Part Eleven:

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At eighteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Scars.

It was a curious thing. At one point in his life, Draco loved it when people looked at him. To be honest, he was still a glutton for attention. However, when people looked at him now, Draco couldn't help but feel the small prick of fear that they could see right through his shirt.

It wasn't so bad in the mornings when he only had to share the showers with Greg and Blaise. They both also bore the hideous remains of the Dark Mark, so he knew they would never intentionally stare at his. It was when he looked himself in the mirror and saw the faded black tattoo that the first bout of shame would begin.

During the rebuilding, he had been very careful. No matter how hot or dirty it got while he was working, he'd refused to remove his shirt or even roll up his sleeves. It didn't matter so much that most everyone there already knew he had the Mark – they couldn't see it. Since the start of the year, though, he had become increasingly nervous about it.

It didn't matter that he hadn't wanted it. It didn't matter that he regretted it. What mattered was that he did have it, and he was terrified of the judgments that would pass the moment anyone set eyes upon it.

He wanted to forget about it. He wanted to pretend it didn't exist. In those few precious moments between sleep and grooming, he was able to put it out of his mind. And then he would see himself in the mirror, and the shame would roll down over him and encase him tightly until he could once again disappear into the thoughtlessness of sleep.

Almost as bad, though, were the three thin lines that spanned his chest in horizontal slashes. They were almost unnoticeable against his pale skin, but his eyes could always pick them out instantly – even in dim light. If anyone else saw those marks, they would have no idea what had caused them. Or, rather, one person would know. And one ghost. And Draco knew.

Guilt weighed on him. Despite the words Potter had said to him at the end of the war, he couldn't help but think that the man must blame him to some extent. Every time he felt something brush those three strips of curiously dulled sensation, he would be brought back to that night in the third floor girls' washroom.

He avoided the place as much as possible when making his way through the halls now. He'd become a bit of an expert on the layout of Hogwarts and all its many shortcuts during the months he'd spent helping to rebuild the school. When he caught himself wandering, though, that was one of the four places he found his feet unconsciously taking him. The Astronomy Tower, the Room of Requirement, and Severus's old office were the other three places his subconscious mind loved to torment him with.

He'd managed to work up to visiting Myrtle again, with the urging of Penha. Thinking back, he realized how lonely the whiny ghost girl often seemed to be. Sometimes he'd bring along with him something from the kitchens that the House Elves said the ghost would enjoy. He laughed when she still tried to peek in on him in the loo, making bawdy jokes he'd never repeat to anyone else until she shrieked and fled. As much as he could stand her and be amused by her presence, he nevertheless couldn't bring himself to enter her domain.

After a couple months back, he had noticed a terrible nervous tic he'd developed. Whenever he became uncomfortable – especially when it was a moment that pressed in on his cocoon of guilt – he would subtly reach over and tug at the edge of his left wrist-cuff. Blaise – bless and curse him – had mentioned it in a murmur to him one afternoon, and then he was horrified to find how many times he caught himself doing it throughout the rest of the day.

He didn't really know why he did it. Was it to make sure that his sleeve was there? Down and covering his forearm? That would be pointless if it still drew attention to the arm anyway, but that was all he could think of. He didn't want attention called to where the faded tattoo remained – he didn't want people to look at it. He had never been self-conscious about his body before, and it was a disconcerting thing to deal with now.

It was nearly a week after that when he noticed something strange. Rather, the thing he noticed was common enough, but the epiphany he had about it was rather strange: Potter hated his scar.

He'd been sitting in the library and staring at the most boring history of magic text to date – and given the ones he's had to read his first six years, that was saying something – when movement from the table across the way caught his eye. Weasley was telling some wild, whispered story and waving his arms all around, making a few of the friends surrounding him clasp hands tightly over their mouths to keep from laughing and garnering the unwanted attention of Madam Pince. And then it happened: Potter surreptitiously reached up and tugged at a piece of his wild hair so that it covered his scar. A few from the group glanced over at the action, their eyes lingering for a moment on the spot before turning back to the story.

