A/N: Could you imagine disliking a fic so much that you leave a nasty comment instead of politely exiting out of the fic? That's pretty cringe lol, absolutely couldn't be me.

In related news: Mallory, girl, this chapter's for you! You asked me why bother with this crap fic? Well, honey, now I'm doing it specifically to ruin your day. And Timmo, my dude... if you're looking for original stories on a fanfiction website, you may want to reassess your critical thinking skills.

I can't believe I have to say this in the year of our lord 2020, but if you don't like this fic, then don't read it! It's that easy! It costs zero dollars and zero cents to hit the back button without being the type of insufferable asshole who leaves hateful reviews.

Anyway, we're on the home stretch now. Draco's whole life is catching up with him; I wonder how he'll cope? Thanks to those of you who are still reading/supporting this fic. Happy reading! :)

Chapter 13

Something felt off when Draco woke up. The sunlight streaming through his window was hitting his face at the wrong angle, and he winced and rolled over in avoidance. He was strangely well rested, and he had a fleeting desire to burrow into his covers and fall back asleep.

Except he wasn't under any covers. He was still curled up on the floor, his arm numb from being used as a pillow the night before. He pawed about until he found his phone and opened one bleary eye as he clicked the home button. The screen remained dark save for a flashing image of an empty battery, drawing a groan from Draco.

Then he froze, a jolt of panic lancing through him. What time was it? Had he overslept? He couldn't afford to be tardy so early in the semester.

He scrambled to his feet and rushed to charge his phone. While waiting for his phone to power on again, Draco shoved his laptop and books into his bag and hastily ran his fingers through his hair to comb out any tangles. A peek outside showed light gusts of wind rustling through the trees, so he shrugged into a coat as well.

His phone lit up then, and he checked it: eight percent charged, and showing he had enough time to reach his class if he hurried. He unplugged his phone, slung his bag over his shoulder, and ran.

He only realized his mistake when he sunk into his customary seat near the front of the lecture hall and draped his coat over the back of his chair, exposing his arms in the process. His bare arms. To his dismay, Draco finally remembered he'd fallen asleep wearing Harry's t-shirt, which had sleeves capped just inches below the shoulders. His Mark was now on full display.

Draco had a split second to make his decision. He could put his coat back on, but that would look even stranger, and the lecture hall was toasty besides. But leaving his coat off meant showing off the Mark to all and sundry, a circumstance he had been steadfastly avoiding all year. Was he ready to bare his heart on his sleeve—or his forearm, as it were? Of course he wasn't; his fight with Harry last night had made that abundantly clear. But what choice did he have? The professor was already speaking, and Draco didn't want to draw further attention to himself by making a scene.

In the end, his commitment to academic success won out. He dropped his left hand into his lap and pressed his forearm against his waist. In this position, the majority of the Mark was hidden from sight, and Draco could focus on keeping the panic welling in his chest at bay.

Unsurprisingly, he struggled to pay attention to the lecture over the sound of the blood rushing past his ears. He was acutely aware of every stroke of ink engraved upon his skin. He half-expected one of his peers to whip around in the middle of the lecture and direct an accusatory finger his way, declaring, "That man bore witness to families losing their livelihoods without saying a word! That man has blood baked into every line of his hands!"

In an odd way, he relished the nausea tying his stomach into knots. It was fitting. Harry had been right yesterday; Draco had hurt Harry even in the act of trying to protect him. Didn't Draco deserve to be punished in return? Didn't Draco deserve to feel at least a fraction of the pain he had inflicted on Harry? And not just on Harry, but on the people Lucius had hurt, the people whose lives the Death Eaters had ruined, while Draco stood by and laughed and looked the other way.

Sitting as far from the exit as he was, Draco couldn't beat the crowd of students out the door when lecture ended. He was jostled about by the throng, all equally as eager to leave as he was, and it was all he could do to keep pushing forward. As he finally managed to pass through the door, a student bumped him rather forcefully from behind, causing him to throw out both his arms in an effort to regain his balance and prevent himself from sprawling face first into a wall.

This left his Mark completely out in the open, and Draco froze, anticipating judgment, or ridicule, or simply even recognition.

He got none of that. Instead, the students immediately shifted to pass around him, with one girl saying only, "Wicked ink, Malfoy," before continuing on her way.

Draco stayed rooted to the ground until the last students had disappeared, his arms slowly drifting down to rest at his sides. He was, to put it mildly, blindsided. There ought to have been a glaring neon sign pointing towards his Mark, drawing all eyes to the skull that announced his allegiance to all and sundry. Yet not a single student had paid him any heed.

He might as well have been invisible.

As soon as Draco felt he could move again, he escaped into a nearby bathroom to collect himself. Though it was empty when he entered, he locked himself into one of the stalls to avoid being confronted by his reflection.

