Scarred
When Harry Potter finally defeated Lord Voldemort, Draco thought the Order of the Phoenix would have woken up from their places on the ground and cheered. He assumed that every single student that fought would rise from the bloodstained grass, the blood on their own bodies would dissipate, and Harry Potter would be picked up and put on the shoulders of Remus Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt, and it would be a celebration to remember.
Draco's cynical view of the Order of the Phoenix had rapidly turned into something of a delusion. Instead of thinking that the Order would never, ever destroy the Dark Lord, as he'd previously thought, he began to believe that Dumbledore and his followers seemed able to succeed in even the more dire pursuits. In Draco's mind, the Order was the key to living as life was before Voldemort, before the First War, and before dark magic was so prominent. When Draco became a spy for Dumbledore, he thought that he could certainly help the Order in their quest to kill Voldemort and his supporters.
Draco's father was there when he was initiated in to the Dark Lord's ranks. Through the Cruciatus curse, and other torture, some given by Lucius himself, Draco held himself up, positive in that the worst would be over soon. After Voldemort had deemed Draco worthy enough to join him, Draco had received the Dark Mark. It burned on his on his skin, tears stung his eyes, but he held them back. His father was a mere five or six feet away, watching him.
When it was over, his father nodded stoically, before leaning down and pressing his lips to Draco's forehead.
Draco had rolled his eyes under his father's head, but Lucius hadn't noticed. Lucius had even managed a slight smile, and muttered, "I knew you would see it our way."
Draco had seen his mother the next day. She too smiled, but not in the proud way Lucius had. There was no kiss on the forehead, nothing at all except a sigh and a pat on the shoulder. The only thing she said was, "Be careful."
Draco almost wanted to ask if she knew. If she was remotely aware that he didn't want to join the Dark Side, but only wanted to do what was right. He only wanted to prove to somebody, be it his father or the Order that he could fight for what he believed in. He wasn't just another rag doll.
Draco had worked himself to the ends of his wits. He had worked hard, finding out when attacks were being planned. He had gotten down on his knees and kissed the hems of Voldemort's robes. He had slaved away to seem a convincing supporter of Lord Voldemort, and in the process began to formulate a scene in his head about the Final Battle. He had helped the Order decipher exactly when it would be, and he in turn had privately put together what would happen. The Order would fight the Death Eaters until it was only Potter versus Voldemort. Potter would throw a curse, the Dark Lord would die, and those that had fallen would wake and the Wizarding World would be overjoyed.
Of course, only part of what Draco thought would happen actually had happened.
It had started as The Order and Hogwarts Seventh Years versus twenty-some Death Eaters. One by one, or two by two, or seven by seven, they were all hit with curses and fell to the ground. Just as Draco had predicted.
Draco was on the edge of the Forbidden Forest, behind a tree and some stray shrubs. He had watched the scene unfold silently. He had only fought for a few minutes and hadn't struck down anyone before he left to watch from the forest. No one had noticed his absence, there were too many people on the field and it was at times hard to decipher who was who. Potter and Voldemort had exchanged a few words of courtesy. Voldemort shot the first spell, coincidentally Avada Kedavra, but Potter dodged it. Draco wondered why Potter had fallen to the ground, even though the spell hadn't hit him. Voldemort had looked shocked at first, then pleased. He had walked up to Potter's body, kicked it in joy. Then he threw back his head and laughed, and Draco shuddered. Why wasn't Potter getting up? The spell had missed him.
Oh. Potter was faking. Draco could tell easily that the spell hadn't hit him, but Voldemort couldn't. Draco thought perhaps Voldemort was stupider than Draco had originally thought.
Voldemort was looking the other way, and Potter's head lifted slightly, going unnoticed by Voldemort, but not unnoticed by Draco. The spell was whispered quickly, even Draco hadn't heard it, and Voldemort was dead in a millisecond. That's when Draco's mind stopped. He waited for the bodies to rise, for Lupin and Shacklebolt to hoist Harry onto their shoulders. At least for Dumbledore to come. Potter appeared unconscious from Draco's point of view, his head falling limply to the side, his hair covering his scar.
And when no one came, Draco dropped to his knees and sat. He didn't cry, he didn't faint. He just sat. He sat and stared. He was the only one awake in this sea of bodies. He was alive, when half of them were dead. He was clean and dry, when half of them were bleeding and helpless.
The battle had gone quicker than he'd thought. It wasn't long and drawn out. It was bloody, certainly, but it had only lasted… what, an hour? Two?
He watched Madame Pomfrey walk solemnly out onto the front lawn. She had stayed in the castle with a good number of fifth year students. The students followed her out, and silently, without saying a word, she magicked the bodies all on to stretchers, one by one. The students tended to the stretchers, in a line, guiding them back up into the castle and to the hospital wing. It was almost robotic, the way that none of them spoke, none of them cried. They worked. That was it.
