AN I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters! Drarry fluff/angst hopefully some hurt/comfort in later chapters.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Child abuse, sexual abuse, rape.

Professor McGonagall was just trying to get everyone's attention.

"Excuse me. Excuse me!" Draco tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched and twisted with fear at just those words. He knew McGonagall wasn't looking at him, wasn't even saying excuse me to a particular student, but that didn't stop it from jabbing into his gut. And, just like always, when he felt himself draw inward he became extremely aware of his outward appearance. Aware that his expression was bored and unchanging. That his posture hadn't changed, despite how he felt. It always happened like that. Sometimes, he theorized that his internal turmoil twisted and amplified the sensation until it felt strange, like he was retreating into a shell and merely felt his physical body doing what it was supposed to while he panicked inside it. This was what he knew, what he needed, but it didn't make it any less strange.

"Aye, you good Draco?" He lifted his head to Pansy and gave her a grimace.

"Just bored out of my mind. Think you can die from that?" She rolled her eyes but it got her off his back so he wasn't really concerned with what she thought. He had no reason to think he hadn't gotten away scot-free. So, when class ended, he followed his fellow Slytherins out into the hall and quickly headed towards the common room, looking for Blaise, while the others headed to the great hall. He should have realized how empty the hallway was. How loudly his footsteps echoed, even when he wasn't walking.

"In a hurry, Drake?" That made him turn. He knew, realistically, that it wasn't any of the familiar voices he was used to hearing call him that nickname, but it still gave him a flash of hope. It wasn't Blaise, though, or Mallory. Potter was standing there, leaning smoothly against the damp bricks and half hidden in shadows. Ironic, for the Golden Boy.

"What did you just call me, Potter?" Potter smirked, emerging into full view, but Draco could still his hand still on his wand. He didn't trust him-interesting, considering their fights had never escalated farther than petty disagreements. The boy had real enemies in Slytherin but still concerned himself with Draco.

"What, don't like my nicknames, Dray?" That made the Slytherin prince stop. He stilled, one hand going to his wand, and regarded Potter coldly.

"Don't call me that." There was more ice in his voice than he'd intended-Merlin, why couldn't he control his emotions!?-but Potter barely reacted. Weasley and Granger were so emotional, not to mention all the Gryffindors, that Draco assumed the black-haired boy was overwhelmed by them. His senses weren't fine-tuned, weren't sensitive enough to pick up Draco's little ticks. It didn't seem that way, at least. But Potter merely cocked his head, like Draco's behavior made him more curious than afraid, and Draco sneered at him.

"Got a new snake fetish, Potter?" But the dark-haired boy stepped closer. No, not boy, Draco realized. He knew they were the same age but it never really hit him that they were both seventeen now. Or that Potter had grown, now slightly taller than him and no longer scrawny. But, surprisingly, Potter didn't take the bait. He just smiled a bit, easily, and gave Draco a quizzical look that flickered between amusement and curiosity.

"Can't say I'm a fan of the scales, Dray." Just like before, Draco felt himself curl inwards. He was aware of his spine holding him steady, his hands resting easily at his sides, and his expression morphing into petty annoyance. But, internally, his stomach churned. He hated that name and there was a very good reason for it. Not that Potter would have known that, of course, but it didn't stop Draco's intestines from knotting themselves

"I said don't call me that, scarhead. I don't like to repeat myself." But, rather than the typical fight-or-flight response, Potter just smiled at him. It was faint, but it was there. Why was he so cheery and agreeable all of a sudden? Unless… there was no way, right? Potter had just randomly generated the nickname because it was the first syllable of Draco and he was cocky because he was a Gryffindor. Not because he'd spoken to someone. Not because he knew something.

"Back to scarhead, Malfoy? That seems so… third year. Wonder what's stopping up that famous Slytherin cunning instinct so bad that you can't come up with a new insult?" Draco narrowed his eyes to slits. He was not in the mood to deal with this today and he didn't like what Potter kept hinting at. Or, the fact that he was hinting at all.

"Well, sometimes you just can't beat the classics. Tradition, and all that shit, you know." Potter hummed that he did know, but Draco only felt more uneasy. "Did you want something? Or just stalking me now for the fun of it?" Again, Potter didn't take the bait. It was actually starting to eat at Draco that this wasn't right-this wasn't how their relationship, their dynamic, was supposed to function. He wanted that routine back, for familiarity and security if nothing else. He sure as hell wasn't going to get those things anywhere else, and it was unlikely that he would lose this outlet because Harry just seemed impossible to kill. Therefore, it was a safe outlet. But Harry's current unaffected, impassive behavior was making him anxious.

