TITLE: Sigil
AUTHOR: Mexx.
EMAIL: angelic_mexx@hotmail.com
DISCLAIMER: All Harry Potter characters mentioned within this fic are
property of JKR. No profit is being made from this writing.
RATING: PG-13.
PAIRING: Harry/Draco.
SUMMARY: "Late at night, when it's dark and Harry's completely alone he'll
forget which came first; the scar, the mark, or Draco."
FEEDBACK: Would be nice.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thank you to lj user=alexathain for the beta, and to lj user=pixiezombie for the title.
ISigil: A sign or an image considered magical./I
Harry has his own mark, now. Dark and bold, and completely his own.
Not a severe slash marring his forehead that he had no choice in. Not a scar that Voldemort gave him. Not something that has been splashed across thousands of newspaper articles and books—at least not a mark that has previously been associated with him, anyway. This is part of him solely because he wishes it to be.
He can't show anyone, of course. That would be foolish. But regardless of whether he could or not, Harry doesn't want to show off this mark because it's *his*, something private, and not for the eyes of others. For fingers and flesh, perhaps. But not for eyes. Not for Draco's eyes when they look upon his flesh in the dark; instead, hands and fingers brush across his legs and torso and arms, and trace the raised, scarred edge of his own brand. Not his mark really, but he's made it his own.
Harry is sure Draco knows what it is when his fingers splay over the mark, how could he not, when he grew up with the mark imbedded in his mind. Draco must know, because it is the only place on Harry's pale body that he's not kissed. And Harry can't help but hate Draco for knowing what it is.
Two things imprudent, and yet Harry considers neither a mistake. The mark is old, older than himself even, yet new in his adolescent flesh. Angry red against pale skin, textured and raised against smooth flesh and oh-so- perfectly *wrong* for his eyes only to fall upon. Yet in it's own way the mark protects him, justifying everything that is wrong about it. And in Draco lies the smooth perfection that Harry's latest scar does not offer; silky-smooth and pale all over, offering no ugly scars creasing over beautiful skin—Harry knows he can continue to defile himself as long as he can still touch Draco and feel something beautiful.
Late at night, when it's dark and Harry's completely alone he'll forget which came first; the scar, the mark, or Draco. Sometimes, he'll forget any exists at all, and for a time, there's only Harry; unmarred perfection, lost amongst the eyes of the innocent in a world of deification where no one can see any of the scars that tarnish him.
And as Harry keeps reminding himself in the moments when he wishes to see Draco's face as he orgasms, not even Draco can see the scars in the darkness, and that is the way it must remain. He can't let anyone—not even his lover—see the decimation of his body. A scar inflicted on himself in a moment of profligate adolescence and angry, bitter tears is something that only his eyes should set upon until the moment it will stop him suffering from another scar.
Harry is unfamiliar with parts of his own body now. His left arm no longer his own. Above his wrist, torn roughly into his flesh lays a raggedly cut skull, red, seared from a dirty knife, and wrapped in a roughly scratched serpent. He inscribed his arm the second midnight after he first let Draco kiss him. The scar is another warning, to himself, or perhaps to someone else. Letting them know that he is already marked—he marked himself so that he was solely Draco's, and in a place only those who sought darkness would think to brand him. Draco may soon lead Harry into darkness, and the only thing stopping Harry from following is what Draco inspired Harry to do to himself. He's protected, now. Branding himself like one of them, and dispelling the temptation before it could ever take root.
Harry loves Draco enough to follow him anywhere, and for this reason he's given himself the dark mark; so that Draco can never lead Harry to someone else who might.
-- finis
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thank you to lj user=alexathain for the beta, and to lj user=pixiezombie for the title.
ISigil: A sign or an image considered magical./I
Harry has his own mark, now. Dark and bold, and completely his own.
Not a severe slash marring his forehead that he had no choice in. Not a scar that Voldemort gave him. Not something that has been splashed across thousands of newspaper articles and books—at least not a mark that has previously been associated with him, anyway. This is part of him solely because he wishes it to be.
He can't show anyone, of course. That would be foolish. But regardless of whether he could or not, Harry doesn't want to show off this mark because it's *his*, something private, and not for the eyes of others. For fingers and flesh, perhaps. But not for eyes. Not for Draco's eyes when they look upon his flesh in the dark; instead, hands and fingers brush across his legs and torso and arms, and trace the raised, scarred edge of his own brand. Not his mark really, but he's made it his own.
Harry is sure Draco knows what it is when his fingers splay over the mark, how could he not, when he grew up with the mark imbedded in his mind. Draco must know, because it is the only place on Harry's pale body that he's not kissed. And Harry can't help but hate Draco for knowing what it is.
Two things imprudent, and yet Harry considers neither a mistake. The mark is old, older than himself even, yet new in his adolescent flesh. Angry red against pale skin, textured and raised against smooth flesh and oh-so- perfectly *wrong* for his eyes only to fall upon. Yet in it's own way the mark protects him, justifying everything that is wrong about it. And in Draco lies the smooth perfection that Harry's latest scar does not offer; silky-smooth and pale all over, offering no ugly scars creasing over beautiful skin—Harry knows he can continue to defile himself as long as he can still touch Draco and feel something beautiful.
Late at night, when it's dark and Harry's completely alone he'll forget which came first; the scar, the mark, or Draco. Sometimes, he'll forget any exists at all, and for a time, there's only Harry; unmarred perfection, lost amongst the eyes of the innocent in a world of deification where no one can see any of the scars that tarnish him.
And as Harry keeps reminding himself in the moments when he wishes to see Draco's face as he orgasms, not even Draco can see the scars in the darkness, and that is the way it must remain. He can't let anyone—not even his lover—see the decimation of his body. A scar inflicted on himself in a moment of profligate adolescence and angry, bitter tears is something that only his eyes should set upon until the moment it will stop him suffering from another scar.
Harry is unfamiliar with parts of his own body now. His left arm no longer his own. Above his wrist, torn roughly into his flesh lays a raggedly cut skull, red, seared from a dirty knife, and wrapped in a roughly scratched serpent. He inscribed his arm the second midnight after he first let Draco kiss him. The scar is another warning, to himself, or perhaps to someone else. Letting them know that he is already marked—he marked himself so that he was solely Draco's, and in a place only those who sought darkness would think to brand him. Draco may soon lead Harry into darkness, and the only thing stopping Harry from following is what Draco inspired Harry to do to himself. He's protected, now. Branding himself like one of them, and dispelling the temptation before it could ever take root.
Harry loves Draco enough to follow him anywhere, and for this reason he's given himself the dark mark; so that Draco can never lead Harry to someone else who might.
-- finis