Nearly all of the bodies were gone when Madame Pomfrey spoke to one of the fifth years, who started conjuring more stretchers. Draco watched her come near the forest, walk through the shrubbery, and kneel down next to him.
"You really helped, Mr. Malfoy. You have our gratitude." Draco blinked. Madame Pomfrey kept talking, something about bravery, and having the courage to fight for what he wanted. But he wasn't listening.
"You should really come back to the castle. I can use some help," she said.
Draco continued to sit. Madame Pomfrey touched his shoulder lightly, but he flinched so hard that her hand reflexively pulled away.
The only bodies left that needed stretchers were Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, and Potter himself. Draco pushed past Madame Pomfrey and walked back to the castle alone, ignoring the line of fifth years still floating stretchers up to the castle. His hands were in his pockets, and he felt cold, even though the air was fairly warm with a little bit of a breeze.
His head was pounding all of a sudden, and he felt a bit dizzy. He must have fainted, because several days later he woke in the hospital wing with Professor Snape's large nose looming over him.
"Malfoy! Are you up?"
Draco tried to lean up in the bed, but a sharp pain in his head pulled him back down and he lay like that for a few seconds, pressing his fingers to his temples. He groaned when he tried to sit up again, so instead he settled for resting his head back against the fluffy pillows and staring Snape in the face. Snape's face was still very close to his, and Draco asked politely if Snape would back off a little bit, he needed a bit of breathing room.
"Not a problem, Mr. Malfoy. Are you doing alright?"
Draco grunted an, "I'm alright, thanks," and closed his eyes again. "Where's the party?" he asked.
"There is no party," Snape said. "I'm sure families are celebrating all over Britain." Snape cleared his throat. "But there will be no parties at Hogwarts."
"No one died, did they?" Draco asked, proving his delusional post-war fantasy wrong faster by the second.
"Too many died, Mr. Malfoy."
"How many?"
"Too many."
Snape seemed disinclined to say anything more. Draco wasn't sure what he wanted to ask next. There were still so many things going around in his head. He settled for the most logical one.
"I know the Dark Lord's dead." Snape nodded. "But what happened to… to Potter? Is he alive?"
"Alive and well, actually. Bad case of fright, very shocked, but other than that, Wonder Boy has pulled it off again. For good this time, too, it seems." Snape almost chuckled, but held back. Draco smiled, though, and Snape let out a small laugh.
"You realize we couldn't have done this without you, don't you? And Potter… Potter told me to tell you that he's very thankful." Snape looked uncomfortable. Draco nodded in response.
"What about my parents?" If possible, Snape looked even more uncomfortable. His eyes slid from Draco's face to his feet, and Draco wasn't sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"Your mother is in Azkaban, because they found Death Eater records in her room, some rather… personal letters exchanged between her and half the Death Eaters including Lord Voldemort himself. She did a lot of the planning, she was very inactive in the actual attacks, but she did all the research and figures. As for your father… yes, he's dead." Snape said the last part very quickly.
Draco tried hard to squeeze a single tear out of his eye, but it wouldn't come.
"I know you don't care. There's no use in pretending for me," said Snape, raising his eyebrows.
Draco nodded. "When can I leave the hospital wing?"
"You'll have to ask Madame Pomfrey. She's currently tending to Potter, who's been suffering from panic attacks… I'd suggest resting a little bit more before talking to her."
Draco nodded and stopped himself from staring over at the beds beside his to find Potter's. Snape nodded and pursed his lips in some form of a smile and left the hospital wing, but not before telling Madame Pomfrey that Draco was awake and well. Draco was left alone with his thoughts, but now that Snape was gone, he turned his head and saw Potter two beds down from his. Madame Pomfrey was administering some sort of potion and Potter was grimacing. Then the nurse gave him chocolate to wash it down with, and Potter leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Draco pulled his own eyes away from Potter's direction and closed them.
"Madame Pomfrey?" he called out.
She came bustling to his bedside, chocolate in hand. Draco noticed that she'd broken the piece from the same one she'd given Potter.
"Here, eat this, Mr. Malfoy."
Draco gratefully took the chocolate and chewed thoughtfully. "How long do I have to stay here?"
"As long as it takes, Mr. Malfoy."
"Takes for what?" he asked curiously.
"You've been through a lot, I think it's best if you just stay here for a while…" Madame Pomfrey trailed off to the back of the room and returned shortly with a towel and washcloth. "Why don't you go in and take a shower?"
Draco accepted the towel and washcloth and heaved himself out of bed. The chocolate had certainly done its job. His head was feeling much better and it wasn't pounding painfully anymore.
In the shower, Draco turned the dial on the showerhead so that it beat in hard splatters against his back. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the spray, stifling a moan of pleasure as the water ran down his spine, gathered in the small of his back, then between his thighs and down his legs.
