Author's Note: Apologies for my lack of updates, I don't even have a good excuse… I hope this chapter makes all of you happy, though; most of it is through Harry's POV.

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Chapter Nine: Red Reflections

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Draco sat at his desk, hunched over a book, sipping from a glass that held something in it that closely resembled blood; its sweet, warm taste helping to relax the blonde. For so many years, he began, I have been able to block it all out; to leave it sitting in some dark, forgotten place inside the complexities that rest within my head. For so long, in fact, that I could almost believe that those memories were never there, that they never happened. That invisible weight that was once avoidable becomes heavier, dragging me down, dragging everything down.

I could never admit the events in my life that turned everything into a sordid disaster, filled with bitter thoughts and a long since forgotten self-worth; but I am sure the implications made within my own reflections make it quite clear the events my past has held. It's funny how things can work out like that; being able to avoid issues in your own mind, just to make life easier. I suppose I never realized how difficult it all would be to face when the time came for acceptance.

Then again, I never thought a time such as this would come.

I never had a real father; I had a mentor, a teacher. I might not have minded that relationship too much, if the events of which I learned my lessons had been different. The first lesson I can remember (although regretfully, I must add) is that of family loyalty. A bitter lesson it was, six years of the same pain, and it never got any easier, never.

Violation is the worst kind of humiliation and shame that could be forced upon someone; I don't mean the word 'forced' figuratively either. You get to a point where you can just move on from the past… but something always comes back up and rips it all apart. I should have seen it coming, to be honest; I had just assumed that I'd be free of that disgusting feeling of shame once my father stopped showing interest in me…

No such luck for a person as broken on the inside as I am. A slow sigh brushed past Draco's lips as he shifted in his seat, his breath making the flame flicker on the solitary candle that sat beside him on the desk. The light cast a strange, dark, and deformed shadow upon the opposite wall, and if anyone were watching closely, they could have seen a single tear suddenly fall from the silhouette. Draco closed his eyes when it slipped, and couldn't bear to open them. He couldn't look down at where the drip had hit the parchment below his bowed figure, and he couldn't watch that stray drop smearing like dark blood upon the slowly drying ink of the word he feared the most: broken.

Long minutes passed as Draco sat, hunched over the leather bound journal, feeling compelled to finish what he had started; to finally get it all out of his head, but his hand refused to move anymore. He took in a shaky breath and re-opened his eyes, looking down at the neatly written words.

Draco's hand clutched around his quill, and his face hardened into a sneer. "I don't need this shit," he growled to himself, slamming shut his book and walking away from his desk, convinced that anger was a much better alternative to sadness. He never did self-pity well; even the scars that lined his body hadn't been created out of pity.

The material of Draco's clothes dragged across his forearms, making the smooth cloth feel rough and uncomfortable against his tender skin. He winced slightly, feeling scabs catching on the sleeves of his shirt. Draco stripped down to his boxers and walked the candle over to his nightstand before settling himself into his bed, his back against the headboard. No emotion went through him as he stared down at his arms, felt nothing as his fingers lightly traced over the fresh cuts. He never expected to have things get so out of hand. He chuckled lightly at the bitter irony of the statement. It never got out of his hands, though. No, his own hands caused the marks that covered his skin.

His nails lightly scraped over the sensitive flesh of his arms, causing the blonde to shiver. Exactly what made him hurt himself, anyway? Draco frowned, not being able to come up with a better reason other than fact that he just simply enjoyed the pain. He could come up with plenty excuses, but that's just what they were… excuses. His left hand clenched into a fist; he was angry with himself. He shouldn't have been able to fall so easily. He roughly dragged his blunt fingernails over the yellowish scabs outlined in red, tender skin upon his forearms. Why was he so weak? Why was he so angry?

He couldn't keep blaming his father for everything; it wasn't like he pushed the razor into Draco's hand and said, "Cut." Draco's eyes softened, his father had even removed the scars that stuck out so boldly on his arms. Was that the same man that so easily took away the innocence that Draco once had? His head bowed, it didn't make any sense; none of it did.

Feeling every emotion fall away from his mind, except for that same original sadness, Draco slid down into the bed; not caring if the blood that was slowly oozing out of his cuts ruined his sheets. He was determined to fall asleep before anymore tears could be allowed to fall from his pale eyes.

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Harry lightly tossed his bag to the floor, left of his desk, surprising himself for being early. His feet, that barely touched the ground, swung back and forth a little, the boredom of waiting already settling in. The small Gryffindor propped his elbows up onto the hard wooden desk and let his head settle in his hands. In spite of being slightly restless, Harry felt good. He purposely had skipped the drug part of his morning routine, and for the first time since he could remember, his head felt clear. The foreign sensation almost made him feel like he was high, from the lack of his disjointed thoughts, and the easy, comfortable feeling of being grounded made Harry completely aware of everything around him, in a pleasant sort of way. A faint smile crossed his lips; he hadn't felt this way in such a long time…

Of course, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him, it was still morning, and that he was bound to feel differently by the time lunch came round. Harry frowned at the thought. It was easy to admit that it felt strange this morning, when he put away his bag of DXM instead of actually taking one of the cream coloured capsules, but that wasn't the issue. However, it was the fact that he couldn't admit that he felt that needy pull to take something every time he felt one of his highs beginning to wear off that always managed to cause some form of internal conflict in the Gryffindor. Harry decided to force his attention elsewhere as more students began to filter in through the door.

