Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Warning: Self-destructive behaviour

A/N: This was written for the 2013 hd_hurtfest. Thank you to Jo for being my beta. I interpreted the idea of hurt in the literal sense, and this is the result.

Thanatos in Your Palm

Part I

The window view of the grey bedroom at 12 Grimmauld Place could have sprung from a gritty urban novel. Weeds sprouted from pavement cracks and swayed in the gentle wind. Across the street, a rusty fence and an unruly hedge concealed someone's secret garden. Some distance away was a run-down building that might have been the lair for drug addicts. Nevertheless, the golden dusk lent a brush of warmth to the otherwise desolate street. Grimmauld Place was not where Draco Malfoy would choose to settle in, but the rent was cheap, and the room was not bad.

Turning away from the window, Draco walked around the room and examined everything in turn. Instead of a claustrophobic chamber built for gloom and shadows, the bedroom was spacious and comfortable looking. Grey walls set off the polished ebony furniture and flowing white curtains; a dash of silver accent prevented the grey tone from descending into monotony. The furnishings were new; no ghost would lurk in the cupboard or dangle from the black rustic chandelier.

No ghost except this one. Draco cast a glance at the figure standing at the door like a prison guard. The oversized black jumper did not flatter the man's sinewy frame, but it matched his raven hair and black-rimmed glasses. The man was a shadow but for his pale skin and emerald eyes.

"This is fine."

Harry Potter strode into the room and placed a silver key on the nightstand. "You'll need this to get into the house." His gaze darted to the luggage on the floor. "I'll leave you to your unpacking then. When you are done, come down to the kitchen. Kreacher is making roast beef."

Once Harry's footfalls faded away, Draco picked up the key and held it to the light. The glittering silver was warm between his fingers, as though registering him as the rightful owner. Other than the vaults in Gringott, the wizarding folk rarely adopted locks and keys in their everyday life. It seemed his landlord did not appreciate uninvited visitors.

Dinner with his former rival was an awkward affair; neither he nor Harry felt inclined to talk. In the background, Kreacher the house-elf bustled about while humming a tune. The long table, extended from one end of the kitchen to the other end, was a reminder that once upon a time, this kitchen and Kreacher served a family much larger than two people.

While waiting for the soup to cool, Draco studied his new landlord, who started on the soup with no regard of how hot it was. Was he famished to the point where he did not mind burning his tongue? Frowning, Draco stuffed a piece of bread into his mouth and observed his old classmate some more.

Harry had taken off his glasses, and without them he seemed more vulnerable than usual. There was a trace of gauntness on his boyish face, the only visible evidence of his recent misadventure. Two months ago, during a routine assignment, the building he was investigating collapsed while he was still inside. For some time he remained in the hospital, though few people knew what kind of injury he had sustained.

When Harry gave him a look, Draco set aside his bemusement and picked up the spoon. The soup was better than he had expected; perhaps he could look forward to the next course after all. "Are you still on medical leave?"

"I'm sitting at a desk in the office, so in a way it's like a medical leave." The bitterness in Harry's voice was so palpable that Draco could almost taste it. "Sorry, you don't need to hear this."

"It's refreshing to hear it from the man in question for once. You know how the press loves to put things through a grinder and mould the bits into whatever shape they want." Draco dipped the bread into the soup. "Any rules I should follow while I'm living here? No drinking? No smoking? No striptease in the drawing room after dark?"

An indignant huff came from the direction of the oven, where Kreacher was checking on the roast beef. His dark-haired master, on the other hand, looked amused. "I'm sure you can behave when you want to."

Everything was fine for the first week or so, but soon after a pattern began to emerge. Every few days, Harry would return home late at night, sporting a bruise here and a cut there. While Harry treated his own wounds, Kreacher, who seemed accustomed to the sight, would scold his master for being careless. No one gave the new tenant an explanation. Since Harry always seemed fine the next day, Draco did not ask any questions.

As Draco settled into the somewhat disquieting life at 12 Grimmauld Place, the old dream began to haunt him once more. In the bathroom lit by a handful of candles, he was pushing someone's head into the water-filled bathtub. Like a fish on the chopping board his victim thrashed around in the tub, his fingers clawing at anything that could deliver him from his fate. A moment later, the victim's body slackened, and the splashing stopped.

Ah, I did it again, Draco murmured as he stared at the face in the water: blond hair, grey eyes, pale face. He had drowned the white fish again, and the fish's name was Draco Malfoy.