He washed his hair first. It had grown quite long, almost down to his shoulders. He squeezed some shampoo onto his hand and began to lather up his hair. He massaged his scalp, living in the sensation of being delicately cared for, even though he was the one doing the caring. He put a small squirt of conditioner in his hair and began to wash his body.
The soap smelled of lavender, a rather girly scent, but Draco wet the bar of soap and started on his neck and collarbone, then moving down his chest, lingering some around his nipples. He washed his arms next, paying careful attention to the bruises and cuts and scars down his arms from his Death Eater initiation. Down his stomach, he skipped his cock and bent down to wash his thighs and calves. He hitched a foot on to the small ledge in the shower and washed his feet, spreading the soap around with his hands. He then took the washcloth from the hook on the other end of the shower and rubbed the soap into the cloth.
He did his cock first, tugging at his balls with the small towel, then back up his shaft. He brought the washcloth to his face, inhaling the scent, and then scrubbing his forehead, cheeks, chin, and nose softly. He washed behind his ears, then slapped the cloth behind his back and scrubbed his shoulder blades and lower back. Draco turned around and rinsed out the washcloth, then wrung it out and put it on the ledge. He closed the caps of the shampoo and conditioner, broke the miniscule bar of soap into tiny pieces and watched it slide down the drain, then stepped back into the forceful spray.
This time Draco changed the water to a lighter, rain-like pour and he stood under it, rinsing the conditioner out of his hair and the soap off his body. He watched the soap fall down his calves in turrets and drip off his feet down the water pipe.
He was just about to turn around and turn the tap off of the water when he noticed through his half-lidded eyes that someone was watching him. He suddenly felt the urge to cover himself up, but he didn't want the person to know he'd seen them. Instead, he pushed his hands in front of his eyes in a dramatic gesture of pushing his hair back from his face. While his palms covered his eyes from view, they shot wide open to the slightly ajar door. His fingers were inched slightly apart so that he could clearly see the black mop of hair, the thin figure decked in pajamas, clouded glasses from the steam hiding brilliant green eyes, and the tan hand slipping into his pajama bottoms: Harry Potter.
Draco couldn't bear the thought of someone wanking to him. Especially when they thought he wasn't looking. He was covered in bruises and marks and remnants of the consequences of being one of Voldemort's Death Eaters. Although the Dark Mark had disappeared with Voldemort's death, Draco felt scarred and disgusting. Half the marks on his body would never fade, and he felt abhorred that someone was taking in the sick sight of him.
"Potter! What the fuck?!" Draco called over the noise of the water, opening his eyes fully and turning the spray off, reaching for his towel. He wrapped it around his waist and glared.
"I…, er, Malfoy, I just… Are you done in the shower?" Harry mumbled, a hint of desperation in his voice and a flush in his cheeks.
"Yes, I'm through, if you'll kindly get out of the bathroom while I finish drying off," Draco said. He stared pointedly at Harry, who didn't budge. His blush seemed to be diminishing and he looked rather pissed off that he had gotten caught staring. Draco almost laughed.
"Malfoy, get outta there." Harry pushed past Malfoy, their shoulders brushing and stepped into the shower, his hand on the tap. "Get out, or I'll turn it on. I want to shower."
Draco raised his eyebrows at this childish display of idiocy and shrugged. "Whatever, Potter."
Draco remained in the hospital wing for three more days, studiously avoiding showering, much to his dismay, and Harry Potter's bed two from his own. Draco left two weeks before Potter did, and he found himself often looking across the Great Hall, where the tables were considerably emptier than they were before the Final Battle. He looked directly at the Gryffindor Table, directly where Potter always sat, and was surprised not to find him and Weasley and Granger sitting there together.
Both Weasley and Granger had fought in the Final Battle. Only Weasley survived. Weasley was at the table, though, in his usual spot right next to Potter. Weasley had taken on the appearance of Granger, with his books laid out on the table. The past two weeks had been nothing but studying, to everyone's shock, and it seemed that Weasley was immersing himself in studies to ignore Granger's absence. Even Draco knew they'd been together. The whole school did. Part of him felt bad for Weasley, but since Malfoys don't feel bad for Weasleys, he pushed the thought away.
When Potter's usual spot was taken again at the Gryffindor Table, Draco found himself glancing up at the Gryffindors even more. He knew Potter looked over at his table as well, though Potter couldn't disguise his stares at Draco by looking at someone else because Draco sat alone. Potter couldn't have been staring at anyone but him, and though he had no bruises on his face and his robes covered the rest of him, Draco still felt ugly and naked every time Potter looked over at his table.
It was only April and Hogwarts wouldn't let out for another two months. There were no exams to study for, just regular classes and regular homework. Transfiguration was taken over by Dumbledore after McGonagall was hit with a stray Avada Kedavra and Draco's dislike for the subject worsened every time Dumbledore looked his way and smiled with that odd smile of his.
