Cursed
When Malfoy got mad with Harry he would flaunt the scar. Their relationship was already teetering on a knife edge and when Harry pushed him too far he would throw the wound in his face.
He knew Harry was made of different stuff to him – that the brunette wanted the promise of love and commitment. Malfoy knew he was just in it for the sex. Brilliant sex. Amazing sex. Sex so laced with hate and resentment it was on fire.
Harry would always want more and when he did Malfoy would hurl the guilt trap at him, make Harry look at the Sectumsempra curse that was littered across his chest. Make Harry beg on his knees for forgiveness time and time again. Come up with ideas to keep him busy while he was down there.
More than once Harry had let him retaliate on the Saviour's flesh. Allow him to draw his revenge all over Harry's skin – to use his wand tip to make Harry scream "I'm sorry", to make him scream it in blood.
He made him pay again and again and again, and Harry wept into Malfoy's pale skin as the blonde monster fucked him raw, wet and spent within him.
Harry wasn't waiting for Malfoy to love him, the only thing he needed was to feel again; since the war he had been hollow inside, a ghost walking the life of a celebratory.
And feeling pain was better than feeling nothing at all.
There's this beast inside of me that gets enraged sometimes, and I keep it trapped, tamed until I need it – then I find a creative way to unleash it. I'm pretty angry right now