With much effort he dragged himself out of the swamp of dreams and woke up in a different kind of darkness: a darkness penetrated by the orange streetlight outside the window. The sound of water ebbed away from his mind and returned to whatever subconscious pit it came from, leaving silence in its wake. The house was quiet as though uninhabited. The loud pounding of his heart was almost a blasphemy on this tranquil night.

Sleep did not come to him again. Something gnawed at his inside and tore a hole in his stomach. He was hungry for something other than food and sleep. After tossing and turning for half an hour, he lost his patience and got out of bed. For some time he stood in front of the wardrobe, his hand on the handle. A while later, he changed his mind and went down to the kitchen.

Without the old house-elf shuffling about and banging on pots, the kitchen looked forlorn after dark. Taking care not to wake his fellow housemate, Draco put the kettle on and searched for tea in the cupboard. The sight of the overflowing spice cabinet made him smile. Kreacher was fussy about taste, but his master was more interested in whether something was edible or not.

The opening of the front door interrupted his thought. His curiosity perked, Draco went to the hall and found a figure standing at the door. After a night of masochistic revelry, the master of the house had come home at last. Dirty and dishevelled, Harry had a bleeding lip, and his left shoulder appeared to be dislocated, for his arm hung stiffly at his side.

As soon as Harry noticed he was not alone, he whipped out his wand and aimed at Draco. There was neither hesitation nor hysteria in his action; his movement was precise and fluid as befitting a vigilant Auror.

Tension mounting upon him, Draco squinted at his landlord and assessed the situation. He could dive behind the wall for cover and grab a knife from the kitchen counter. Nevertheless, it would be a bad idea to provoke his opponent any further. In the end, he held up his hands. "I can understand why you have trouble finding a tenant."

Harry smiled an apologetic smile and put his wand away. "You are up early. I didn't know the cafe you work in opens at three in the morning. Maybe I heard it wrong when you told me where you work?"

"You can come over and have a cup of coffee. Not for free, of course." Draco lowered his hands and fixed his gaze upon Harry's dislocated shoulder. "That must hurt a lot."

For a moment, Harry seemed lost; several seconds later, his confusion morphed into realisation. "No, it doesn't hurt. I just can't move my arm, that's all." He explained. "I can't feel physical pain anymore, so this doesn't bother me much."

Before Draco could ask further, the sound of boiling water stole his attention away. Rushing into the kitchen, he moved the kettle out of the heat and turned off the stove. As Harry peeked at him from the doorway, Draco held up the kettle. "Where do you keep your tea?"

The new life that the master of the house had breathed into the rooms upstairs did not extend to the living room. With its worn Regency furniture, heavy black draperies and sun-bleached floral wallpaper, the room was the very image of an ancient family languishing in decay. It stirred up a mixture of nostalgia and resentment in Draco, for the ambience in this place reminded him too much of Malfoy Manor.

Thrusting aside the unpleasant memory, Draco sipped his tea and flipped through the Quidditch magazine that was left on the table. Beside him, Harry cast a spell to pop the joint back into place, and another spell to conjure a bag of ice for the shoulder. When he was done, Draco threw the magazine onto the table and turned to him.

"Are you going to confess, or am I supposed to ask?"

Unmindful of Draco's sardonic tone, Harry relaxed against the cushion and pressed the ice bag to his shoulder. "It started after the accident. I got well, and there's nothing physically wrong with me, but I lost my sense of pain. The Healers couldn't find the cause. My therapist thinks it might be related to PTSD. The accident triggered a defensive mechanism in my body to handle the stress, and for some reason my body doesn't return to normal afterwards."

Draco raised his eyebrows. He had no idea that Harry was seeing a psychotherapist; then again, considering Harry's past, it was not surprising that he felt the need to confide in a specialist—or more likely, his friends dragged him to see one.

"If you stab me in the back, I won't feel pain." Harry continued. "But I can feel there's something stuck in my back." He tilted his head at the cup in Draco's hand. "I can't tell if this tea is hot or cold. Hot and cold feel the same to me, except hot tea will burn my tongue, and I won't notice it unless someone tells me. It's inconvenient, but there's nothing I can do about it."