In late May, Draco lay in the sun near the lake, watching the calm water. The Giant Squid refused to surface nowadays, and Draco found it amusing to watch the first and second years throw rocks into the lake to try and get the squid to appear.
When a dark shadow fell over him from behind, he didn't even have to look up to guess who it was.
"Potter." Draco said his name with no feeling, none of the usual malice but certainly no chumminess that the war had brought in bringing everyone closer together.
"Malfoy?" Potter said.
"Potter," Draco answered back.
"Malfoy…" this time Potter trailed off without continuing.
"Potter, this is going nowhere," said Draco, turning around to face Potter, leaning against a small boulder.
Potter sat down. "Thanks."
"For what?" Draco asked. He knew what for. His role as a double agent saved many a life, he knew it and so did everyone else. But it was tactful to let Potter explain, and Draco did well with tact.
"For what you did. Spying for the Order. It helped a lot." Potter looked embarrassed, as though he had confessed a dark secret.
"I wasn't the only one," Draco said modestly. He didn't have any idea where this conversation was going, or what the point of it in the first place was. "Snape helped a lot, you know. I know everyone thought he was a Death Eater from day one and that he wasn't loyal to Dumbledore at all, but he really did make a difference." Draco felt it was only right to give credit where credit was due.
"I know what Snape did. But I'm talking about you." Potter stared at him. "Not that I'm not grateful for what Snape did. Trust me, I am. But I'm thanking you. I already thanked Snape."
Draco didn't quite know what to say. "You're welcome, Potter." He said, staring back out at the lake where the first years had succeeded in getting one of the squid's tentacles to come crashing out of the water and down again, creating an enormous splash.
"Um, about that day… in the hospital wing…" Potter trailed off again. Draco was beginning to wonder about Potter's speech abilities under stress.
"What about it?" Draco said nonchalantly.
"Um… sorry about that," said Potter, looking at his feet. He then plopped down next to Draco and looked at him closely, squinting, as though searching for something.
"Will you stop staring?" Draco was feeling uncomfortable again. He didn't like being so close to people, least of all Potter, and he did not like being stared at.
"I'm thinking," Potter said, and continued to look at Draco. At first he looked directly into Draco's grey eyes, then started a descent of Draco's body, down his slightly turned up nose, thin lips, his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and into his lap. Draco had the feeling that Potter wanted him to stand up so he could examine the rest of his body, but he sat firmly on the ground.
"It makes me uncomfortable when people stare at me. I don't like it," Draco confessed.
Potter's response to that was, "It makes me uncomfortable that you hate me. I don't like that we're enemies." Draco half expected him to say, "Why can't we be friends?" but he did no such thing.
"I don't hate you, Potter. I just don't like you," Draco said. But no, that wasn't true. He didn't dislike Potter. It was more of a neutral opinion of him, derived from six years of hatred and a year of working alongside the Order.
Potter's face fell, but returned to normal a millisecond later. His eyes trailed down Draco's arm, and Draco could imagine Potter's eyes seeing through his robes, taking in the sight of the scars from deep gashes that had long since closed up and the mark that had faded from his skin but was some how still branded into his heart, a reminder of what used to be.
"Potter, can you please stop looking at me. It's starting to annoy me," Draco said. He crossed his arms over his chest.
"I can't help it," Potter said softly, so soft that Draco didn't think he'd even heard him properly.
"Sorry, what?" Draco asked, checking to make sure he hadn't heard what he thought he had.
"That day in the hospital wing, when I saw you in the shower. All I had wanted to do was take a shower. I wanted to wait until you were done, but I couldn't help just taking one quick look at you." Potter said all this very softly and Draco got the impression that it was taking a lot for Potter to talk about this to him. Draco wasn't all that sure what to make of it, or what it meant, or what Potter wanted it to mean. Draco raised his eyebrows and uncrossed his arms, letting his hands rest on his knees, inviting Potter to continue.
"And I just got carried away. Under the water, your hair stuck to your face, and all those cuts and bruises - " Potter stopped abruptly as Draco's face hardened into a look of pure venom and Draco knew he could tell he'd said the wrong thing.
"What about the cuts and bruises, Potter?" Draco asked, his voice cold and his face set. "Did they disgust you? It's sick, isn't it, what people have to go through to become a Death Eater."
"That's not what I was going to say, " mumbled Potter.
"Well?" snapped Draco after a good five minutes of uneasy silence had passed. "What were you going to say?"
"I was going to say that even with the…" Potter paused, as if he wasn't sure he should say what he was thinking about saying, "cuts and bruises, you still looked…" Another annoying pause. "Beautiful."
Draco couldn't believe what he was hearing. This was Potter that was talking this nonsense; it wasn't his fault if Potter was crazy. Those panic attacks must have really gotten to him, and Draco wished he wasn't having this discussion.
Draco looked at Potter, his eyes still narrowed and his face still set. Potter looked like he said something he shouldn't have. Or as though he was trying to say one thing, but had come out sounding like something else. Draco really hoped it was the latter.
