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johnny weir 2

What's Left of Me (songfic)

  • 4th Feb, 2006 at 8:42 PM
Well, I spent most of the day doing some seriously hardcore grammatical editing of a part of my Mississippi journal. The rest of the time...well, I wrote fanfiction for the first time in forever. See, cuz I just heard Nick Lachey's new single, What's Left of Me, and I think it's absolutely brilliant. So I did the only thing a fanfiction writer can do to show her love for a song -- I wrote a songfic.

Title: What's Left of Me
One-shot/Songfic/Chaptered: One-shot, songfic
Genre: Angst, dark, romance
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Err...just a lot of angst.
Ships: Hermione/Draco
Other ships: None
Disclaimer: JK Rowling = owner of all except for the song lyrics, which belong to the very sexy (and now single) Nick Lachey...and whoever else helped him write the song.
Summary: After a year in Azkaban, the day of Draco Malfoy's execution has finally arrived. As he makes the long journey from his prison cell to the execution room, he reflects upon what was and what could have been.



Watch my life pass me by
In the rearview mirror
Pictures frozen in time
Are becoming clearer
I don't wanna waste another day
Stuck in the shadow of my mistakes


The rain had started up again.

As the dark, ominous prison of Azkaban was situated at the very centre of the most turbulent waters in the world, it normally wasn't quite so unusual to note the fact that water was pelting the cramped windows of the cells and corridors. However, the weather had been acting rather odd that particular day: as dawn broke, a thick, impenetrable layer of fog had settled around the building, making it nearly invisible to anyone observing it from outside -- not that it usually was visible to most passers by; the powerful charms and spells that protected the prison walls prevented any strangers unfortunate enough to happen upon the area from seeing anything but a rotting pile of rubbish there.

When the early morning sun rose, the fog had miraculously lifted, and the cloudless, periwinkle skies had smiled joyously at the world beneath it. Even the Dementors' unmatched power to force light, hope, and warmth to dissipate had not been strong enough to hold back the sun's determination, and so the creatures were forced to retreat, rasping and rattling, into the dankest, darkest corner of the prison.

The sunlight had persisted throughout the day, and only now, as night began to creep in, did it dim to make way for the usual roiling storm clouds and blustery winds.

Draco Malfoy sat, motionless, on the stiff, narrow cot in his cell, watching the extremes of the weather roll by. His eyes, blank and void of any human warmth or emotion, stared listlessly out the minuscule grimy (and now rain-streaked) glass pane separating him from the outside world. Sometimes, a muscle in his jaw twitched; other times, a few fingers would flex slightly only to still again. All the while, however, his grey eyes remained unfailingly fixed on the small square of sky straight above him.

He was reliving old memories. Unearthing them from the depths of his past, laying them out on the surface of his mind, examining them, turning them over, searching for scratches, dents, and grooves along their edges. Each recollection was carefully, almost tenderly, smoothed out and scrutinised. It was a meticulous process, but one he had been tirelessly running through every day for the past year. After all, it was the only method of passing time he had. Locked in his cell -- locked in his mind by now -- he had nothing else to do but to thumb through the scrapbook stored in his head, the only part of him the Dementors hadn't managed to steal.

Draco eyes followed raindrops the size of his thumbnails as they splattered onto the window above him and slowly slid towards the edges of the square of glass until they were out sight, but in his mind, he did not process these images. Instead, he was imagining the scene at the top of the Astronomy Tower in his sixth year when he had been offered the chance to live by Dumbledore. The only chance for a future he had ever been given, and he had delayed accepting it until it was too late, and Dumbledore was dead.

As if watching from an outside standpoint, Draco observed himself being taken by the forearm by Severus Snape, being rushed out the door, down the stairs, through the Hogwarts corridors that had once been so familiar but suddenly seemed so foreign and foreboding until they burst into the stifling evening air. He saw himself trip over his own feet and almost lose his footing, only to be righted again by Snape's strong hand. He saw Snape urge him to run faster, to not hold out his wand like that, to stop looking back. He saw a girl's shocked face surrounded by brown hair appear in a window high up near the Astronomy Tower, saw his own face look desperately backwards one last time, saw his eyes meet with the girl's...and then he was snapped out of his reverie by the rattling sound of a nearby Dementor.