Draco had made fun of Potter's scar for years. Part of it, yes, was because he'd been told to pick at the other boy to set up pretenses. The other, he would admit, was because the speccy git really did know how to crawl under his skin and mentioning the scar was a rather surefire way to tick him off. 'Scarhead,' he'd called him, again and again.

Draco winced, rubbing his arm and feeling his robes slide over his chest.

He kept a quiet watch over Potter for the next few days while attempting to break himself of his own scar-induced habit. Whenever Potter was uncomfortable – and at any mention of the war – he'd reach up and give a little tug at the hair there, as if making sure it was in place. He was always raking his hands through his hair – turning the natural bird's nest into a wild mess even an animal would refuse to live in – but every time he'd realized that he'd pushed his hair back he would quickly finger-comb it forward again to cover his forehead, patting down the shaggy black fringe as if in relief.

Draco reached for Penha one night, cracking open the book to jot his thoughts down on the pages. Silencing charms were useful, yes, but not the greatest idea when one had a nosy roommate who knew how to cancel them. "Penha?" he wrote, adding little flourishes to the letters until the book responded.

"Yes, child?" appeared below his handiwork after a few long moments.

"I think you took so long just to see how fancy I'd make it," he quipped in a low mutter, then continued on the page, "The world has ended: I think I have something in common with Potter."

He heard what sounded suspiciously like a snicker from the book, then words began to appear. "Oh? What is this now? And does this mean you won't whine about him all the time anymore?" the book teased back.

"I do not whine, and most certainly not about him, thank you very kindly." He scowled down at the book in his lap as he heard another snickering noise. "I hate you. But onto my dilemma."

"You don't hate me." Of course the book knew that, connected as they were. Draco snorted.

"Hush."

"I didn't say anything."

"He's ashamed of his scar." Draco figured that perhaps that would silence the gently teasing book.

Penha didn't respond for a few moments, then slowly filled in the words, "Go on."

"You know I've been hiding mine. The Mark and the one from that spell that Potter cast at me in sixth year – Sectum-something. Well, Blaise pointed out that I'd started tugging at my sleeve when I got nervous about the Mark. And then I noticed I would also trace the scars on my chest when I think about," he paused, trying to figure out exactly what he would think about at those points, then gave up and added, "the past." It was vague, but it worked.

"Potter seems to try to keep his scar covered all the time. When people start mentioning the war, he tugs at the hair in front of it to make sure it's hidden. It's just about as ridiculous as me tugging on my sleeve to get people to not see the Mark, but I think it's just as unconscious of a gesture." Draco squirmed uncomfortably at the thought, biting his lip.

"This seems to bother you," was all that Penha replied.

"Well, I suppose it might shock a person to realize that Golden Boy has anything in common with us mere mortals." Draco knew that wasn't it, really. He didn't often think of the other man in such terms anymore – not after the trials, to be honest. He was rather certain that Penha would call him on it, too – the book never let him get away with such things.

"That isn't it, and you know it. Why do you bother lying to me, child?" Draco could feel the book's exasperated amusement tinge along the whisper of their bond.

"Because you and Eshe are the only ones who won't let me get away with it." Draco sighed, lightly tapping the feather of his quill against his cheek. It took him awhile to figure out exactly what bothered him about the scenario; luckily, Penha was a patient being. "I guess…I suppose it's that there's nothing for him to be ashamed of. Why would he want to cover the scar? I've gathered that he doesn't really like the attention, but people recognize him well enough even without it being visible. And he can't honestly be vain, dressing as he does." Draco shook his head slightly at the thought of Potter's ghastly wardrobe.

"Well…think about why you hide your own scars – shame, guilt, and so on. Is there a chance he might feel that too?" was the equitable reply.

"Of course not. He's the hero in this. His scars are 'marks of valor' and all that rot."