"Sorry, what?" Draco asked for the second time in ten minutes.
"I called you beautiful." Potter looked extremely distressed, and Draco was confused out of his mind. Beautiful, him. Yeah, right. Draco's self image used to be very important to him. He prided himself on having smooth, pale, blemish-free skin. His hair was perfect, he was the object of desire of every girl at Hogwarts. He had never even considered boys, was still a virgin, and had only kissed two girls in his entire life. He knew he was wanted, but he wanted to wait. Now Draco was regretting the fact that he'd waited so long. Now he was marked and scarred, nothing anyone would ever want to get close to.
"You're out of your mind, Potter. Crazy," Draco said, starting to panic as Potter moved closer.
"I'm not," said Potter, his voice soft and sweet, his mouth so close that Draco could feel his breath dying on his own lips. "Let me kiss you."
Draco shook his head rapidly, but Potter was closing in. He was leaning against a large rock, Potter's hands on both sides of his head, trapped. Draco knew he could get away if he wanted to, he was strong enough to push Potter off and away and never come near him again. But part of him wanted to explore this new development, see what Potter thought he was all about.
"I'm going to kiss you, now." Potter looked into his grey eyes once more before his eyelids fluttered closed and his lips were pressed lightly against Draco's. A fleeting touch of the lips, brief and expected before Potter pulled back, opening his eyes. Draco's were still open, in surprise. "Close your eyes. It's weird if you keep them open." Potter moved his hands from either side of the rock and instead put one on Draco's cheek, the other at the base of his neck.
This time when Potter's lips touched his, he was ready. Ready, but not responsive. He closed his eyes and let Potter do as he wished. Both of Potter's hands moved to cup his face, and when his tongue pressed against Draco's lips, Draco opened his mouth reluctantly. Potter seemed to sense that something was wrong and swiped his tongue once more over Draco's before pulling back.
"Why won't you kiss me back?" Potter asked. His face held a look of confusion, and Draco couldn't answer the question. It wasn't that he didn't want to. As much as it pained him to admit it, Draco very much liked the feeling of having Potter's lips against his own. It shot sparks coursing through his veins to feel Potter's tongue in his mouth, even though Draco wouldn't kiss back with equal fervor.
"I don't know," Draco said, looking at his hands.
Potter stood up and offered a hand to Draco. Draco took it and rested his back on the rock behind him, and Potter stepped closer.
Potter kissed him again, this time using his tongue straight away. Draco opened his mouth, but didn't kiss back. He could tell he was frustrating Potter by not kissing him back nor pushing him away. Potter's hands laced around his neck for a few seconds before sliding down his arms to hold his hands briefly. Potter broke the contact of their hands and began pushing away the sleeves of Draco's robes, massaging his arms gently.
Draco's eyes snapped open the second Potter's fingers touched one of the many scars on his forearms. He pushed Potter away, straightened his robes, and stalked away back to the Slytherin Common Room, ignoring Potter's calls to come back.
Potter had taken to following Draco around frequently and it was a little unnerving. Weasley went everywhere Potter went, therefore Weasley followed Draco around as well, and that was starting to annoy Draco.
One day after Charms, when Potter and Weasley were coming back from Transfiguration, they tailed him several feet behind him as he walked out of Flitwick's classroom. This was the final straw for Draco, who constantly looked over his shoulder to check if they were there or not. He swerved on his heel and was faced with the unpleasant site of Weasley's face.
"Why the bloody hell do you insist on following me?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy. We were just passing by," the Weasel said, though unconvincingly. He took Potter's arm and made to pull him past Malfoy, but Potter had his feet planted firmly on the ground.
"Hold on a minute, Ron. I need to talk to Malfoy. Go to dinner, I'll meet you there," Potter said, nodding his head. Weasley looked fed up, but left for the Great Hall nonetheless.
Draco didn't like being around Potter with no one else there. The hallways had emptied fast, with the first and second years pushing past quickly, hurrying to get to lunch. All the other students were either in the Great Hall or in their dorms for a free period, and the corridor seemed quiet and empty with only Potter's breathing to listen to.
Potter was looking at him with an odd expression on his face. His brow was scrunched, his forehead had little lines in it, showing that Potter was concentrating. Draco didn't like being concentrated on and huffed.
"Why do you follow me around, Potter? Is this some kind of game? I'd suggest you give it up," Draco said, "because it's beginning to bug me."
"Malfoy, come on. You're not that thick, I know that," Potter said, staring pointedly at Draco's head, as if trying to examine his brain capacity.
"I don't want whatever you're trying to give me, Potter," Draco said, though his voice quavered as he spoke.
"Come on, Malfoy," Potter said again. "Just try it. You might like it." Potter sounded like he was a mum trying to get her child to eat vegetables or some other gross food that children normally don't like.