For the first time that day, Draco turned around.

A tall, hooded figure hovered just outside the bars locking him in his cell. A rush of iciness flooded Draco's veins, numbed only by his body's adaptation to the sensation over time. Following immediately after the chill was a heavy sense of dread, one that had been growing for the past few days. Now, the full force of it attacked him and clawed at his insides. His fingers clenched into fists, causing his fingernails to dig painfully into his palms and draw blood.

It was nearly time.

Draco's gaze darted back to the window, as if in a desperate attempt to prolong whatever number of minutes remained. His eyes bore into the rain-splattered surface with an intensity that did not match the calm, empty expression masking the rest of his facial features.

Faint footsteps from somewhere far away began to grow louder, their echoes resounding eerily off the stone walls of the prison. Against his own will, Draco turned around again, a small part of his mind wondering vaguely what could be causing the sound of footsteps, as Dementors -- for the most part, the only living, breathing creatures that willingly moved around Azkaban -- glided silently above the ground.

At long last, a thin man walked into view and stopped a foot or so away from the Dementor. Draco absorbed his appearance silently, processing the wide eyes that shifted about fearfully, the thin sheen of sweat covering every inch of his skin, the large ears that twitched as he turned to look nervously at Draco.

'Mr Malfoy,' he began in a trembling voice that seemed to reflect a toned-down fraction of the storm of sudden emotion brewing beneath Draco's blank exterior, 'your execution commences in fifteen minutes.'

I've been dying inside
Little by little
No where to go
I'm going out of my mind
In endless circles
Running from myself until
You gave me a reason for standing still


The weight of the chains attached to the hackles on Draco's wrists and ankles slowed him down and made it feel as though each step he took was being done under water. Or perhaps, as Draco felt his insides instinctively shrink away from the presence of the Dementors surrounding him, the weight came from his own feelings, compressed so much that he couldn't even make them out. He sensed signals in his mind urging him to struggle, pull away, or do anything else that would get him as far away as possible from his destination, but he couldn't bring his muscles to move on their own accord. Helplessly, he trailed after the two cloaked figures gliding on ahead of him, every once in a while drawing away from the cold, slimy hands of another Dementor behind him pushing him to go faster.

At his side, the thin, nervous man hurried to keep in stride with the sombre procession. In a few valiant but failed efforts to lighten the mood, he tried to make small talk with Draco; however, Draco found that he could not -- and felt no desire to -- make an attempt to return the words. His upbringing had taught him that he was superior to men like this; and, even reduced to the state he was in, his pride stopped him from joining the one-sided conversation.

As Draco moved down the corridor, his eyes wandered upwards. More tiny windows were lined up in rows along the ceiling here, and as he passed underneath each of them, Draco caught flashes of the dark sky and the storm that disturbed it. He remembered a time when he had been lounging in the sitting room with his mother, the day's newspaper propped up against a bottle of wine on the glass coffee table. It was years after he had left Hogwarts, years since his father died in Azkaban. Draco had been a powerful man, living off the riches the Dark Lord had rewarded him with for his services. His mother had commented on his life in solitude, and how she felt it was her duty to find a suitable wife for him. He saw himself look up from reading, give a snort of laughter, take a sip of wine. He saw himself shake his head slightly as he returned to the newspaper, only to find a picture of a familiar face on the front page. A woman's face by then, but a face surrounded by the same brown hair, the same large, shocked eyes. The headlines above the photo had blared the words 'Auror-In-Training Promoted After the Capture of Six Death Eaters'. Fleetingly, he had thought that perhaps his mother's idea had not been so ludicrous, but then he reread the words above her picture, and the thought passed.

Those moments of peace were the last of their kind Draco could recall. The next day, the war had erupted once more after temporary lull, more ferocious, merciless, and bloody than ever. Draco had jumped to his Lord's defence, and thoughts of the brown-haired girl soon became buried beneath everything else clouding his mind.