Leaning forward, Draco wrapped his hand around the cup of tea he had made for Harry. The ceramic emitted a shadow of warmth against his palm. Handing the cup to the bewildered Harry, he mumbled, "You can drink this. It won't burn your tongue, but I could be lying about that."

"Yeah, you could be." Contrary to his words, Harry drank a mouthful and let out an appreciative sigh. "I could never make tea like this. Maybe you should work in a tea shop instead of a cafe."

"You haven't tasted my coffee yet." Draco's gaze travelled along the curve of Harry's neck, lingered for a beat or two on the Adam's apple, and fixed at last upon the mouth. The blood on Harry's lip had darkened into a colour resembling charred flesh. "Okay, you can't feel pain, so you think it would be fun to get beaten up every so often?"

"Something like that." The vague response and averted eyes were enough to tell Draco that Harry did not want to talk about it—at least not to him.

Draco made a noncommittal sound and contemplated Harry's face: shaggy black hair framed a pleasing visage, and shapely lips pressed together in musing. The hunger inside him purred at the sight. "Have you tried the Cruciatus Curse? Who knows, it might cure your deficiency."

"Unlike you, I don't know of anyone around me who would be willing to do this. Besides, I can't cast the curse on myself, can I?" Harry replied in a playful tone, but there was an undercurrent in his green eyes, an unfathomable depth that lured Draco a little closer to the edge.

Following his instinct, Draco rubbed his thumb against the cut on Harry's lip, and his finger came away stained with crimson. "Would you like me to do it to you?" He offered in jest.

For some time Harry stared at Draco, yet instead of regarding him as a mad man, he seemed to be considering the offer in earnest. After taking a gulp of his tea as if it were liquid courage, he said, "All right. Do it to me. Throw a Cruciatus at me."

The most logical course of action would be to admit the offer was a foolish joke, a tease to needle his former schoolboy rival. Nevertheless, Draco, struck by a fit of insanity, licked the blood away and took on the challenge. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

Draco retrieved his wand from his room and followed Harry to the top floor. In contrast to the modern furnishings in Draco's room and the remnant of solemnity in the living room, Harry's bedroom was a study in sparseness. A mahogany bed and a matching nightstand occupied one end of the room; a wardrobe stood in the corner; and a mirror was fixed to the wall. The unfinished oak flooring and plain white walls added to the bleakness of the room.

Waving his wand in a continuous motion, Harry put up a ward in the room. Invisible walls were erected, and a muffled silence descended upon this prison that was cut off from the rest of the world. There would be no outside interference and no escape until the ward was lowered.

"Are you going to report me to the Ministry, Mr Auror?" Draco drawled while taking a few steps back.

"I don't want to wear a strait-jacket, so my answer is no." Leaving his glasses and his wand on the nightstand, Harry turned to Draco and closed his eyes. The composure he maintained in the face of impending torture was admirable to the point of disturbing. "I'm ready."

Draco mustered up his resolve and trained his wand at Harry, yet scenes from the past crept up on him like a snake sensing a prey nearby. Contorted bodies, piercing screams, bloodshot eyes rolling back into one's head, and beneath it all, horror and guilt mingled with relief and the thrill of the forbidden...

"Should I remind you how much we used to hate each other?" Harry's voice pulled Draco back to the present. "This is just an experiment. I need you to do this for me."

Gritting his teeth, Draco killed the flashback and muttered the incantation he had not uttered since the end of the war, "Crucio!"

Harry was thrown back against the wall before collapsing in a heap on the floor, writhing in pain. His scream pierced through the night and into Draco's mind. The experiment was a success; there was no need to keep the curse going anymore. Obeying Draco's will, the spell gave one last whimper and died. Nothing could be heard in the room other than the sound of heavy breathing. It took Draco a while to realise Harry was not the only one panting hard.

A burst of laughter erupted from the miserable figure huddled against the wall, startling Draco out of his wits. His body convulsing as though in a seizure, Harry was laughing like a man who had come to the realisation that his entire life was a joke.

Unable to look away from the figure shaking on the floor, Draco stayed silent and still, his feet rooted to the ground, and his wand arm fell to his side. Everything about Harry came crashing down upon him: the pointless rivalry, the hint of dark emotions peeking out from those brilliant green eyes, the soaring silhouette in the midst of the inferno, and the sloshing of water.

Draco could not tell whether he should be afraid for Harry or afraid of him. Had he broken Harry Potter, or was Harry Potter broken to begin with? As mental exhaustion doused what little remained of his tension, he crossed the room and stood over the man he no longer hated. "Did it hurt?"