Potter leaned into him and put his hands on Draco's waist. Draco flinched, hard. Potter jumped at Draco's flinch, and it was all very awkward. Yet Potter's hands stayed where they were, and Draco felt sick. If Potter's hands slid under his shirt, and Draco had no doubt that Potter might try something of the sort, he didn't think he could stand it. The scarring was bad there, on his hips, stomach, and chest. He was all uneven skin, and it disgusted him.
True to his actions, Potter's lips were pressed against his in a matter of seconds. Potter didn't push it this time; just let his mouth rest lightly on Draco's. Draco was hesitant in admitting to himself that yes, he did quite enjoy it, and yes, he did want more. But he still wasn't sure what Potter was playing at. He wouldn't kiss Potter, initiate more than what was already happening because he still felt that Potter was playing some sort of game with him.
Potter pulled back a fraction of an inch and pressed another small kiss to the corner of Draco's mouth. "Come with me."
Draco didn't particularly want to go anywhere with Potter. But Potter wouldn't take no for an answer, and actually went as far as to lace his fingers in Draco's and pull him along the fourth floor corridor to a portrait of a rather heavyset woman in a pink dress. Draco pulled his hand away from Potter's, who whispered a password and the portrait swung forward. Draco could see that beyond the portrait hole the room was decked out in hideous Gryffindor colors.
"No, Potter, I will not set one foot in your common room. Absolutely not." Draco felt he was making himself perfectly clear, but Potter's hand was entwined with his again and he allowed himself to be led into the thankfully empty common room, up a winding staircase, and into what he presumed to be Potter's dorm.
"Potter, no. I'm not going in there. No flippin' way."
When Draco found himself doing just that, he was rather surprised. He had always thought he had remarkable self-control and didn't do anything he didn't want to. In the past year he'd proved himself incredibly wrong, and that it was harder for him not to succumb to what was expected of him.
But no one expected him to kiss Harry Potter, or fuck Harry Potter, or get relatively near Harry Potter without the sole intent of punching his lights out. So why should he have to? He didn't have to. Potter was under the awful misimpression that Draco felt something other than to be his acquaintance, and Draco was getting dragged into it without consent.
"Potter, why am I in your dorm? It's filthy in here, and Weasley's underwear is two feet away from me, and I want to get out right now." Draco really did want to get out. At least, he thought he did. It wasn't all that bad, except the colors clashed marvelously and no one knew how to make their beds, and of course Weasley's underwear, but other than that Draco could think of no reason why he shouldn't be in here, though this was a Gryffindor room and he was technically forbidden to be there anyway.
Draco rambled on in his head a while before Potter got suspicious, glaring at him while leaning against the bedpost.
"Like I said before, Malfoy, try it… you might like it." Potter was so crass.
Draco was having a fierce debate in his head. On one hand, he could put up a fight and beat the living shit out of Potter. On the other hand, he could experience what he'd been wondering about for longer than he should have. But if he let Potter near him, and let Potter do what Draco wanted him to do, Potter would see the way he looked beneath several layers of clothes. And Draco wasn't sure he really wanted that.
Potter extended his hand and Draco considered a moment before hesitantly taking it. Potter pushed him down onto his bed, and Draco heard the bedsprings creak with his weight. Potter sat down next to him and put his hand on Draco's cheek. Draco leaned into Potter's touch. Potter put his other hand on Draco's waist, inching up his shirt the barest inch. Draco shifted and pulled away.
"What's wrong with you, Malfoy?" Potter asked snappishly. Draco wanted to point out that he had no real obligation to Potter and that he didn't want to kiss him anymore than he wanted to kiss a blast-ended-skrewt, but didn't, because maybe he did want to kiss Potter.
"I don't like it when people touch me," Draco said rather childishly.
"You don't even like it when people look at you," said Potter, stubborn. "What do you like?"
"I like a lot of things. Like Fizzing Whizbees and mint chocolate chip ice cream with chocolate sauce on sprinkles. I like insulting people, because people are fun to insult, and I like being in my own dorm, with my own housemates, surrounded by my own housemates bloody underwear," Draco said, glaring at Weasley's offending boxer shorts.
"That's not the point. Why won't you let me touch you?" Potter asked.
"Potter, you're forgetting one thing. In the past few weeks," Draco made a vague gesture with his hand, implying passing time, "you've followed me around, sat directly behind me in the Great Hall for lunch, you've watched me in the shower, wanking off no less, and finally break down and attempt to molest me - "
"I did not molest you! I kissed you!"
"Well, Potter, when I don't kiss back, doesn't that mean that I really don't want your attentions?" Draco was finally getting to the point of his spiel. "What I mean is, you haven't once offered an explanation as to why in fuck you're concentrating so hard to get me to kiss you, or fuck you, or whatever else your sick mind wants me to do. I don't know why you want me to do this, therefore I won't let you do this because I don't play games!"
Draco took a deep breath and smiled in a satisfied way.