"You believe there is no reason at all that he might feel guilt? Try thinking like him, for once," the sentient book prompted."You know him better than what you like to admit."

Draco glared at the book, grumbling out a half-formed retort. He had a feeling that Penha knew what he wanted Draco to say, but apparently the book wasn't going to tell him. While he understood that the books sometimes did that to get him to make his own connections, he still found it rather irritating while in the thick of it. Taking a moment, he set his quill down and closed his eyes. Bracing his fingers against his temples, he mulled over the idea.

Potter keeps the scar covered whenever possible, but makes doubly certain it is concealed at every mention of the war. Why would that make him ashamed? he thought. Go back to the beginning, then – Potter got the scar from the Dark Lord. But that can't be it; there has to be more. Well…his parents were killed when he was given the scar, but could that really be it? No, it's something more recent – he wasn't so bothered before. Draco scowled, but dutifully kept at it. It was difficult keeping his impatience in check, but the circular logic and dead ends had to be connected somewhere, he knew.

If it's a nervous tic that he didn't have before sixth year…then maybe it began during the war. It isn't a reminder of the war – can't be, he had it for years before then. A reminder of the Dark Lord? No one would care that Potter bears a scar from him, so I can't think even he would.

Wait. Draco jolted as he caught a fleeting thought, shifting upright. Splaying his fingers out in front of him, he mapped it in his mental space. The Dark Lord said something about a link – a connection. He sent things to Potter along it – taunts, images, memories… Memories of him torturing, killing.

Is it the memories that haunt him? Yes! Yes…but that's not it. There's more, I know it… Draco knit his brows together, searching for that one last piece to the puzzle. Penha said to think like him for a moment. How does Potter think? 'Everything should be good.' Righteous, maybe. He wants to save everyone.

With a start, Draco found his answer. Scrabbling for his quill, he barely remembered to write his conclusion instead of speaking it aloud.

"I know what it is!" he scratched out quickly, not even minding how the letters squished together in his haste.

"Oh? What is it, then? Why would Harry Potter be ashamed of his scar?"

"It isn't the scar – not really, anyway. It's what the scar represents. He tries to save everybody – Hell, he even saved me – more than once. He's ashamed of all the people he couldn't save – all the people that You-Know-Who and the other Death Eaters tortured and killed. It was the Dark Lord who gave him the scar, so it reminds Potter of everything the madman did. In addition, there were the things that were sent through a bond – possibly tied to the scar? – that would have haunted Potter with the fact that people were hurting and he wasn't able to do anything to stop it.

"He blames himself. He blames himself for everything." At that revelation, Draco's eyes grew round. His chest felt tighter and tighter the more he thought about it until it hurt to breathe.

How would it feel to try so hard, but when you finally succeed you know that there is no real victory in it? How would it feel to be haunted by the people who got hurt because you weren't strong enough or fast enough or brave enough? How would it feel if every time someone looked at you it reminded you of a past that holds so much pain?

Draco had a feeling he knew exactly what it would feel like.

They both had other scars. For Draco, there was the one up his arm from that incident with the hippogriff in third year as well as many smaller ones from various accidents over the course of his life. Draco knew that Potter had a myriad of other little scars from when he'd glimpsed him shirtless during the rebuilding.

But those scars didn't matter. They didn't mean anything. The scars they were ashamed of weren't just marks on their skin – they were marks on their minds and souls. The physical scars didn't matter – what mattered were the scars that were left where no one else could see them.

"It's the scars on the inside," was the last bit distractedly scrawled by Draco before he set the book aside. After a few moments he heard the muffled thump of Penha closing himself, leaving him to his thoughts. Leaning back against his pillows, Draco closed his eyes and let his revelation wash over him, swirling around all the dents and nicks in his mind, discovering them all over again. He was left feeling drained, and when he stood on the verge of slipping into sleep he wondered if maybe someday they would all heal.

It still took him two weeks to break himself of tugging on his sleeve.