A dip in the stone floor caused Draco to trip and momentarily part from his memories. He regained his footing almost immediately, but the stumble had jolted him back to reality. He felt panic rise within him, like a tsunami about to crash over and overwhelm his senses; but Draco had never been one to show any lack of control over his emotions, so he forcibly suppressed the wave, relaxing only when he felt it entirely subside.

The unrelenting fog of cold despair hovering around him seemed to grow thicker as Draco anxiously buried deeper into the folds of his past. The Dementors were excited -- they sensed a change, they knew death was about to be handed to them on a silver platter. Draco forced his eyes to stay fixed on the ceiling, even as he felt the weight of a Dementor's clawed hand on his shoulder.

He extracted another memory, this one more recent than the others. He pictured himself chained to a chair and staring coldly up at the rows of silent witches and wizards come to watch him, Draco, get sentenced to life in Azkaban. He heard a deep voice speaking; the words 'If any witnesses have further accusations to put on the table, do so now' resonated within the circular room. Among the blurred faces of the crowd, only one jumped out, agonisingly clear and sharp against the others surrounding it. A face imprinted with lines of worry and unsmiling lips, the brown hair surrounding it pulled into a severe knot. In his mind, Draco saw the woman stand up, grip the railing before her, and lean forward. He saw, for a split second, her eyes meet his own, before she spoke in a voice laced with pure, untouched hatred: 'He murdered my husband.'

The sentence was changed to the administration of the Dementor's kiss.

At that moment, the sound of a heavy wooden door scraping against cement reached Draco's ears. Frantically, he clung to the reminiscent. At the same time, he felt the firm pull of the real Dementors around him trying to drag it away from his mind's clutches. For a few seconds, the mental tug-of-war raged on. Then, Draco's strength faltered, and the last thing he saw before he lowered his gaze was the flickering image of a woman's face adorned with despair.

Because I want you
And I feel you
Crawling underneath my skin
Like a hunger
Like a burning
To find the place I've never been
Now I'm broken
And I'm fading
I'm half the man I thought I would be
But you can have what's left of me


The execution room is cold and much smaller than the room in which my trial was held. There's a little circle cleared in the centre of it with a chair -- just one chair -- and enough space for me to extend my hands out on either side of me without hitting anything. However, the rest of the room is filled with people. Old men, young Aurors, other Ministry workers, prisoners granted permission to come here -- they're all here to watch me die. I'm just an entertaining show to them.

Anger wells up inside of me. I almost want to run over to them and curse them, kill them all, for just standing there silently. I want to shatter their calm exteriors and reveal the anxiety and fear hiding in all of them, because I know it's there. None of them are here to die, but I can see in their eyes that they're terrified. They have no idea what terror is; they never will until they're standing here in my shoes and looking through my eyes.

Tensely, I let the Dementors guide me over to the chair. They don't come into contact with me. It's almost as if they're paying some sort of sick respect to me by allowing me the most comfort I can have in my last few living moments.

I sit down on the chair. It's cold, colder than the Dementors' touch. I want to lay my hands in my lap, but the chains dragging them down are too heavy to lift. Instead, I settle for pushing myself up against the back of the chair and sitting as upright as possible -- my attempt to secure any last shreds of dignity in me.

Inside, I want to cry, scream, sob, yell. I'm scared inside. I hate myself. This isn't right; I'm twenty-eight; I'm too young to die. I have a future; I have goals, dreams, wants, needs, and I can't fulfill them if I die right now. God, I hate myself.

The person everyone around me sees is different, though. They see a pale young man, emaciated and sheet-white after a year of neglect, isolation, and insanity. They see someone with empty grey eyes and malicious intentions who believes he is dying for the right people. I don't care. No one knows me, and that's the way I'd like to keep it until the second I take my last breath and hopefully after that as well.

I let my eyes wander around the crowd, mentally searching for a memory to hold onto and draw comfort from. I wonder what this moment might feel like if I were leaving behind a mother, father, wife, and children. I suppose it's a good thing I never married, because now I have nothing to despair about being torn from.