When Harry lifted his head, his wan face was wet with tears and sweat, yet upon his lips was the smile of a child who had obtained the treasure he wanted most. "It hurt so much I wanted to kill you." There was a pause. "Thank you."

In the serene blue hour of dawn, last night's commotion could have been nothing more than a bad dream. In a daze Draco ate breakfast by himself and got ready for work. Passing into the dusky corridor, he looked up at the shadowy staircase. Nothing stirred above him, no creaking of the floorboard to indicate his landlord had emerged from his room. Leaving Harry to his much needed rest, Draco turned away and left for work.

The day flew by in a blur of roasted coffee and milky ferns floating on creamy latte. For some reason, Draco felt drained, and his mind barely registered what he was doing. The only thing he remembered was eyeing up several male customers with the blatant gaze of a vulture eyeing a dying man.

A rugged looking man came in fifteen minutes before closing time; he was one of the customers Draco had ogled at earlier. When Draco sauntered over to take the order, the man appraised him for a moment before ordering an espresso. Feeling an itch that was hunger in disguise, Draco smiled at the man and went to prepare the order.

After scribbling down the time and the name of a nearby pub, Draco brought the man his espresso and slipped him the note. The man gave Draco a sly look and pocketed the note. An agreement had been reached, and the man did not stay long in the cafe.

By the time Draco reached the pub, the man was waiting for him inside. Putting on a pleasant smile, he went over and sat down beside the man, who sent him a lazy smirk in greeting. An hour later, they were back in the man's loft, tasting each other's saliva and pulling off each other's clothes. After pushing the man onto the bed, Draco climbed on top of him and went in for the kill.

With one hunger sated and the other somewhat unfulfilled, Draco returned home to find a lamp lit for him in the front hall. He cast a glance at the clock mounted to the wall: it was well past eleven o'clock. Kreacher had already gone to bed, and Harry should be doing the same by now, provided that he had not gone out on another escapade.

Quiet as a ghost, Draco stole upstairs. Before he reached his room, however, Harry's voice flowed down from above. "I thought you aren't coming home tonight. Have you eaten yet?"

Draco turned around and looked up. Half shrouded in shadow, Harry was leaning over the ebony railings, watching him. Was there a detection charm on the front door to inform his landlord that someone was at the door?

"I'll grab something from the kitchen later. How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling quite good, actually. Does that sound weird?" There was a note of self-depreciation in Harry's voice. "Did you get any sleep after that?"

"I dozed off for a while." Draco lied. A montage of eyes staring at him in accusation and mouth open in a soundless scream flitted across his mind. "You should have a Healer check your shoulder. If you can't feel pain, you won't be able to tell if it's all right or not."

"Yeah, I'll do that," Harry said. For a moment, he seemed to be on the verge of saying something more. In the end, he gave Draco a distracted smile and straightened up. "I won't keep you up any longer. Good night."

"Good night."

The dark head disappeared out of sight. Light footsteps persisted for a while, ending with a soft thud of a door being closed. Having no reason to loiter in the corridor anymore, Draco returned to his room. Without bothering to turn on the light, he dropped his bag on the floor, kicked off his shoes, and flopped onto the bed.

The pleasant air he had enveloped himself in throughout the evening was gone. Weariness clung to him like the oceanic scent of the body wash he had borrowed at the man's place. Lying on his side, he let out a breath and closed his eyes. The roughness of the man's skin lingered still in his mind, but he had already forgotten the man's name.

Days passed by in an interlocking pattern of tedium and watchfulness, and in the middle of it all, Draco turned a year older. On his birthday, there was a small celebration at the house, and he received a painting from his landlord. "Your room looks a little plain." Harry explained.

Was it meant to be both a birthday present and a token of gratitude? As Harry watched him from across the table, smiling an amiable smile, Draco swallowed his question and ate some more birthday cake.

Draco did not open the package his parents sent him until the day was almost over. Inside the package was a new coat and a letter from his mother—always from his mother, never from his father. Once he had read the letter, he put it inside the box he kept in the bottom drawer. The coat went into the darkest corner of the wardrobe, out of sight and out of mind. He did not sleep well that night, yet when dawn arrived, his routine returned to normal.