"No particular reason. Was bored, mostly, and thought I might follow up on something." Draco arched his eyebrow at the boy who lived. "Better not keep Blaise waiting, Dray." With that, Harry disappeared down the empty hallway and Draco was left alone, simmering. He hated that nickname but Harry was already gone. It wasn't worth pursuing. But knowing it was irrational didn't stop his chest from seizing or his gut from churning, pushing him to do something other than just stand there and wait. He made himself breathe, shallow at first but then deeper, until he was relatively steady. Who the hell did Potter think he was? Even Blaise and Mallory knew better than to call him Dray and had had the sense to believe him the first time, not needing a reminder. Crabbe and Goyle rarely slipped but, when they did, Draco was quick to sear the lesson back into their minds. Which, of course, meant Potter had to adopt it.

"Hey, Drake, why are you just standing out here?" Immediately, like a spell, the comfort and familiarity of his best friend let the panic subside. He rolled his eyes but decided not to mention Potter or the nickname just yet for fear of raising more questions than he could answer. So, he just followed Blaise back into the common room. His mind never strayed from Potter, though, or why he was he so insistent on using that nickname of all things when he knew that the other Slytherins didn't call him that. Were afraid to call him that.

He couldn't focus on his Potions essay or his History of Magic reading. Blaise and Pansy gave him worried looks but he shrugged them off easily and isolated himself in the empty dorm room. Finally, silence. His body suddenly ached and he realized just how much tension he'd been holding since his conversation with Potter, even with Blaise there to relax him. Bloody brilliant.

He stretched out on his bed but didn't let his eyes close. He had developed a bad habit over the years of sleeping as little as possible for as long as possible and then practically hibernating. It was perfected into an artform-no one noticed, now-but it still screwed with his sleep schedule and made him tired at the most inconvenient times. Like now. His eyelids were heavy and he fought them, arguing with himself because he knew what would happen the second he closed them, but they fell eventually just like everything else.

The second he was enveloped in darkness, the thoughts began. Fucking Potter and all his Gryffindor recklessness. Three times, he'd called him by that horrible name and, three times, Draco had felt his entire body seize. He'd kept it hidden, but that only made it worse now when he let it go. He hated that it affected him at all. But it did, even if he tried to pretend or fake that it didn't, and he was only lying to himself because no one else ever noticed. He made sure they never noticed.

Cold, smooth hands on his skin. He shuddered as he felt the memory touch him, like a faint, ghost of what the touch had been originally. Long, unbattered nails digging into his flesh. He hissed but his chest was already seizing and he couldn't really breathe and he felt those cold hands all over him until it felt like death eaters grabbing for a piece of him. Cold, steel grey eyes that burned him with their repressed anger. Horrible.

He felt icy metal touch his stomach, just above his navel, and he swore internally when he felt the metal twist and move. That damn snake. His father's cane, while intimidating and a convenient way to conceal his wand, was also enchanted. With just a wave of his father's hand, the silver serpent would blink and slip from the wood to do whatever Lucius desired most. It curled around his middle, over his ribs. His father's voice echoed in his head, insult after insult eventually ending in that one little purr.

Drayyyy-co. It always started that way, just a little emphasis on his name. But the serpent constricted and knocked the wind from him until he squirmed and thrashed, struggling for air. He couldn't fucking breathe! And, just like before, it suddenly stopped. He heard his father's familiar hiss, charming the enchanted metal, and he went rigid on the bed. Cold, pale hands rested on his hips.

Vaguely, he heard himself whimper and plead his father to stop. Just this once, to let him rest. But his father only got angrier when he begged or cried so he wasn't at all shocked by the sharp blow of a slap to his face. It stung, but Draco didn't care. Anything was better than feeling those hands on his hips, falling perfectly into place in the grooves they'd carved out years ago. Bile rose in his throat but he swallowed it back down and just shivered.

Awww, is little Dray cold? It was Dray now-just Dray-because his father was getting more and more drunk on the situation and dropping unnecessary syllables. Just little Dray. Before he could even tense, a sweaty body was pressed again his and he was flipped on the bed, ass exposed. He shivered again but Lucius laughed. They both knew it wasn't because he was cold.

Teach you to be better. Draco didn't ask what he'd done wrong or what better meant-there would be no answer. It wasn't any particular thing anymore, just general disgust and disappointment in the smaller blonde, that fueled Lucius and they both knew that too. If it was about punishment, Draco would have understood. But it wasn't punishment, Draco hadn't done anything specifically wrong, it was just an outlet. Draco was just an outlet.