I finally secure a suitable recollection. I smooth it out in my mind, then take a step back to examine it. There I am -- eleven years old and boarding the Hogwarts Express for the very first time. I see myself tear myself away from my father's grip on my shoulder. He doesn't help me with my heavy trunk. Instead, he turns my mother around to make sure no one sees her crying -- Malfoys shouldn't cry, that's what he told me. I see myself look over my shoulder, but by then, my mother and father have been swallowed up by the crowd. I watch as I drag my trunk onto the train, looking around for the people my father called 'appropriate friends' to sit with. As I walk past one compartment, I peer into the window. There's a girl sitting in there -- a girl with a mass of frizzy brown hair surrounding her round, pink-cheeked face. She is reading a book. I see myself stop momentarily to watch the girl, and at that moment, she looks up. She has big eyes, and they fill with surprise as they absorb the image of me standing there and staring at her, pale-faced and haughty. For a second, neither of us moves; then, I move on, apparently having decided that the girl is not 'appropriate' enough.

As the flashback trickles away, my sight focuses in on a pair of eyes identical to the ones I just envisioned. I can't help it -- my jaw drops open in surprise.

Hermione Granger is standing in the front row, her arms crossed over her chest and tears streaming down her cheeks. Standing beside her is Harry Potter, her best friend. He is talking to someone behind him, apparently oblivious to Hermione's distress. She doesn't seem to mind, though. She is watching at me with an unreadable expression on her features. Her brown hair is loose around her shoulders, and it frames her face in a way very much like it did in the picture of her eleven-year old self I just imagined.

Our eyes meet, and when they do, hers widen slightly. Desperately, I move my lips, trying to tell her not to look away. I think my voice has died after months of not being used, because no sound escapes. However, she gets the gist -- she does not turn away like I expected she would.

My head spins dangerously. What is she doing here? Why would she want to come watch my execution? She should want nothing to do with me anymore after receiving the satisfaction of watching Ron Weasley's murderer dragged off to Azkaban.

My skin prickles and burns as her gaze continues to bore into me. I can see her etching the lines of my face into her memory. She wants to remember this moment, I realise. She wants to treasure forever the day the man she always hated was put to death.

Suddenly, I'm furious. She shouldn't be here. I've endured enough; even I don't deserve to be tortured by the sight of her in my last minutes. This is the most unfair punishment of all. How dare they let her through? How could they, when she was the one who sent me to my death and did it without a trace of regret? Haven't they inflicted enough abuse on me?

Isn't it enough that that I'm going to have my soul sucked out of me without the person I've always loved watching it all?

Falling faster
Barely breathing
Give me something
To believe in
Tell me it's not all in my head
Take what's left of this man
Make me whole once again
You can have all that's left
What's left of me


A cold, clammy hand clamps over my mouth before I can make one last attempt to scream to her. It forces my head back so that it dangles over the back of the chair. I'm looking skyward now, and I notice that there is another window right above me. It's the same size as the one I used to stare out of in my cell.

It's stopped raining. It's too late for the sun to return, however, so I see only pitch blackness. I close myself, willing the terror coursing through me to still, but I've lost all control this time. Wildly, I struggle away from the hand and lift my head up to glance desperately at Hermione.

She's sobbing into one hand, but still watching me. Harry has an arm wrapped comfortingly around her shoulders, but she seems to be entirely unaware of his presence. She shakes her head at me as I wordlessly plead with her to save me.

The Dementors gather around me. They're hissing angrily now. Two of them cover my eyes with their hands, and I know it's coming, but I can't give up yet. Not while she's here.

I feel now as if I'm hovering in the midst of a vast expanse of icy darkness. I try to struggle away, but it's impossible to move when the air around me is so insubstantial that I have nothing to push against. An immense weight is pressing down on my chest, forcing the breaths I try to take from entering my lungs.

I struggle to yell, but my voice is unheard. I can hear the Dementors' rattling breath drawing nearer. Gathering my last ounce of strength, I try to form pictures, images, memories in my mind from the mist clouding my consciousness. It's hopeless; all that's left of me is regret, hate, fear, desolution...but then I manage to construct the faint outline of her face, and suddenly it's enough. Tearing my head out of the hands holding it back, I open my mouth, tasting my own tears, and whisper hoarsely, 'Goddamnit, Hermione, I love you...'