Every so often Draco had breakfast or dinner with Harry; every so often he came home late or not at all; every so often he dreamt about drowning the white fish in the bathtub. Meanwhile, Harry went on another late night outing and received a few bruises for his trouble. His sense of pain did not return.

Pain was a signal to inform a person that he should stop what he was doing and examine himself. The absence of a sense of pain was akin to crossing the desert while blindfolded, not knowing if there were scorpions lurking about or quicksand up ahead. Someday, Harry might come home with more than a few bruises and a dislocated shoulder, or he might not come home at all.

Nevertheless, nothing could prevent Harry from going on his little excursion—nothing short of drugging him and locking him up in the dungeon, that is. Although it might be a good idea to follow him and find out what he was doing, Harry was too cautious; it would be impossible to stalk him without his noticing. Besides, Draco had neither the reason nor the urge to become too involved in his landlord's business.

One Saturday night found Draco alone in the house, lying on the bed and listening to a record in his room. Kreacher was away at Hogwarts, and Harry had gone out with his friends for once. As Draco stared at the ceiling, the thought of inviting someone over crossed his mind, but he snuffed out the idea. He was not in the mood to play.

The doorbell rang, and Draco, wondering if Harry had forgotten his key, crawled out of bed and went downstairs. When he opened the door, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger looked at him with various degree of wariness. Hermione had put on a facade of civility, but Ron glared at him in undisguised hostility. Leaning on Ron's shoulder was Harry, who seemed unsteady on his feet.

"Sorry, I can't seem to find my key," Harry mumbled before Ron elbowed Draco out of the way and carried Harry into the house. As they passed into the hall, a whiff of alcohol flowed by and distracted Draco from his annoyance.

After sending Draco an apologetic look, Hermione stepped into the house and closed the door behind her. "Harry had a few glasses, so we thought he shouldn't go home by himself. Have we disturbed you?"

"No," Draco replied, his gaze following Harry and Ron up the steps. The improvised solo of the electric guitar, accompanied by the heavy rhythm section, spilled out of Draco's room, down the stairs and into the hall.

"Can I talk to you for a moment, Malfoy?"

Turning around, Draco studied the Muggleborn witch, whose pretty visage had taken on a serious expression, and whose gaze was as sharp as the tip of the needle. "Fine. Let's talk in there." He ushered her into the living room. "What do you want?"

As if weighing on how much she should divulge to him, Hermione strolled over to the piano and opened the lid, her fingers dancing across the keyboard without making a sound. "What do you know about Harry's injuries?"

"I was under the impression that he hides them very well, particularly from you two."

A dark cloud descended upon Hermione's brow, and the composure she had maintained began to crack. "Oh, he didn't show it, but we guessed. When we asked him, he said he fell off his broom. I don't suppose you've seen him take the broom out while you are living here, have you?"

Draco winced. Victims of physical abuse sometimes used that particular excuse, but he suspected Harry's injuries did not stem from abuse. "You might want to interrogate his house-elf."

"Kreacher keeps his master's secret as a house-elf would, and Harry can be so adamant sometimes. We can threaten him with a pair of pincers, but that won't do much good. Since you live with him, surely you have some idea what he's like?"

"I wonder about that," Draco muttered under his breath. Aside from the superficial, how much did he know about Harry Potter? It was probably a lot less than what Hermione knew—but more than what she believed he knew.

When Hermione gave him a searching look, Draco returned to himself. "There isn't much I can tell you. He goes out at night without telling me where he's going. When he comes home, he has cuts and bruises on him, and he doesn't explain himself. That's all I know." He paused. "Anyway, I'll leave him in your capable hands."

As Draco turned to leave, Hermione's voice chased after him. "Will you promise me one thing, Malfoy? Will you look after him while you are here?"

Wrapping himself in a cloak of indifference, Draco sent a sidelong glance at Hermione, who was torn between her innate mistrust towards him and her concern for her friend. "I can't promise that. I'm just a tenant."

When Draco was back in his bedroom, he lowered the volume of the gramophone and opened the window. Cool air fluttered into the room and chased away some of the stuffiness. Sitting down at the table, Draco picked up a book and tried to read. Minutes crawled by; the next track on the album came up; he turned the page.

There was a knock on the door. Did Hermione come by to question him again? Heaving a sigh, Draco put down the book and went to the door, ready to offend his landlord's friend with a cutting remark. Nevertheless, the late night visitor was neither Hermione nor the irritable Ron Weasley.

