Like a Knife
Disclaimer: The words are mine, but the Harry Potter universe and its characters belong to J.K. Rowling, et al.
Content Notes: Allusions to torture, blood prejudice, and murder-or Death Eaters, in other words.
It hurt like a knife in his gut. His aunt had liked to tell him nothing hurt more—at least, nothing you could accomplish without a wand—and she'd run her tongue along the cold steel of her blade until blood filled her mouth like wine, left tracks on her white chin as it spilled over. She'd tell him how they screamed, filthy Muggles, because it was the worst pain they'd ever known—thought they'd never know anything worse—but they'd soon learned. Aunt Bella had taught them that she could do worse, just as the Dark Lord had taught Draco there were spells far more agonizing than the ones everybody knew. He'd taught Draco to keep his mouth shut until he ground his teeth into the gum. He'd taught Draco to tolerate torture far more excruciating than a tattoo and to appear still as glass all through it, but no one ever learned not to feel pain.
Despite his history, it took work not to scream. His lips were mottled under the insistent pressure of his teeth; the skin would soon burst and the bite of unshed blood tasted heavy in his mouth. His jaw was clenched and his fists and his lids; it felt like his whole body was. The veins in his neck stood out, tight and thick, like Muggles strung up in the sky. He struggled to keep his breathing even and he wouldn't allow the tears to fall, though the artist had been in the business for thirty-two years; no doubt she'd seen worse from people with far less to cry about. As a rule, Draco hid his weaknesses behind closed doors and it was bad enough that she had to watch him suffer without watching him do it like this was the first time. She could carve a hundred scars across his skin; he refused to hand her proof that she'd broken through his defences.
It wasn't that he expected her to use it against him. What could she say, after all? 'Malfoy had an entirely human reaction to a tattoo that should qualify as torture?' The confidentiality agreement she'd signed might not even allow her that much and Merlin knew she wouldn't try to break it, but old habits died hard. During the war, Draco had fought for every scrap and shred of pride. He tried not to resent the woman when she asked, "You're sure you won't accept a Pain Relief Potion?"
He choked out a laugh, only a little strangled, and he shook his head. "The Dark Mark was worse, Kamara, and the Cruciatus, too. I shouldn't have to remind you that the spell thrives on pain. I have to suffer now if I want—to spare her. I need. The spell must know how much pain I'm willing to endure, or I'll spare her nothing."
"She might not even come under attack—"
"I know my enemies a little better than you do, Kam." He knew his father—knew Lucius was still young enough to produce another heir and ruthless enough to do it even if filicide drove Narcissa from the house. The Malfoy patriarch loved his wife (and his son), but his duty had always come before them both. When he found out that Draco loved Ginevra—that Draco planned to spend his life with her—Lucius would kill her, if that's what it took. He might do it even if he knew that any curse he performed on Ginny would rebound on Draco because he wouldn't think his son brave enough, or stupid enough, to risk his life for a bloodtraitor, whether or not she wore his ring. Draco himself didn't know if he could've brought himself to jump in front of a Killing Curse, so he'd made it impossible for anyone to do any lasting damage at all.
It was the only way to protect her against the most serious threats to her life, though he didn't know how he'd explain it. He'd never liked body art for its own sake—and Ginny probably wouldn't believe him if he claimed otherwise—but he could think of no better explanation. Knowing her, she'd probably pick up the dark magic and assume the worst, but as long as it was only visible on his own body, he could pass it off as something that it wasn't. He couldn't tell his wife the tattoo's true purpose because she'd only try to undo the spell and it had taken him over a year of non-stop research to develop. If he'd had more time, it might not have required so much pain, but it was too late now. His bottom lip burst open and he could feel the blood in the palms of his hand, the strain in every one of his muscles, but he'd die before he ever let Ginny know that he was trying to save her.
She'd never understand: Weasleys didn't do secret oaths or binding spells disguised as sleeping dragons, and she'd fight it if she knew. Maybe fight him 'til he screamed, and it wouldn't have been worth the raw feeling in his throat or the mess of his skin. This was. This was worth the tears when they began to fall at last and the cry that parted his lips as the dragon took shape on the razor-sharp bone in his hip. This was what it meant to love a Malfoy.
Author's Note: Thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticism are always appreciated :).