Blood and Tobacco

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

A/N: okay, I know it’s not original but…well, I wrote it and it’s been sitting on my desktop for WAY to long, so here you are


Blood and Tobacco


The sky is red. It really shouldn’t be but it is. I guess that’s because of the blood. With my eyes open like this, with the blood covering them like a veil, the sky looks red. It’s rather painful really, the blood in my eyes. But the hole in my gut is the more pressing matter. I mean, here I am, laying in the middle of a fricking forest, no one around for miles, a hole in my fucking stomach, watching the sky through my own blood…and all I can really think about is…Him. How he changed everything. He changed everything…if I really want to consider it all he’s the reason why I’m laying here, my blood painting the dirt red. But the oddest thing of all is that I love him for it.

It all started that first time he saw me smoking…no, it started before that even. It began the day we first met. It really began when I saw his glasses. Yeah, those glasses got me. I’ve always had it bad for glasses, especially the dorky ones.

I saw him and even in my pre teen mind I knew he was perfection. Those innocent green eyes behind shimmering glass. Of course my infatuation was buried quickly enough. The fights, the insults, it helped mask that desire. But it was always there. By the time we were in our sixth year I had nearly managed to forget how hot those glasses made him.

But then, he found me smoking. Such a surprise that was. Who ever knew the sight of a guy taking a drag would give Potter a boner harder than granite. He jumped me, I’ll never forget that moment. When his lust filled eyes stared into mine though those glasses. And the glasses, gods those fucking glasses.

Everything was forgotten that night. Here I had just been up on the astronomy tower for a quick smoke and the next thing I knew my cock was buried deep in Harry Potter’s ass.

The weirdest thing was that it didn’t end there. He ignored me for a few days, but then…well, he caught me smoking again.

Over time I managed to train him well enough. He let me do it. Some nights I would just watch him read, his brows knitting as he focused his shity eyes on the page. Sometimes I would give him props. Different glasses, half of which he couldn’t see crap through but that hadn’t mattered when I was fucking him. Even when I told him I wanted him to spend an entire day walking around with a collar on he had agreed. He seemed to like it as much as I did.

And even as I trained him, even when I dressed him up in those hot, humiliating little outfits, Potter always had his way. No matter what he was wearing, no matter how hard I had fucked him the night before, no matter how many insults or hexes he endured because of me, when he would say “Draco, light a fag,” I could not keep myself from doing it. If he told me to suck his cock, I would. If he asked me to eat tapioca pudding, not even god could have stopped me. When he used that voice of his in that certain way, I was a willing slave.

Of course, no one at school ever understood our relationship. I still remember the look on Grangers face the first time I made Potter wear the kitten outfit. I swear she about fainted from spontaneous orgasm. And then the Weasel, well he just about killed himself from all the screaming. But I couldn’t really blame them. They only saw what I did to him. They saw the outfits, the commands, the bite marks. They never saw him; they never knew his sadistic side. They wouldn’t have been able to understand it anyway.

To them Harry was a saint. A poor little puppy that had fallen into the wrong hands. There were many attempts to “save” him from me. But every time the would-be-rescuer ended up in the hospital wing, and not once could they say who had put them there. Harry was always very good with his obliviate spells.

By the time we were both of age things had gone beyond what either of us expected. The thing was…I was in love with him. I couldn’t have explained how it happened. It started as a convenience, after all it’s not often you find someone so in tune with your sexual kinks. But by the time the seventh year started, I couldn’t imagine being without my Harry.

I don’t know what Harry thought about that. Truth be told, I’m not sure he’s ever loved me. But I love him. With all that I am, I love him. He’s perfect. Not because he wears those goofy, godly, fucking hot glasses. Not because he’s willing to put on a collar and be chained to a wall. Not because he moans when I bite him hard enough to draw blood. Not because he knows just were to dig his nails into my flesh. Not even because when he speaks in that hissing parcletongue I nearly cum in my pants. No, it was because…he’s Harry. He is pure and sweet, yet ruthless, intelligent, patient, he is the same and yet in every respect the opposite from me. I was enthralled. I could not keep away.