Oh Dray… He'd missed the moment that Lucius pushed into him-dry, with no warning or prep. Just the way his father liked it. It didn't stop the pain from shooting up his spine or the yelp he bit back in the mattress as his father started a relentless pace that set Draco's insides on fire. He felt the pain, but it was vague.

That was how he was during these… episodes. That was what his father called it-not the rape, or the beating, but the way Draco sank in on himself and just went somewhere else. His episodes. He couldn't remember the first time he'd done it, or why, but it was almost instinct now the second he felt his father's weight on the bed. His body registered the pain, and he felt it, but it was far away and it didn't really feel like his own. Later, it would hit him. Lucius knew that, too, which was what let him brush it off rather than trying to snap Draco back to the present with more pain. He wasn't escaping, just delaying.

Dray… Dray, Dray… Dray! He heard his father's tone rising, knew what was coming. His body didn't react. The longer he listened, the more his nickname started to sound like prey. Which, he couldn't help thinking, was rather accurate given the situation. Or maybe it was pray? If it had been anyone but his father he would have assumed that was ridiculous but Lucius Malfoy was just twisted enough to let that work. It wasn't a reassurance, or a command. There weren't gods. It was a reminder that even all-powerful beings couldn't save him now. He could pray until his voice went hoarse but he would never escape that bed.

The snake that held his wrists released. He didn't fight-he knew better-but he rolled them to ease the discomfort before Lucius pinned him again with his hand. But the silver serpent slid down his pale, trembling body below his waist. Unconsciously, he braced himself. His father climaxed with a grunt, filling his abused hole with a salty concoction that burned every tear and every cut like lemon juice. The snake waited, just until Lucius had pulled back. It sank its silver fangs into Draco's inner thigh, and then returned to the cane as Lucius quickly dressed and left. Draco just lay there, shaking and bleeding. Slowly, he came back to his body and he wished nothing more that he could slip back into that protective bubble that made the pain just a little duller.

He couldn't, though. It wasn't something he could do on command so he came back to his body and felt every ounce of the pain he'd avoided earlier. It crashed down onto him like a tidal wave and threatened to drown him if he dared try to breathe-but he didn't. He knew better. Instead, he reached for his wand and pressed the tip to his abdomen. With a few healing spells, the wounds were reduced to uncomfortable cuts and bruises, but nothing life threatening and he finally took in oxygen. Slowly, at first, and then all at once.

It was minutes, maybe hours, before he pulled himself off the bed and headed towards his bathroom. He cleaned, disinfected, and healed what he'd missed before. He sat on the floor of the shower under its scalding spray so long that he though his skin might melt off, though he wasn't sure he minded. It washed away the sin, a little bit. When he stepped out of the shower, though, he couldn't stop himself from looking down at his thighs.

Each inner thigh, spreading out to almost the center of each, was completely covered in little pale pink dots. Scars. He could heal the wounds, but his father's enchantment made sure he could never get rid of the scars, no matter how hard he tried. Each one perfectly paired with another-a clear set of silver fangs. Each one a reminder of a time his father used him. He squirmed as he looked at them, disgusted, but his body was exhausted so he refused to let himself linger in his self flagellation.

The second he hit the mattress, it was like a trigger. He jolted back into awareness and quickly took in the green and silver of the Slytherin dorms before sighing with relief. Thank Merlin he wasn't at the Manor. And thank Merlin he was alone! If someone had seen that-

"You okay?" He whirled, coming face to face with scarlet robes and black hair. Shit. Potter shifted from foot to foot anxiously, like he couldn't decide what he was supposed to be doing, but Draco quickly tamed his expression into a glare.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Potter smirked, like he was proud to have a secret, but it was fleeting. He looked... ashamed. Funny, considering Draco had just been the one caught having a nightmare.

"I'm sorry, I didn't know if I should wake you or not. Are you okay?" Quickly, he pulled his outer robes back on and faced the Gryffindor, prepared to cut him with words alone. But Potter still looked so fucking ashamed…

"I'm fine. You come here to watch me sleep like a stalker, Potter?" Potter frowned. The dark-haired boy glanced towards the door but Draco knew none of his roommates would be back until after dinner so he ignored it.

"No, you seemed… off after our last conversation." Draco busied himself with literally anything he could reach but Potter refused to drop it. "Wanted to make sure you weren't hiding something." At that, Draco couldn't help but laugh. It was a dark, sad little sound that startled him more than it seemed to surprise Potter but, nevertheless, it escaped. He quickly silenced himself again.