"You think I'm playing a game with you?" Potter looked rather hurt. "I've played too many games, Malfoy, the novelty is starting to wear off. I'm not playing a game."
Draco started to say something, but Potter cut him off.
"I am certainly not playing a game with you, I think that's perfectly understandable. In case I haven't already made it perfectly clear…" Potter trailed off. Draco again began to wonder if he had problems finishing sentences.
"What's perfectly clear, Potter?"
"How I feel about you." Potter said it clearly, though quietly, annunciating every word. There was no way Draco could mistake it. He was planning on asking how exactly Potter felt about him, but he didn't have to. "I meant what I said out at the lake. You're beautiful. Not only physically."
"You don't know me, Potter. You can't judge me by anything other than my looks."
"I know more than you think. I know how even when the House Elves put coffee at your place at the Slytherin table you always demand that it be transfigured to tea, because you hate coffee. I know that Arithmancy is your favorite subject, because Hermione used to say that you always had your hand up and expressed so much interest in it. I know that you hate Muggleborns, and I know that you hate halfbloods, but even though I'm halfblood I know you don't hate me." Potter said the last bit with so much confidence, Draco believed it himself, though he knew he didn't hate Potter anyway.
"How does any of this classify me as beautiful?" asked Draco. Secretly he was wondering how on Earth Potter had found out all of this about him, but he kept quiet.
"It doesn't. It's just contributions to the person you are," stated Potter. "Why don't you let me kiss you? Why can't I touch you? Why can't I even look at you?" Potter said, as though not being able to do any of these things was life threatening.
Draco avoided the question, instead just stating a fact. "Sorry to disappoint you, Potter, but I'm no beauty."
"What makes you say that?"
Draco found himself pouring out the tale of his Death Eater initiation, starting with the Cruciatus curse for several days straight. He moved on to talk about the physical torture from the other Death Eaters and from Voldemort, how they lit their wands and touched them to Draco's skin, permanently scarring his once flawless skin, until finally Voldemort drew the tip of his wand to Draco's forearm, muttering the spell to burn the Dark Mark into his skin, leaving him with a searing pain for hours after.
"Show me," Potter said airily, taking Draco's hand again and moving his left sleeve up. The Mark was nowhere to be seen. Draco knew Potter knew that the Marks had faded. Potter didn't move up his sleeve any further. Just let it rest above where the Dark Mark used to be. "Show me," he repeated again.
Draco didn't know how to answer. Instead, he leaned forward and placed a small kiss on the corner of Potter's mouth. He stood up and carefully pulled his robes off, revealing a pair of grey trousers and a white t-shirt underneath. The t-shirt hid the scars on his stomach and back, but the ones on his arms were displayed in plain view.
"Can I touch them?" Potter asked.
Draco had no idea why Potter would want to touch anything so vile, but he nodded his consent blindly. The feel of Potter's hand around his wrist made Draco's stomach tingle.Potter massaged his arms, the scars making the once smooth skin rough, but Potter didn't seem to mind. His arms slid down Draco's sides and pulled easily at the bottom of Draco's t-shirt. Draco nodded again and Potter pulled the shirt up and over his head in one quick tug.
Potter's gasp echoed through the Gryffindor seventh year dorm. Draco made to cover himself with his arms, letting out a tiny whimper. Potter carefully moved Draco's hands from across his chest and placed his own hands there instead. They moved down Draco's abdomen, then back up again. Potter moved closer, shifting on the bed a little. When his lips were just inches away from Draco's, Potter moved back, asking again if it was alright.
Draco nodded, and Potter pressed his lips to Draco's, winding his arms around Draco's back, caressing the scars there gently. Draco groaned low in his throat, opening his mouth to let Potter slide his tongue in. Draco's hands, which were previously resting on the mattress, moved to tangle in Potter's dark hair as he kissed Potter back. Potter went rigid with surprise, but relaxed again easily as he pushed Draco backwards, near the headboard, never breaking the contact of their lips.
Their tongues twisted together as Potter arranged himself on top of Draco, pressing his hard-on into Draco's thigh where he could feel Draco's own cock rise. He kissed Draco's mouth again lightly, then pulled back a fraction of an inch.
"Even with the scars," Potter breathed, "you're beautiful. So damn beautiful."
Draco gasped as his hips jutted involuntarily upwards into Potter's, then reached his hands around and grasped Harry's ass firmly, pulling him further onto him and kissing him again. Potter's hands held his face gently as he kissed him, not at all aggressively. One hand left his face to trail down his left side and rest at his hipbone. Draco moaned into Potter's mouth, his own hands moving up to link around Potter's neck.
Potter ground himself down, and panted out, "What - - made you come around?"
"I just - got my priorities - " Draco pulled Potter down for another kiss, biting his lips and tongue softly at first, then harder, "straight."