He couldn't stop replaying the scene over and over in his head, wondering whether it had actually happened or whether he had hallucinated the whole encounter. Draco had associated the Mark with violence so intimately, and for so long, that he couldn't understand how it didn't carry the same connotations for others. Even if they were ignorant as to what the Mark stood for, didn't it look menacing? Unhinged? A serpent extending from the empty mouth of a hyperrealistic skull wasn't a particularly pleasant image.

But no one had reacted negatively. No matter how many times Draco combed through the memory to process it, he couldn't deny that. And not only that, but he had actually been paid a compliment. A compliment! Had he really spent so long fearing his Mark for nothing?

No, he amended immediately, not for nothing. The Mark was a remnant of the worst possible version of himself, a person he had the capacity to be no matter how badly he didn't want to. The Mark kept him from forgetting what he had left behind.

But, he realized now, his fear and hatred of the Mark had also kept him from moving on. He had imbued the Mark with artificial power, elevated it to a pedestal from which it dictated Draco's actions. He had left London because he wanted to leave behind his life of crime and misdeeds. He wanted to create a better life for himself, a life wherein he was beholden to neither Lucius nor the Death Eaters.

So why was he letting the Mark—and, by proxy, his past—dictate the way he lived? Why had he let himself be ruled by fear?

Draco stepped out from the stall and cautiously approached one of the mirrors. Step by step, he drew closer, until his arms bumped against the porcelain lip of the sink, and he could stare directly into his own eyes. This was the first time he had faced his reflection without shying away since Christmas Eve; he looked into his eyes, his haggard face, and tried to see what others saw. What his professors saw, and his classmates—even, possibly, what Harry saw.

He almost didn't recognize himself through that lens. Divorced from the memories and guilt that weighed upon him, Draco saw only a young, scared, utterly exhausted boy. He saw pronounced bags beneath his eyes, too deep to attribute to late nights spent studying for a stressful exam. He even saw, for a brief moment, the shadow of the Ice Prince who had served as second-in-command of the Death Eaters, carved into the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, swimming in his gunmetal irises as he continued to hold his own gaze.

What would the Mark look like through the same lens? The image was grayscale, with detailed shading. Against Draco's pale skin, however, the image stood in sharp contrast. Immediately, memories began vying for his attention—the first time he had fired a gun, the fistfight that had marked his sixteenth birthday, the day he had finally been marked with the Death Eaters' symbol—but he pushed through the rising panic and tried to see the tattoo objectively. He tried to see nothing more than a snake pouring out of a skull near his elbow, undulating around itself, and culminating in a small snakehead baring its fangs a few inches above his wrist.

The tattoo was undoubtedly grim. It had to be; after all, the Death Eaters had chosen it to inspire fear in the hearts of all who saw it. But it was also a little nonsensical, Draco supposed. Why a snake, of all animals? And why combine the snake with a skull? If the skull represented Death, wouldn't this image imply that Death was doing the eating rather than being eaten as the "Death Eater" epithet suggested?

Draco's incredulity lasted a scant few seconds before he had to look away to keep from being barraged with memories. But a few seconds was more time than he had ever spent looking at the Mark and feeling something other than abject terror. It was growth. It was progress. And he never would have experienced that progress had he not been forced to by a complete stranger.

"No one cared at all," Draco marveled aloud. "No one cared except for me."

He would never be able to solve his problems by avoiding them, would he? Every time he had tried to run away from something, his avoidance had come back and bitten him in the arse. His Mark, running away, the confrontation with Harry.

That last thought hit him like a freight train, punching the breath out of his lungs. He still couldn't believe Harry was no longer a part of his life. And it had been his fault. As always, he had hidden away in fear, and his fear had become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

But maybe he still had a chance. Harry had criticized him for not knowing how to lean on others for help, and he had been right. If Draco apologized to Harry now and told him the truth, would Harry see that he had changed? That he was trying to be better? And even if Harry turned Draco away, what did Draco have to lose? They had already broken up. Harry had nothing more to hold over Draco's head.

Decision made, Draco pulled out his phone to message Harry, only to find a notification for an incoming message already blinking on the screen. Curious, he opened it. It was from Harry. "We need to talk. Can you come over?"

Draco reread the message four times to process the words. The timing of the message was coincidental enough to put Draco on edge, but he tried to push past his paranoia. Harry wanted to talk. This had to be good news; it meant he was receptive to hearing what Draco had to say.

"I'll stop by once I'm done with classes," he responded. His thumb hovered uncertainly over the "send" button, but with a final exhale, he pushed his fears aside and pressed the button. Then he pocketed his phone, slung his bag over his shoulder, and left for his next class, trying not to care who saw his Mark along the way.