Pale Moon

The robe slipped from his shoulders for the first time that day, revealing the multitude of contusions and scars. His once perfect body was now a canvas of abuse, and every mark was glaringly obvious under the light of the full moon. It's why he usually stayed indoors during such times. The night was not his friend. But tonight was different.

The stone walkway began at their back door and wound through the gardens. He began to follow it now, his naked body lithe even in its current state. A shaking hand brushed each flower as he passed by, pausing now and again to take a deep breath of the scented night air. Harry hadn't been happy when he requested this, but he had given in eventually.

Draco paused at the gazebo close to the end of the path and, after a moments hesitation, went inside. He sat on the bench, the wood cold against his naked skin, and sighed heavily. He slumped forward, his body seeming to cave into itself. He stayed that way for several minute as tears hit his knees soundlessly. When he was done thinking -remembering- he stood and finished his journey.

The water at the edge was nothing spectacular, surrounded by the same gray stones that made up the walkway and only just large enough to swim in. But it was Draco's place of refuge. He came here often, usually during the day, and would sit and stare at the water for hours at a time. He did that now, folding himself into a kneeling position and watching the calm water. Here was the only place he felt safe; serene; sane.

After only a few moments he stood, and stepped down into the water. The smallest of hisses left his lips as the water swirled around his cut up calves but he didn't pause until he was waist deep. His hands were held out at his sides, palms resting gently on the water and causing ripples as they shook. It was here he finally allowed himself to remember.

When the war had first started Draco had ignored it. He had no desire to choose either side, and while his Father wasn't thrilled neither was he ashamed. It was a win-win situation. That had changed when Death Eaters had attacked a village he and his mother were staying in, and he had first seem Potter truly fight. He told his mother then and there he was choosing a side and he had followed them back to Hogwarts and joined the next day.

None were exactly thrilled, especially when he became known his only reason for joining was because he knew it was the winning side. But he proved useful and knowledgeable, and so he stayed. And overtime, he made friends with the important members.

He wouldn't say he was surprised when he ended up dating Harry Potter. Draco was drawn to power and wealth; he had both, with looks to boot. He wouldn't say he was surprised when they got married and nobody was happy, or when the papers spectulated it was a plot to get his money. They were mostly right, anyway. He was disowned now; he certainly needed it. But Draco was honestly shocked when, after a mere six months of marriage, he realized he was falling in love with the boy he had been planning on using.

And that was when all the secrets came out. Harry was less than thrilled when he realized how gulliable he had been, but after the intitial fight things went back to realitve normalacy. And Draco was happy living in his fairy tale for another four months until Harry killed the Dark Lord. Then his life became a nightmare, and he had no way to stop it.

He wasn't the same after that, his Harry. His temper was more fierce than before and his attitude darker. Draco willed away the obvious signs and said nothing, even when Harry began pushing away his friends and lashing out at Draco over trivial things. He said nothing the first time Harry shoved him into a wall, and nothing again that night when he apologized and sobbed on Draco's dislocated shoulder. Because no matter how he had changed he was still the man Draco loved, and that was more important than anything.

When his friends began to notice the marks he took better care to hide them. When asked he would smile and lie through his teeth. But he was happy, he thought one day as he lay at the bottom of the stairs after being pushed down them. Even when he was miserable and being hit, he would rather be hit by Harry than go to anyone else and be loved. That was also the day he realized he was truly doomed.

The water was more violent now as his hands jerked with the memories he had tried so hard to forget. But he needed them now. He sobbed dryly, out of tears, and his body shook upon the mental assault.

There were twenty-five jars, Draco thought quietly to himself. Each full of struggling butterflies, fighting against an unstoppable force to get free. Draco smiled wryly. Even after seven years they didn't understand there was no escape. At least not that they could get on their own. With a small sigh he opened the first lid and let the paper fly out. They fluttered in the sunlight for the briefest of seconds before zooming off. It was like this with every jar.

Draco watched until the last one vanished, hoping they enjoyed their life before it was cut short. The next day, when it rained, Harry hadn't understood why Draco cried. And the week later he didn't understand when it happened again at the sight of a paper butterfly flying lazily past their window.

When he took out the paper next, it was with shaking hands and almost seven weeks later. His quill looped perfectly over every letter on every piece of paper until he had four in all. He read and re-read each one before finally sending them off to the people who would be receiving them. He glanced at the darkness outside. He didn't have long.

No, Draco thought to himself. He didn't have long indeed. He wondered what their faces would be like when they finally opened the letters. Hermione at her home with her new child; Ron at work wishing he was there. Pansy at the office she managed. And Harry. Harry, at the office or out on a case. He thought perhaps Hermione would cry harshly and call Ron. Ron would turn white he knew, and rush over regardless of the consequences. Pansy would likely crumble, face blank and knuckles white. He wasn't sure what Harry would do; how he'd react.

He hadn't been sure of Harry in a long time. Seven years and four months. But he wouldn't think of that now. He had known eventually something like this would happen. He thought, in a way, they all had. Everyone had just been waiting for him to break and finally he had. He walked slowly, fighting against the water, to the center where he knew it dropped off. He took a final step and bobbed uncertainly on the water before he went under.

Draco had never learned to swim.