5Flames that danced upon his skin
AN: I do not own any of these characters.
Warning: Character death, suicide. I know most of what I write is slash or pre-slash, but this isn't. This is Draco's story.
Heat. Burning. Fire licked upon his skin. The wonder he held at the colors was nothing compared to the pain. He deserved pain. For a little while it eased his consciousness and the pretty colors, the orange, red, blue, yellow, even purple, and white, were a balm to his mind, if not his body.
No one that knew Draco could have ever fathomed he'd feel this affinity to fire. He'd always been cold as ice to the world outside, but never inside, not even as a child. After the fiendfyre during the Battle of Hogwarts he was sure he'd never want to see another flame again. That would be reasonable, acceptable. He couldn't possibly be expected to be normal after the war though.
After his trial and subsequent sentencing to house arrest in a lonely, cold house, cut off from his family, and everything he'd ever known, the desire for fire had intensified. In the beginning it was just things that reminded him of the bad things about the war, first things that Voldemort left behind, that burned in the huge hearths. What else were they good for? He would never be allowed to leave or have visitors come through them for the rest of his life. At first it felt cathartic to remove those bad memories, but as pleasant as it was to get rid of them, Draco decided why not burn everything else? No one could inherit this home because of the ties to blood they had over the land itself, and he was never going to have an heir. He didn't think anyone would care. The flames became his friends, they burned the past he hated, the past that led him here, alone. They were wonderfully beautiful to stare at, dancing like the party-goers they used to have in the ballroom in all their colorful refinery. Something he'd never see again.
Slowly, Draco began to talk to the pictures he'd see in the fire and hear the cracks and pops and pretend they answered him. He knew he was losing his mind, but it didn't matter. No one was here to see it, isolated for eternity.
The nightmare he'd woken from last night prompted this new foray into fire and pain. He relived the moment he'd gotten the Dark Mark, it felt so real, his skin was on fire. When Draco woke up he knew he deserved the real fire, not just the sensation. Wouldn't it be so pretty to set himself on fire? Draco knew burn victims were in intense pain, but he had so much guilt to purge from himself he needed the pain. What did it matter if his beautiful skin was scarred? Who would look upon him with anything but revulsion? He felt his mind shatter a little bit more. If he could just remove that mark on his arm, maybe, just maybe, his mind would quit splintering and he would get back to himself again.
With his wand, and its tightly controlled restrictions, no one expected him to set himself on fire after all, he cast, "Incendio," on his left forearm. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. The flames ate the Dark Mark and the rest of his skin, past the muscle, until he saw nothing but bone. He knew he was screaming in pain, distantly, but was fascinated by what was happening. Should he put out the fire? Would his body and mind ever heal? Was it worth it? Or should he just let himself continue to burn, taking the manor with him? He was never sure he made a choice, he eventually passed out.
Unfortunately, Draco woke up in a bed surrounded by antiseptic smells, instead of dead. He wished he was dead. Why wasn't he dead? There was pain in his left arm, but when he looked down he couldn't see it. There were white bandages by his shoulder. What happened to his arm?
A medi-witch stood in the doorway a few minutes after he woke and breathed a sigh of relief. She came over, the lime green robes swishing softly, but it wasn't as soothing a color as his fire gave. "I'm glad you're awake. You gave everyone quite a scare being burned like that. We had to remove the damaged arm as it was too late to do anything else. I'm sure the healers can give you some kind of prosthetic arm if you will allow them." Draco snorted, why would they give a Death Eater with a life sentence any such thing? As soon as he got out of here, he would end his life once and for all. Maybe he could set a fire in the hearth and step into it, burn himself all at once, instead of one limb at a time. Yes, that would be more successful now. "The aurors are here. They want you to tell them what happened to you. I will check on you later." She turned and as she walked out the door two aurors walked in.
Why did they have to be Potter and the Weasel? Why couldn't people just leave him well enough alone? "Hey, Malfoy," Potter seemed to speak softly, aware that anything could set the lunatic Draco over the edge. It annoyed Draco, it was patronizing. Draco just stared at them. Anything he said would surely let them know he was off his rocker.
"We need to know what happened to you. Was it an accident? Did someone break in and do this to you?" Potter asked and pointed at his missing arm while the Weasel guarded the door.
"Nothing happened that I didn't want to happen, Potter. I wanted the Dark Mark gone and now it is, end of story," Draco gave an edited version of what happened. If he told the truth he'd never get out of here. He needed to get out of here. He needed the fire, he needed an end.
The Weasel snorted, "Nothing will make you not a Death Eater, no matter what you've done to your arm."
"Not helping, Ron," Potter admonished.
Glaring at both of them, Draco explained, "I know that. Believe it or not I'm not an idiot. As a matter of fact, I'm probably smarter than the both of you combined. I didn't want to look at the mark anymore, that doesn't get me out of a life sentence. Just let me live in quiet, now that I don't have that hideous tattoo to see anymore I can be at peace." These two were the idiots if they believed it would end at that. Not surprisingly, they were the gullible idiots Draco believed them to be and left.
Draco pretended to be as normal as possible, biding his time until he returned home. A good portion of the medical staff were hateful and resentful of him and Draco knew they would rejoice in his death. Why not give it to them? It's what he wanted, not to have to live this life anymore. He was in a huge manor, but it was still a prison he'd never leave. Was he really living? No. The thought depressed him. Maybe once he was gone he could find his parents on the other side, the ones he'd sacrificed his future for. Yes, that sounded reasonable, and he was happy to do that.
Unsurprisingly, no one helped fit him with any sort of prosthetic arm, it wasn't his wand arm after all and he wouldn't need it where he was going.
Draco's return home was anti-climatic. The aurors dumped him on his doorstep and left. Well, now was as good a time as any to end it. He knew that's where his fascination with fire would lead. He couldn't perform certain curses anymore without alerting someone. The fire though? He had to keep warm, he had to be able to heat food. No one would find him this time even if he passed out until he was too burned to save. Once his blood no longer flowed the house and lands would collapse on themselves, so no one else could gain from its destruction. Draco cackled at that. The Ministry already took so much from his family, they wouldn't be allowed this. It's the only reason he wasn't in Azkaban and under house arrest instead. The ministry was hoping to bypass the blood wards and raid the wealth of his home before he died.
The ballroom was the perfect place, with its huge hearth and the perfect way to end it. The dancers in the fire reminiscent of the ones in the past here. Draco put many things inside the fireplace, his favorite memories, to take with him to the other side and set them on fire. Stepping into the flames he whispered, "Mother, Father, I'm coming home to you."
Draco's screams echoed in the huge room, singing with the cracks and pops. His body molded and burned as the flames danced one last time in the manor, never to be heard or seen again.