A familiar blonde Slytherin walked into the room, usual strut appropriately in place. Harry would have smiled if he didn't feel like something was wrong with the light haired wizard. The two young wizards' eyes caught for a moment, Harry smiling lightly, and Draco's face expressing curiosity, it was obvious the blonde was confused as to why Harry was already in class

Neither said a word as Draco sat down, but it was evident that Harry was itching to say something. Draco ignored him. The smaller wizard sighed; Draco had to be the most difficult person he'd ever had to deal with. Harry stared, something was different about the blonde that sat next to him, but before he could further divulge in his thoughts, professor Devroy walked into the room.

"You give me the first half of class without interruption; I'll give you the last half. So, sit down, be quiet, and take out your notes." Devroy paused momentarily, waiting for the class to comply. "Today we're going to be starting theory on Thought Change," he began, turning to face the black board behind him. "Thought Change has many similar properties to Glance Change; does anyone have any guesses as to what they are?"

Harry stared down at his blank notes, back up to his professor briefly, then back down to his parchment. Sighing to himself, the Gryffindor looked briefly over at Draco, who was writing notes down, although he only looked half-aware of what he was doing. Harry's eyes shifted over to how Draco was sitting, slightly hunched over, with his right arm wrapped around his stomach, it seemed… awkward, almost. His eyebrows furrowed, something was wrong with the blonde, Harry could feel it, but what?

The longer Harry stared at the Slytherin, the deeper Harry's frown became. Draco seemed so different today, but at the same time, he was exactly the same, Harry couldn't explain it. It was like watching television when the words didn't quite line up with the person talking. Perhaps the Gryffindor just wasn't used to being around Draco with a clear head, but if that was the case… was Draco always this way? No, the dark haired wizard thought, even when Harry was high, he wasn't that oblivious… he hoped.

"Mister Potter." Harry jumped at the voice, recognizing it as professor Devroy. "As much as you may enjoy spending your time staring at mister Malfoy, I am quite sure that he is not the one teaching this class. Please pay attention."

Harry blushed a violent shade of red. "Sorry, sir," he said softly. Devroy rolled his eyes, and continued speaking, although Harry still did not pay attention. Out the corner of his eye, he saw Draco look over at him. Turning his head slightly, the dark haired wizard glanced back and smiled lightly, not being able to help the small feeling of joy he got when he received any kind of attention from the blonde. Draco's face of indifference turned into confused curiosity at Harry's strange smile, wondering what the Gryffindor was on that made Harry act so strangely.

Harry's feet scoffed lightly on the floor, he was a little annoyed at the fact that he couldn't completely tune out professor Devroy's voice. He didn't know how much time had passed when Devroy had told the class to break off with their partners and work on their portfolio, but Harry was relieved. His wooden chair scraped roughly against the stone floor as he dragged it, along with his bag, over to Draco.

Before Harry had a chance to say anything, Draco pushed a neatly written checklist in front of him, saying, "We've got most of our research finished already," the blonde began, "as well as the six main essays." Harry noticed that Draco stared at the paper as he talked, which confused the Gryffindor; Draco was one of those people that always looked at whoever they were talking to… it actually unnerved Harry sometimes, but it bothered him that Draco seemed to be avoiding him as much as he could.

"Are you okay?" Harry asked, stopping Draco from talking. The muscles on Draco's back noticeably tensed at the simple question and long seconds passed.

The Slytherin ignored the question. "I figured since we already tried working on Touch Change, this next essay won't take very long to finish, since the hardest part is always the practical work, and we already have a pretty good idea as to what we're doing."

Draco had asked a question, but Harry didn't hear him, his own thoughts taking precedence over the portfolio he was supposed to be working on. He still couldn't get over how he felt. Sure, he didn't feel fantastic, but things seemed so much easier with a clear mind. The dark haired wizard thought back, remembering that there was a time when he was convinced that drugs had made the way his mind saw things so much more simplistic, made things easier to deal with. It was almost confusing, to see what a contradiction that seemed to be now. Harry looked at Draco, who was busy writing, and it also confused him how well he got along with the blonde Slytherin that sat next to him. They were exact opposites, but at the same time… Harry saw more similarities between the both of them, that it was almost comical. Had he have let the sorting hat place him in Slytherin… would he be more like Draco? He doubted it, but at the same time, it was possible, wasn't it? It's the surroundings you're put in that create the person you become, and Harry had no doubt that being in Gryffindor had definitely influenced the kind of person he had turned into.

