingly steady hands to unbutton the silver brooch that closed the fabric around his neck, he became aware of howht iht it was against him. He felt choked, and at the same time as not, he wanted to leave it there, letting it pull against his throat. He was uncomfortable, and wanted to feel his lover\'s skin against his own, try to transfer his remaining strength and life back into the one who deserved it, try to drain himself so he could seek refuge from the emptiness. His fingers moved over the metal hooks, unhooking them with cold fingers, dry mud caked on them from when he\'d pushed himself o loo look at the bleak surroundings.

The cloak went slack, and he still held his fingers to the sides of the garment. It was the only thing between him and the death seeping into everything around him. The sky was clouded over the battle field now, still a subdued grey, barely touched by the orange that was dawning peacefully over more pleasant umstumstances. He let himself exhale as deeply as he could, having decided his path. With one familiar pull, he unlocked the pin of the dragon pendant and tugged it with weak hands until it came free of the material entirely.

He held the pin in his hands for a moment, not even looking at it. His eyes were blurred from the faint morning light, and even in its poor amount so far, it still pained him. He should have been left in the darkness, not have woken up to the sun and pain. He rolled his shoulders, stiff from the position on the wet ground he\'d found himself in when he woke. He couldn\'t remember the time spent from the night, the full moon, to the dawn. He doubted movement took place, other than as much as his neck would allow him to see around himself.

He sat with one foot tucked under the other leg\'s knee, and he put the dragon down on his thigh before pushing his shoulders back again, letting the thick cloak slide from his arms to the ground behind him. It lifted a weight that was comforting to release, letting the cool, moist air hit his body through the thin shirt he wore, but it let another gain more territory within. His hand felt his thigh for the pin, as he was still unable to focus, and when he felt a soft yet itching sensation trail over his cheek, his free hand lifted instinctively to his face.

It was dry where he felt, and he let the tips of his fingers drift across his skin, upwards, and then he caught them. The tears slid around and down his fingers, and the first thing that came to mind was a question he\'d long since buried. They\'d put it behind when alliances had been proved, but he knew, even if his lover didn\'t, that it still had a dire effect on the outcome of today. His lies were told too early, when they shouldn\'t have slipped his lips at all. Those were the ones that had done the damage, able to reach into foundations and alter routes.

He could have changed this route for them Wit With only tick ick sound of squelching mud under his cloak as he lay on his side over the material, Draco pressed himself close to his lover. He rested his elbow on the ground above the other man\'s shoulder, slipping that arm under the dark hair, matted with dried sweat and mud. He looked down at the lifeless green eyes, staring straight past him into the sky. Draco looked to the sun, higher than it was when he\'d last looked, and it still hurt his eyes.

His fingers grasped the pendant and brought it so he could see the silver dragon, emerald eyes dark in the dull light, no where near the same as the one\'s he\'d have to close forever, and never see again. He wished the sun would burn this day, never let it exist, and let the wind blow the ashes away. There was nothing that could change it now, no matter how many would want it to be undone. He was too late, too dumb to the things he took for granted, or to have run from them, and save the world the agony that was devouring his mind.

It was an awkward position to be in, with one arm under his lover\'s head, cradling it over his elbow, as the other reached across the body to undo the button on the cuff of his shirt. When it was open, he dragged his forearm over his lover\'s chest, pushing the material out of the way. He reached over again with his arm, and lifted the pin between his fingers, letting it come to rest against the soft skin of his inner forearm.

He held it down firmly, letting the tiny fangs of the serpentine figure almost pierce his flesh. Then, easing the pressure, Draco pulled his arm away from the hand holding the pin, letting it drag through his flesh, down to his wrist. He couldn\'t love this day or himself, or anything; it seemed, except the sharp teeth across his skin. Twin lines of rose colored welts began to rise, and Draco traced them, not any harder than before, but just to aggravate them even more. Again he repeated the action, the dragon\'s teeth down his arm, absently wondering whether he was too dead already to die, and then he saw it.

He reached with his other hand to his wrist, using his finger nail to scrape up from the scratch and then place his fingers to either side of it. He pressed down hard, feeling his already weakened flesh bruise, and then spread his fingers, pulling the tiny cut open. Tiny droplets of blood were borne through the opening, like a seam partially torn on a ow aow and the stuffing pushing through the gaps. It stung where the ends of his ripped skin screamed at being pried apart, but he didn\'t, or maybe even couldn\'t, hear it.

Draco\'s eyes continued past those of his lover, not able to let his own eyes look into the deceased\'s anymore, but he would have told his lover then. He would have told him he was the only thing that Draco could have loved in this dying world. The simple word, of love itself, already died in his heart, as it would have died on his lips, though it never would have got that far. It was pointless to say it now, when he was too late. Though he knew it wasn\'t another lie, even if his lover would have thought so, but he couldn\'t say it anyway, not when he had already let something like this happen.