Standing in the dimly lit corridor was Harry in his intoxicated glory: flushed cheeks, dull green eyes, and an unguarded look Draco had never seen before. His low neck T-shirt showed off more than his collar-bones. Instead of being seduced by the scenery, Draco stole a glance at the empty stairwell.

"Are you supposed to be wandering around like this? You could fall down the stairs, and I doubt you can heal your own broken neck. Where are your friends?"

"They already left. I don't want to keep them up late." Harry squinted at Draco as though he had trouble keeping his eyes focus. "It's just you and me now."

Curving his lips into a smirk, Draco leant against the door frame and regarded Harry with heavy-lidded eyes. "And here you are, standing outside my door, all dressed up for the occasion. I hope you realise that I only have one bed in here?"

Harry blinked before the corner of his mouth became a little twisted. "That's not why I'm here. I want you to cast the Cruciatus on me."

The vocalist of the band Draco had been quite taken with lately was shouting about love and death from the speakers; in the background, the droning noise of the metropolis drifted into the room through the window. No longer in the mood for flirting, Draco crossed his arms and dropped his teasing tone. "Your therapist hasn't done you much good, I see."

"I didn't tell her about the experiment. Besides, she's not going to throw a Cruciatus at me as part of the therapy." Harry held Draco in his gaze, searching for what Draco had not the slightest clue. "You are the only one I can ask."

"It's good to know that this ex-Death Eater with no moral to speak of can still be trusted to cast a Cruciatus Curse on the most famous living Auror in Great Britain," Draco said in a patronising tone, though a sullen note had seeped into his voice. "Wasn't last time supposed to be a one-time experiment?"

"It was, but I've changed my mind. I want, no, I need to feel pain again."

Like water Draco's patience slipped out of his grasp and fell into the great unknown. Uncrossing his arms, he glared at his persistent landlord, but a lurking unease had latched onto him. "Many people would have given anything to live in a world without pain."

"I'm not one of those people," Harry whispered. "I'm starting to forget how it feels to be in pain. It scares me. If I can't feel pain or heat or cold, am I still human? Am I alive? Is this a dream? Are you a part of this dream? If you are not part of the dream, hurt me and make me scream."

As Draco watched the man who ought to possess the strength he lacked unravel before his eyes, something akin to anger burnt away his reason. Stepping away from the door, he jerked his head and motioned to Harry to enter the room. "I'll demand a payment from you later."

With a look of relief and satisfaction, Harry walked into the room and locked the door behind him. The clank of the lock sliding into place was as ominous and final as the green light of the Killing Curse. A moment later, the window was closed, and the gramophone was turned off. Isolated from the rest of the world, the room was so quiet Draco could hear a ringing sound in his ear. It was maddening.

After grabbing his wand from the nightstand, Draco cast the same barriers and defensive charms Harry had put up the other night: undetectable, impenetrable, and inescapable. No one else would know what happened in this room tonight. When he wheeled around to face Harry, three words fell out of Harry's mouth like words of prayer. "Make it hurt."

Narrowing his eyes, Draco shoved aside what little empathy he had, held out his wand, and spoke the forbidden word. "Crucio!"

Instead of slamming into the wall, Harry dropped down on his knees and convulsed on the floor like a fish out of water. His scream, overlapping with the memory of another scream echoing in another chamber, sliced through Draco's consciousness until he could hear nothing else. As Draco beheld the thrashing form of his willing victim, as he counted to thirty in his head, he wondered absently if he would be dreaming of the white fish tonight.

The grey morning arrived with a sprinkle of rain. In the kitchen by himself, Draco was eating his second slice of baguette while listening to the wireless. The host was dwelling on the history of wizarding flight, at times adding an anecdote on Muggle inventions. The show could not be more dry, but Draco needed to hear a voice other than his own.

When Draco started on his second cup of coffee, Harry came down looking pale but contented. It seemed that unlike him, his landlord had slept well last night. As their eyes met, Harry began to smile; in the next beat, the smile died away, and a flash of guilt appeared on his face.

"I'm sorry about last night."

"So am I," Draco mumbled over the rim of his cup, unable to summon forth a witty remark. The coffee he brewed did little to rouse him from his lethargy. "Rent-free for two months would be good enough as a compensation."

Harry stared at Draco for a moment before a bitter snigger escaped his mouth. "You don't beat around the bushes, do you? All right, rent-free it is then."