The last thoughts made Harry wonder what Draco's childhood was like. Sure, he'd heard all sorts of things, and he had always assumed that Draco adored his father, especially as the young Malfoy certainly never gave any hint that he didn't, but there was something off in the way that the blonde acted. Not just today, but always; it was almost as if something didn't quite fit, or perhaps there was just something missing from him.

Like what had happened the other night, Harry thought. What had gone through Draco's head to make him react the way he did? He saw Draco behave in ways he never would have thought. Shy, and hesitant, he seemed unsure of himself, or perhaps it was the situation that made him wary. Something had happened, though, when he recoiled… panicked seemed like a better word. It had been such a pleasure being able to touch Draco, to be that close to him, it put an emotion inside of his head that Harry hadn't realized he'd lost. He wasn't sure what it was, but he knew that he liked it, but what made Draco pull away? Perhaps it had something to do with all those scars on his stomach.

It was at that moment when Harry realized how those got there. Those marks had been self-inflicted; they had to be. Why would Draco do that to himself, though? Harry remembered how the blonde froze up when he had discovered them. There were spells you could use to get rid of them, and he remembered looking at them with longing, wishing he could use them, but knowing that they'd never work on the scar that adorned his forehead. Maybe he wanted them there? Harry shook his head; that was an absurd notion. Aside from the scars Draco had created, his skin was flawless. The blonde would have to be crazy to want to keep his skin marred. Harry's brows furrowed, but what if he did keep them there on purpose? What would make him want to do that? Harry sighed, confused.

The Gryffindor was pulled from his thoughts when he heard a cough next to him. He looked over to see Draco writing. His eyes widened when he saw exactly how much he had written. He bit the side of his lip, feeling guilty that he hadn't been helping with anything. Every time Draco tried to get the dark haired wizard to work on the portfolio, Harry had conveniently avoided doing any actual work, even if he had worked extremely hard on his three essays, that was all he'd really done.

He opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it, figuring that Draco wouldn't even bother responding to him. Harry frowned deeply at the thought. Ever since he started working with Draco, and spending time with him, he had been off in his own little world, loving every second he had been in the presence of the blonde, without too much thought about Draco himself. Now that Harry thought about it, Draco never seemed very happy, and that which made Harry feel like a terrible friend, for not noticing earlier. His thoughts stopped for a moment. Were they friends? Harry shook his head a little, of course they were, what else would you call it? He wondered if he would ever be able to get the blonde to talk to him. Everyone needs someone to confide in, don't they?

Harry watched Draco as he wrote; Draco was one of those people that were interesting to watch. Just certain things he did, probably without even knowing, stuck out. The blonde had his own way of doing things, like, taking something so simple and common, something like writing, and making it interesting. It sounded dumb to think about, but it was true. Draco was the type of person that needed to be in charge of any given situation, as if being in control was his comfort zone. Perhaps he just thought Harry would be unable to do their portfolio right, which would be a correct assumption, not that Harry would ever tell Draco that.

The thought brought Harry's mind back to the other night. Perhaps that's what made Draco so uncomfortable, the fact that he wasn't in control? The more Harry thought about it, the more it made sense. Of course, there had been something else involved, there had to have been. No one would react the way Draco did, very spontaneously, it seemed, and the things he had said; "not again;" it was obvious that Draco hadn't been talking about Harry, since that had never happened between them before. Maybe Draco had been… no, Harry shook his head again, that couldn't be it, it was impossible… right? Harry's green eyes softened. It made sense, though, his mind argued. From what happened the other night, the fact that Draco shied away from physical contact, he also hated not being in control, even the scars on his body made sense. Maybe Draco thought they took away from his appeal, even if they were hidden, acting like a security blanket, almost.

Harry almost didn't notice that class had ended, only looking up when Draco started talking to him. "Well, since you accomplished nothing, you can give these to the professor to look over." Draco fathered four rolls of parchment and pushed them in front of the dark haired wizard expectantly, before packing the rest of his school work.

Mumbling to himself, Harry stood, grabbed the essays and walked up to Devroy's desk. "Professor?" Devroy looked up, waiting for Harry to continue. "We've finished four of our essays." Harry held them out for Devroy to take, he didn't. "Draco wanted you to take a look at them," the Gryffindor continued. Professor Devroy cocked an eyebrow at the use of Draco's first name, so unused to hearing it.

"Set them down then, Potter," he spoke, and went back to whatever he was doing.

Simply nodding, Harry set the parchments down and walked back to his desk, hoping that Draco hadn't left yet. The blonde had just walked out of the door when Harry had swung his backpack over his shoulder. Determined to at least talk to him, Harry ran out of the room. He caught up to Draco towards the end of the hallway, wrapping his fingers around the blonde's small upper arm. "Hey, wait a sec," he said.

"I have to go, Potter," Draco said without looking at the other wizard, pulling out of the grasp; he left the young Gryffindor alone in the practically empty corridor.

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End

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