Potter's hand moved between their bodies to pull down Draco's trousers, discarding them backwards towards Dean's bed. Draco saw Potter's eyes flicker down, eyeing the scars on his legs. They were heavier near his thighs, and dissipated by the time they reached his ankles. Potter reached his hands to touch Draco's chest, moving his lips from Draco's mouth to his neck, then down his torso and abdomen, placing tiny kisses on each of the scars there. His hands followed the path his lips took, and Draco groaned.
Potter's mouth rested below Draco's navel before he swerved to the left and trailed kisses down Draco's thighs, his hands brushing Draco's cock lightly once or twice. As he kissed back up Draco's other thigh, he looked up at Draco for permission, Potter's hands on the inside of his thighs and his mouth a mere inch from Draco's cock.
"Potter…" Draco mumbled incoherently.
"Harry," Potter stated firmly. "Call me Harry."
"Right… Harry…" Draco said."I want you to feel like you can trust me," Potter, no, Harry said, his fingers making small circles inside Draco's thighs. "You can trust me."
Draco moaned again and nodded. "Go ahead… if you want to." Draco closed his eyes and gripped the mattress sheets. Harry's breath was dying on the head of Draco's cock, and when his warm, wet mouth closed around it, Draco let out a cry of pleasure. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath.
Harry seemed to have found a suitable rhythm, and Draco squeezed his eyes shut in pleasure. Harry grasped his hips tightly, clumsily trying to take in as much of Draco's cock as he could. Draco didn't mind Harry's inexperience, as he didn't have any himself. It felt good to him just the same.
Draco was dangerously near release and Harry showed no sign of letting up. His fingers played with Draco's balls, cupping them in his palms as he sucked Draco off. His hands moved further back, and Draco felt tingling sensations spread through his veins as Harry neared his opening, his long fingers fleetingly touching him.
Just when Draco thought he was going come, Harry stopped his sucking and moved to kiss Draco again. Draco could taste his pre-come on Harry's lips, on his tongue, on the roof of his mouth. Harry's hand was still at his entrance, his fingers pushing in further. Draco groaned as he felt himself relaxing to Harry's touch. A deep, shuddering breath overtook him as Harry pushed his entire finger in, then brought it out and added a second finger right away.
"Are you…okay?" Harry asked, closing his eyes and kissing Draco's forehead, eyelids, nose, and finally on the mouth again, breaking away only to hear Draco mutter, "I'm fine."
"Can I…?" Harry asked. Draco didn't need to ask what he meant, and all of a sudden he was overtaken by fear, the urge to shove all his clothes back on and hurry out of Harry's dorm, pretending it never happened. Harry's eyes ran the length of his body, lingering on the more blatant scars.
"I never…" Draco trailed off this time, but Harry knew.
"Neither have I." It was said confidently, as though it wouldn't matter that they were both so unfamiliar with all the things they could do. "I wanted my first to be…" Harry shook his head, reaching for his wand on the nightstand, muttering a charm, which coated his free hand with lubricant.
Draco watched Harry prepare himself, coating his cock with a layer of lube and arranging himself so that he pressed ever so lightly against his asshole. Draco automatically tensed, and Harry pulled his legs over his shoulders.
Draco felt Harry enter him slowly, pushing easily into him. He squeezed his eyes shut. It certainly hurt, though it wasn't unbearable. Harry's breath was on his face, and he opened his eyes a fraction so that he was looking into Harry's. That was when Harry lodged himself completely inside Draco, who gasped loudly, "Harry!"
Harry bent down to kiss him, and if it hadn't been his first time, and Harry's thrusts hadn't been so clumsy, it would have been magical to anyone witnessing it. But even with the clumsy thrusts, and the fact that neither of them had done anything like this before, and that it hurt so much at first, but felt so good later, to Draco it was still magical.
Harry magicked the bed curtains to stay shut, and cast a silencing charm around his four-poster, then invited Draco to stay the night.
"Won't your roommates wonder why your curtains won't open and why my t-shirt and trousers are next to your bed?" Draco asked.
"It's just a t-shirt, it could be mine for all they care. Our room's always messy, so no one will wonder about the slacks."
"Can anyone in this filthy dorm afford such nice clothes?" Draco's tone was teasing, though, and he had the distinct feeling that Harry didn't mind.
"So will you stay? Or do I have to walk you back to Slytherin?"
"I can stay," Draco said, eyeing the red and gold drapes holding them inside.
"Good," Harry said. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Harry's arm curled around Draco's waist, and Draco decided he liked that feeling. He also liked Harry's hair, and he enjoyed touching it. It was messy, but always soft, like he'd just washed it. Draco liked a lot of things about Harry, a lot of things he'd never bothered to notice before, and a lot of things that previously annoyed him.
Draco leaned his head on Harry's chest. Harry didn't have any scars on his chest, and Draco liked it. He liked having smooth skin to lie on.
"I like your scars," Harry said sleepily. Draco raised his eyebrows. "They remind me of how much you cared."