Two months worth of rent in exchange for a Cruciatus Curse—neither the inventor of the curse nor the Death Eaters would have guessed such a transaction was possible. The irony that it was Harry of all people who had agreed to this ridiculous exchange was not lost on Draco.

Looking away from Harry, Draco took a sip of his coffee and shot a glance at the clock hanging on the wall. It was too early an hour for any shops to open their doors—if they opened on Sundays at all. "There's hot water in the kettle. The temperature should be just right for you."

While Harry moved about by the counter, Draco shifted his position and observed his landlord. The being that yearned for pain had sunk into the depth of Harry's consciousness, dormant but not forgotten. Draco had no way of predicting when that being would rise up again and demand from him the unthinkable.

"Harry," Draco called out, and the man in question turned to him. "Do you feel alive right now?" The peaceful air Harry had enveloped himself in fell away, and what remained was the sullenness of the discontented. "I see."

With a cup of tea in hand Harry sat down and helped himself to the bread. "We are running out of bread, aren't we?" he remarked in a carefree tone, as though Draco had never asked the intrusive question in the first place. "I'll have to get some later. Is there anything you want?"

"Get yourself a pain au chocolat or a box of chocolates. It'll make you feel better."

When Draco saw the ruefulness on Harry's face, he fell silent. Your heart is hurting. Doesn't that mean you are still human and still alive? Nevertheless, he kept the thought to himself and sipped his coffee. Nothing good would come of plunging further into the bloody mess that was Harry Potter's life...

"I'll get one for you too." Harry's voice stirred Draco out of his musing.

"Uh, okay," Draco replied, even though he was not fond of chocolate. It brought back too many unsavoury memories. "I'm going out later today. Don't wait up."

Harry made a sound in acknowledgement, wet his lips, and munched on the bread. Did he guess where his tenant would be going or what he would be doing? Draco observed Harry Potter, the thorn of his adolescence and something else entirely since then.

In this spotless kitchen on this gloomy morning, he with his messy hair and absentminded look was more desirable than the glorified portraits painted in unauthorised biographies and history books. When Draco felt a stirring inside him, he averted his gaze, raised the cup to his lips, and listened to the radio host quote from a book: of falling into the starry sky only to be held back by the force of gravity.

The sultry weather put the city under a spell and drove people to the brink of their patience. In the cafe where Draco worked, iced latte became the most popular beverage among the customers. One of his co-workers had not been keen on adding iced latte to the menu. Draco, on the other hand, did not care either way, for other things had occupied his mind.

A letter from his mother came to him the other day, asking him to come home for a visit. In the polite but distant tone he had learnt from his father, Draco claimed that work had taken up much of his time, and therefore, he would not be able to pay her a visit. The lie was so obvious his mother would see through it in a heartbeat, but in the end she would feign ignorance and accept the excuse.

The other incident, however, happened so close to home that he could not ignore it. Harry came home the other night, limping and bleeding all over the carpet—the first time Draco had seen him hurt so badly. As expected, Kreacher was beside himself, but Harry, his face smeared with blood, smiled in that boyish way of his and said very little in his own defence.

Draco had an inkling what was on Harry's mind, and he did not like it at all. If a day came when Harry did not come home at all, was he supposed to believe that whatever happened to Harry would be on his conscience? Should he have stopped Harry from drowning when he himself was barely floating on the surface?

When his shift ended, Draco left the cafe and joined his fellow pedestrians on the street. The air was stagnant, and it reeked of the stench of the city. The sun continued to blaze with vehemence, as though declaring the day would never end. A short walk took Draco to a place where he could Apparate. Holding his breath, he dove into the dirty alley and Apparated back to the house.

In the haven that was 12 Grimmauld Place, Draco climbed the stairs and found his door ajar. A strand of music trickled out of his room and into his ear. Annoyed with this obvious violation of privacy, he pushed the door wide open and saw the intruder browsing his bookshelf. When he knocked on the door, Harry turned around and gave him a sheepish look.

"Sorry, I was wondering what you were listening to the other night." Harry switched off the gramophone and slipped the record back into its jacket. "This band is quite good, isn't it? And you have quite a collection of Muggle novels here. There's even one of my favourites."

Brushing aside Harry's comment, Draco closed the door and dropped his bag on the floor. "You don't have much respect for other people's privacy, do you? What do you want this time? I hope it doesn't involve puking or bleeding all over my floor."