I want to say more -- that I didn't want to kill her husband and I'm sorry for it -- but I would be lying. Even so, I'm not rewarded with the chance to. A face shadowed by a dark hood descends upon me, and I close my eyes tightly before I can see the hideous disfigurements hidden in those shadows. My mind can no longer form thoughts, only the remainders of my regrets -- pools of blood soaking into cracks in the earth, the tortured cries of Muggles, flashes of green light, Hermione...and then darkness as empty as the night, my greatest regret of all.

Will you take what's left
Will you take what's left
Will you take what's left of me?
Take what's left of me...


The execution notes reported that as the prisoner struggled to remain conscious against the Dementors' powers, he managed to fight them away briefly to whisper a few words. They were unheard over the mutterings of the restless and impatient crowd, but the witnesses near enough to read his lips -- two young Aurors, an apparel store owner, an old man and his wife, and another former Death Eater prisoner -- understood the message quite clearly. According to the apparel store owner, the victim murmured, 'Goddamnit, Hermione, I love you' right before the Kiss was performed.

No one in the crowd claimed to be the 'Hermione' the victim referred to, and, to Ministry knowledge, he had no lover, friends, family, or wife, so it is doubtful that such a woman ever existed. Healers believe that the prisoner was so delusional that he had imagined 'Hermione' into existence, and the last lines were dismissed as the mark of insanity.

Shortly after the prisoner was proclaimed gone and taken away, the two aforementioned Aurors left. According to witnesses around them, the female was so inconsolable after observing the event that her male friend was forced to take her outside to calm down.

Years after the Kiss was performed on Draco Malfoy, another prisoner was transferred to his vacated cell. However, he was soon moved out after complaining about his sleep being penetrated by the sound of sobbing and the walls being so covered with proclamations of love that he could not glance at them without getting a headache. Azkaban officials examined his complaints, and concluded that they were entirely unfounded, as the walls were untouched and the neighbouring cells were empty.



♥ Annie
pleased

Comments

( 12 — Speak )
sweet_n_tangy1
sweet_n_tangy1 wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 04:20 (UTC)
Wow
wow, that was pretty deep. I only read some paragraphs towards the end (cuz i'm too lazy to read from the beginning ;) ) So how's "A Thousand Words" coming along? I check your LJ practically everytime I come online, cuz it's really good, and I can't wait to see what happens next. Keep up the great writing, you're a great writer.

~Sweet n Tangy ^-^
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 06:51 (UTC)
Re: Wow
Haha, it's not going at all. I haven't written in it since I posted chapter 10 on here, which was quite a while ago. Whenever I do find free moments, I usually have other things I'd rather do than slave over ATW and try to figure out what to do with it. I'm going to take my time instead of forcing myself upon it (which was what I did with Sweetest Sin, and I ended up disappointed with a lot of chapters in it) and see if my unwillingness to write more of ATW will work itself out.
sweet_n_tangy1
sweet_n_tangy1 wrote:
7th Feb, 2006 02:11 (UTC)
Re: Wow
I c, I c. Well you take your time. The world's not over (yet, haha, jk). BYE BYE~~~

~ Sweet n Tangy ^-^
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 06:51 (UTC)
Re: Wow
Haha, it's not going at all. I haven't written in it since I posted chapter 10 on here, which was quite a while ago. Whenever I do find free moments, I usually have other things I'd rather do than slave over ATW and try to figure out what to do with it. I'm going to take my time instead of forcing myself upon it (which was what I did with Sweetest Sin, and I ended up disappointed with a lot of chapters in it) and see if my unwillingness to write more of ATW will work itself out.
sweet_n_tangy1
sweet_n_tangy1 wrote:
7th Feb, 2006 02:11 (UTC)
Re: Wow
I c, I c. Well you take your time. The world's not over (yet, haha, jk). BYE BYE~~~