Harry potter is my drug. My heaven. And even my hell. He’s what I live for. What I breathe for. I can’t even comprehend the time I spent without him. I cannot imagine not being able to go home and find him in front of the hearth with a glass of wine in one hand and a book of poetry in the other.

So I guess, since I cannot even imagine living without him, it’s best that I’m the one to die. I mean, I really don’t think he ever loved me. The only reason he puts up with me is because I’ll put up with him. Sometimes I think the only reason we’re together is because we are the only ones that can comprehend the others depravities.

All I know for sure is that I love Harry Potter, and I am going to die.

~~~~~~~

I can’t breath. I can feel my lungs trying to draw in air but my throat won’t allow it. It’s closing over, it’s painful, but I don’t care. My eyes are burning from the tears they’re spilling, I don’t care. My hands are shaking and I can smell my own vomit, but I really just don’t care. I just can’t make myself care.

The only thing I can see, the only thing that matters, is the body. That silver haired body on the ground in front of me. It’s Draco, but it’s not. Draco doesn’t look like that. Draco’s vibrant, loud, he should be shouting at me, or smirking or smoking, or fucking me. He should be doing anything, but this. He’s so still. And there’s so much blood. And he isn’t speaking, he isn’t moving. He’s just…dead.

How is this possible? He shouldn’t be laying there. I saw him just a few hours ago. He said he needed more cigarettes, told me to change. I…this isn’t right.

I need him. I have to…this can’t be right. I need him to get up. I need him to smirk at me. I need him to tell me I’m an idiot. I need him to kiss me.

Everything he does. I need that. The way he licks my neck, scrapes my flesh with his nails, runs his fingers through my hair, whispers that he loves me when he thinks I’m asleep. The way he grumbles in the morning, leaves the door half open when he takes a shower, pours salt on his eggs, smells his milk as though it were wine.

I need the way he tickles my toes after sex, peals his favorite costume from my body, licks my cock. I have to have his silver eyes staring at me, the sound of his humming when he sketches a new costume design. He has to be there when I need to watch him smoke, I have to see the smoke curl from his lips in a gray mist, I need to smell the mixture of tobacco and Draco in the air. But most of all, most importantly, I need him to get up. Because there’s something I need to tell him.

I never meant for this to happen. I meant to tell him, before I died. But he’s gone; he wasn’t supposed to be the one that went away….

I think I’m breathing again but I’m not entirely certain. I know I’m standing. And the world is spinning. I know I’m moving but I don’t know where. But now I’m staring at the ground and it takes me a minute to realize what I’m looking at. It’s a pack of cigarettes.

I reach down, pick them up. Their not opened yet. I open them. I take one out and move back, to the…Draco. I put it in his mouth, but he won’t smoke it, he can’t. I lick my lips, their scabbed from Draco biting them so much. I’m moving again. I’m dipping the filter in his blood. And then I put the cigarette behind my ear, pick out another, fish Draco’s lighter out of his pocket and light the fag.

I’ve smoked before, but not often. I know how to do it and the taste sooths me as I disapparate.

~~~~~~~

Harry killed Voldemort and his Death Eaters systematically that night. When he got to the one that confessed to killing Draco, Vincent Crabbe, Harry struck him down with a body bind curse. He pulled a cigarette from behind his ear, lit it and took a long drag. He then proceeded to spend four hours torturing the man. In the end the remains were only identifiable through numerous spells.

Harry was found the next morning smoking the last cigarette from a pack he had shoved in his jeans pocket. When the witch approached him he raised his wand. She was easily frightened by this considering that Harry was covered in blood. However Harry did not point his wand at her, instead he aimed it at his own head.

The witnesses reported that before he cast the killing curse Harry Potter said, “I can’t live without him; maybe I just loved him to much…”


END