A world like this could never be anything to him; not if things had to be this way, his angel taken away from him, pulled down into the mud. He couldn\'t even wonder if his lover was watching him from somewhere, another realm or plain, because he had no idea if he even believed in anything like that. He looked back to the blood lining his arm, and couldn\'t think of where he would perhaps be going when this was over for himself as well. He realized his fingers had gone slack, and he twisted the wrist of his arm underneath the dead weight, and took up the dragon again from the ground.

He looked at it, the cold figurine, still a dull metallic grey in the slow rising light that wouldn\'t come soon enough, but he doubted he wanted it to come at all. His gaze moved back at his lover, where he saw the faint blush, the red apple skinned color brushing across his lover\'s cheeks. It was almost enough to believe he was alive, merely sleeping, to find a chill and his skin reddened from the cool air. Draco hadn\'t noticed it before, but perhaps it had been too dark. He felt ashamed not to be able to meet the eyes he could have stared into for hours on end before this day. He hadn\'t even felt the cold since he shed his cloak in favor of the moist flesh of his companion.

It was a heavy effort to move his arm, push it towards the sharp teeth, and let them press into his skin again. The blood pooled around them as it seeped out, almost as if it had waited so long for this, so happy to run free as Draco scraped through the trail of broken flesh, asking so jovially why he hadn\'t done this before. He didn\'t regret anything, and he couldn\'t bring himself to care about his final choices here, made completely under his own influence. He had no one to hold him down, no one to tell him what to do.

He couldn\'t make anyone pay for this, and he doubted he would have, even if he had the strength. There was nothing left inside, his heart was blood stained, broken. It was bleeding too fast, and he knew it could never be repaired. He\'d not even noticed his eyes had closed, and they were hard to open again. Sleep was calling to him, and he would give in when he was finished; it wouldn\'t take him long now. His blurred vision focused on red, and he strained his eyes, trying to find the lines in his arm. The teeth slipped through the cuts, and as Draco tried to lean on his elbow, it slipped through the mud, aiding the dragon to make a final, deep slash over his arm.

His eyes were clear, and he had felt the sting of his efforts once more, numbly passing the dragon to his other hand. The blood ran freely out through the severed veins, spreading cooling warmth over his arm, and he wondered if this would warm his lover. He\'d done all he could do in his current state, and he settled his arm over the body beside his own. His wrist smeared over the neck, the pale skin, of his lover\'s, cradled over his arm, with the other trying to hold on for dear life. He could see the smudge, thinking it as nothinre tre than a small blemish on something he should never have touched.

It spread, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to watch it pool in the hollow at the base of his lover\'s throat as Draco laid his head on his shoulder. For all the care that they\'d given to each other through the past few years, it was nothing that could withstand the force of this devastation, or the thought that he could have changed this. They hadn\'t counted on this, but Draco had known more than he\'d said. He didn\'t quite lie, keeping nothing withheld that was asked of him, though what could he do if he failed to mention something? He had long since known not when to let things go, and when to make sure all possible defenses are implemented.

It was hard to think if he would still feel the same, or vice versa, about his lover, if he\'d never accepted his feelings, or taken them in the direction he had. He\'d fail; just like he did right here, now; he didn\'t feel anything but pain for that which he\'d caused to the lives of so many. They\'wed wed around them on the ground, three people that should never have been worshiped for anything, but for one that they truly did owe their whole world, and some even their lives.

He would never heal, hows,ows, and it would never had gone away, only led him down a much longer and grueling past to which would have taken him right back to the place he found himself now. He was dizzy; he could feel it even with his eyes closed, though when he opened them, his vision doubled as he looked to the surroundings for any last piece of life left for him to live with. It felt like hours to Draco, with his head resting on his straining shoulder. He didn\'t realize at all that the mud had soaked through his cloak and was beginning to claw at his arms again, wanting to draw him down.

There was only so much he could do now, and he didn\'t want to do any of it, but he made the move to lift himself off his shoulder. His bleeding arm slid over his lover\'s throat, and he barely managed to close his dead fingers around the familiar chin, holding it, as he lowered his head, temple to his lover\'s forehead, and felt the cold skin against his face for the last time. He couldn\'t even feel the texture, not even of the scar that turned years of precious life into torment and anguish.

Draco shifted as much as he could, to give a gentle, loving nudge to the face undes ows own. He wouldn\'t admit, even then, to the soft sob that escaped him when he opened his lips, pressing them to those long dead. It would only be a minute before his went slack as well, and his head slipped heavily down to lay against his shoulder again. Maybe he\'d wake up again, and maybe he wouldn\'t, but it was the last thing he wanted, even if he had to bleed so much to do it, to simply never have to wake up without his lover, and face the cold world alone.

The End