"I'm always hiding something where you're concerned, Potter." But Potter seemed completely transfixed and Draco had to wonder how much the Gryffindor had seen, or heard. If he'd had suspicions before… there was no telling what he thought now.

"You were shaking…" Draco had no doubt he'd been trembling like a leaf on a tree, but he didn't need Potter to think too hard on the issue. "You were whimpering." If it had been any other situation, Draco would have laughed at the disbelief on Potter's face. He looked so completely flabbergasted by the mere idea of Draco being anything but strong and arrogant, which Draco supposed he should take as a compliment. He was a good actor.

"You make a habit of sneaking into the Slytherin dorm? Or are you just breaking the rules for me, now." Potter looked like a skipping record that just couldn't quite get over the fact that he'd just seen Draco wake up from a nightmare, kept replaying it over and over again. He stammered, but finally met Draco's eyes.

"I… I wanted a reason." Draco arched his brow. "For not calling you Dray. You call me Scarhead and all kinds of things I hate, no matter how many times I tell you to stop. So if you really don't want me to call you Dray, I want a reason. And you have to do better than: hey, the scar on my head that you keep pointing out is actually a really painful memory and I don't like reliving my mother's death every time I see your face. Because that's my reason." Draco stared at him. For the first time in years, he felt like he was seeing an actual human being in front of him rather than the golden boy who lived. And Harry looked… upset. Like everyone, he'd assumed that Harry couldn't remember the night his parents died. Had he really relieved that moment every time someone called him scarhead?

"Okay." Harry's eyes widened but Draco shrugged it off. Agreeing so quickly wasn't him surrendering as much as it was apologizing. Malfoys never apologized, though.

"Okay?" He nodded, forcing his body language and his voice to be sure because Harry was anything but certain of the current situation. He didn't stop until it looked like Harry believed him. Accepted the apology.

"Yeah. I'll give you a reason, and I'll accept yours. I won't call you anything but Potter. If you keep my reason quiet and don't ever ask me about it again. Deal?" It was more than risky but Draco had realized that the golden boy had just watched him writhe and moan on his bed in terror. Harry had a lot more leverage, and he wasn't even using it. So he was going to make a deal before Harry realized just how much of an upper hand he had on the blond.

"Deal." They shook on it, and Draco tried to ignore the way the contact burned. He hated to be touched, especially by males, and it didn't help that Harry looked both taller and stronger than him now. Threatening. He swallowed hard and shuddered. He didn't want to think about Harry pinning him to a mattress, about the black hair tickling his skin, or about bruises in the shape of the chosen one's hands.

"I don't like… that name because it brings up bad memories." Harry looked upset, annoyed that Draco was being so vague, so he continued to keep him appeased. "What you just saw? That was because of that name." Harry stared at him so intently Draco thought he might burn holes in his flesh. He looked torn between asking another question and just reaching out to touch the Slytherin, neither of which were good options, but Draco couldn't do anything but wait. And wait.

"The person who made you scared like that? They called you Dray?" He flinched, ever so slightly, but for once the unobservant Gryffindor noticed. "Sorry. They called you that name?" But Draco's stomach was churning just hearing that name and he had to shake his head to clear it before he could speak.

"No questions, we made a deal." Harry sighed but backed off. Surprising, considering how pushy the black-haired boy usually was. Maybe a deal meant more to him than Draco had thought it would?

"Sorry, you're right." The Gryffindor moved towards the door but stopped with his hand still on the handle. "It doesn't have to be Potter, you know. Harry works too." With that, he was gone and Draco was left gaping like a fish out of water because his biggest enemy in the entire school had just moved him to a first name basis. Requested it, even. He couldn't understand or even begin to process that but Blaise appeared and he moved back to his trunk. The other boy didn't say a word about Potter, so he assumed the chosen one had managed to slip out undetected, but Draco couldn't focus on anything he said. Something about quidditch, maybe?

His thoughts were still reeling and circling around what had just happened. Harry knew. He didn't know much, of course, but he knew something was up and it was attached to that damn name. But he'd just… respected it? That wasn't right. He had to be biding his time, he had to be telling Granger and the Weasel all about how pathetic the Slytherin Prince was to be so afraid of a bloody name and he had to be planning to use it. He had to, didn't he? But Draco didn't feel like Potter was going to hurt him, for some reason.

No, not Potter. Harry.

Thanks for reading! This is only my second HP fic and my first Drarry so please be kind! Let me know if I should post more like this?