~ Sweet n Tangy ^-^
sweet_n_tangy1
sweet_n_tangy1 wrote:
7th Feb, 2006 02:11 (UTC)
Re: Wow
I c, I c. Well you take your time. The world's not over (yet, haha, jk). BYE BYE~~~

~ Sweet n Tangy ^-^
(Anonymous) wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 05:24 (UTC)
What'sLeftofMe
Whoa ... That was sad and disturbing ... ANGST!! ... I love your stories, they are amazing!! I can't wait until A Thousand Words is updated I check MuggleNet and your LJ everyday!!
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 06:51 (UTC)
Re: What'sLeftofMe
Thank you! As I mentioned above, I haven't been writing in ATW for a while...so I still haven't got chapter 11 done yet. If I do finish it sometime soon though, I promise I'll put it on my LJ first thing.
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 06:51 (UTC)
Re: What'sLeftofMe
Thank you! As I mentioned above, I haven't been writing in ATW for a while...so I still haven't got chapter 11 done yet. If I do finish it sometime soon though, I promise I'll put it on my LJ first thing.
That's
somandalicious wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 11:15 (UTC)
Well Done, laydeee! So bittersweet. So perfect. You have a great ability to just let things flow rightly. This really yanks at the old heartstrings. Bravo!
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 19:22 (UTC)
Aw, thanks very much :) I'm glad you liked it.
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 19:22 (UTC)
Aw, thanks very much :) I'm glad you liked it.
(Anonymous) wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 17:05 (UTC)
You just HAD to do it, didn't you Annie! You HAD to kill Draco again! AHHHHHHHHHHHH. Just a few more hours 'til this depression wears off. No, don't mind me. I'll be okay. Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out...(haha, I'm being totally overdramatic over this, but seriously. That was freakin' sad.)

I really want to listen to that song. Do you think it's dedicated to Jessica, maybe? A post-divorce song...I mean, he wrote one for her for their wedding, so it would make sense to write one for her to "let her go." Ehh. I don't know.

Talk to you later. :)

-Chungsol
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 19:24 (UTC)
Oh my goodness, I totally didn't realise that I keep killing off Draco. Now that you mention it, I do it in...wow, I do it in all the fics I've written about him. Okay, I seriously need to stop it, haha. Hopefully ATW won't end that way ;)

As for the song, you can listen to it on AOL music. I actually found out about it on teenpeople.com when they were talking about how they thought the song was dedicate to Jessica. I dunno though; I would've thought that since they split up, he wouldn't be asking her to 'take what's left of him'...but then again, maybe he would?
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
5th Feb, 2006 19:24 (UTC)
Oh my goodness, I totally didn't realise that I keep killing off Draco. Now that you mention it, I do it in...wow, I do it in all the fics I've written about him. Okay, I seriously need to stop it, haha. Hopefully ATW won't end that way ;)

As for the song, you can listen to it on AOL music. I actually found out about it on teenpeople.com when they were talking about how they thought the song was dedicate to Jessica. I dunno though; I would've thought that since they split up, he wouldn't be asking her to 'take what's left of him'...but then again, maybe he would?
(Anonymous) wrote:
7th Feb, 2006 01:55 (UTC)
Poor Draco
Oh, how sad! I liked the ghost thing. I think it was a nice touch. Poor Draco, he DOES die a lot doesn't he? Please dont let Draco die in ATW! I need to save these tears for something other than fan fiction (I think I cry too much)! 8D
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
8th Feb, 2006 23:31 (UTC)
Re: Poor Draco
Hehe, I'll try not to bring myself to kill off Draco. Although the fact that I've based the story off of PotO should give you a hint as to whether or not he does die at the end ;)
Annie
_pinkchocolate wrote:
8th Feb, 2006 23:31 (UTC)
Re: Poor Draco
Hehe, I'll try not to bring myself to kill off Draco. Although the fact that I've based the story off of PotO should give you a hint as to whether or not he does die at the end ;)
ellamalfoy8
ellamalfoy8 wrote:
3rd Mar, 2006 02:25 (UTC)
Sniffle
It's just so sad! Poor Draco. REALLY well writen, BTW
( 12 — Speak )