A hint of wryness played about Harry's lips. In the next beat, a curious expression took over his visage. "I want to ask you something." There was a pause. "Did you enjoy casting the Cruciatus Curse on me?"

His eyes narrowed in agitation, Draco tensed up in an instant. "If you mean whether or not I had an erection while you were thrashing around in pain, the answer is no."

"That's not what I meant." Harry stalked towards Draco, who could not shake the feeling that he was a fish caught in a net. "Bellatrix Lestrange told me that in order to hold the Cruciatus Curse for a long time, you must have a desire to hurt. You must enjoy it."

The unexpected mention of his sadistic aunt made Draco frown. The vision of a pureblood witch born with a pure black heart flashed in his mind like a coffee stain on a pure white cloth. He had never liked her, and he felt more relieved than sad over her death at the hands of Ron Weasley's mother.

"Since when did my psychopathic Aunt Bella become the authority of the Cruciatus Curse? Have you considered the possibility that she was messing with your head?"

The corner of Harry's mouth twitched, though Draco could not tell if the reaction stemmed from distaste or loathing or something else. "Of course I have, but I don't think she's totally wrong about this. When I used the Cruciatus on someone, I couldn't hold the curse for more than a few seconds. If I were to do it now, I think I could hold it longer."

Crossing his arms, Draco squinted at Harry, who was rubbing his bandaged arm, as if confirming whether or not the bandages were still there. "Do you enjoy inflicting pain now?"

Harry looked up at Draco; his green eyes were like sea glass, frosted and dull. "I don't know, but I would wish I'm the one thrashing on the floor, howling in pain." He flashed Draco a smile, and the tension dissipated. "That came out wrong, didn't it?"

"You've always been a little odd," Draco mumbled. "To answer your question, I did what was necessary, nothing more."

"That's what I thought. I guess I owe you an apology. I was only thinking about myself, and it hadn't occurred to me that the Cruciatus might have reminded you of the past."

The sound of water flooded Draco's mind, and if he were to close his eyes, he could see the high ceiling and the crystal chandelier, always out of reach. "Does that mean you won't be knocking on my door at two in the morning and asking me to make you scream?"

"Something like that." There was no conviction in Harry's voice.

"What you need right now is a distraction," Draco declared before taking a step forward, closing the distance between him and his landlord, who stared at him in that unperturbed way of his.

How could someone who had put up countless defensive charms in his house be so unguarded at this moment, Draco thought as he brushed his lips against Harry's. When he encountered no resistance, he held Harry by the back of his head and kissed him again, lingering just long enough to taste something sweet in Harry's mouth.

Looking upon Harry once more, Draco allowed himself a little smirk and grazed his fingers over the tip of Harry's hair: nothing as soft as the raven feathers it resembled. "You are supposed to curse me and run out of the room by now."

Humour glinted in Harry's eyes, though it was accompanied by a strange expression Draco could not decipher. "I didn't receive the script for this particular scene."

"You should fire your manager, or better yet, get another script." Draco moved away from Harry, hauled his bag onto the table, and laid out his dirty uniform to be washed. "You can borrow my books and records, but if I find a scratch on a record or a stain in a book, I'll hex you."

"You are being terribly nice to me these days. Should I be on the lookout for an ambush soon?"

"Who knows. Maybe I'll slip into your room in the middle of the night and give you a taste of heaven," Draco joked, which elicited a chuckle from Harry.

In the end, nothing was resolved. In spite of his best attempt at self-restraint, as long as Harry had not regained his sense of pain, he could slip further into the abyss; and someday, the rope he was dangling from would snap under the pressure.

While Harry took out a hard-boiled novel from the ebony bookshelf, Draco cast him a sidelong glance and envisioned his fate: a bloodied corpse in the back alley, a mad man locked away in a white hospital room, or a prisoner in shackles pacing about in his dingy cell.

To be continued...

A/N: With this story, I feel as if I'm flirting with a piece of broken glass, which is fitting, since the story is inspired by the music of Japanese rock band, Buck-Tick. In a sense, Draco and Harry have run into each other at the worst possible time.

The condition Harry refers to is called stress-induced analgesia, though I take much liberty with regard to Harry's actual condition. In the scene where Draco is listening to the wireless, the host is quoting from Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's memoir, Wind, Sand and Stars.