A/N: This chapter is dedicated to my wonderful new beta Leiselmae. -hug- You did a wonderful job, honey. I can't ever imagine what would have become of me without you. I mean this, truly.

Disclaimer: The characters and places aren't (still) mine. You know the real mage behind them: J.K. Rowling.

WARNING: still spoilers from the Half-Blood Prince…

Chapter 3: Cicatrices

Draco frowned as he let the stream of warm water cascade down his shoulders. Dark red streams of diluted blood were coiling around his feet for a short moment before disappearing down the drain. Entire flecks of Potter's disgusting, dried hemoglobin were coming off his skin, which made him feel increasingly annoyed. He leaned one hand against the shower's black-and-green–tiled wall and turned his face up to meet the soothing shower.

He had seen many things in his life, despite his young age of twenty-five. Blood, in all its forms, was one of those things he'd gotten used to, during those dark years that marked his last few years of the past century. Involuntarily, and out of an old habit, Draco's free hand roamed across his chest, feeling the outlines of the scars that had marked his fair skin ever since he was sixteen. Sectumsempra. All Draco could remember about the spell was its name –and the excruciating pain it had caused. Nay, that was not entirely true: Draco could also remember the spell's caster, and the excruciating pain he had caused. Draco had never thought Potter knew such dark magic, but then again he had been wrong about the four-eyed geek many times before.

Sectumsempra. Draco remembered how the blood had just simply burst out of his system. It hadn't been a very comfortable feeling, and certainly not enviable; it had hurt like hell. But there was something about the whole ordeal that still made Draco remember it with a strange kind of fondness: Potter had namely been so terrified of what he had done to Draco that he had actually slumped down on the wet lavatory floor, a panic-stricken look in his bright green eyes. It had seemed, for a short moment, as if Potter was truly sorry for what he had done. As if Potter would have wanted to take it all back. His hands had been reaching out for Draco, wanting to touch but not daring; his erratic stammering of incomprehensible words had been directed to him, although even a child could have understood there was no way Draco could have answered –or even understood. What with his eyes and nose and mouth and everything covered in his own blood.

Draco shook his head at the memory, and found himself smiling. There were eight of them all together: eight thin scars that looked like whip slashes across his chest. Although, truthfully, two of them were a little bit lower, riding down from his loins towards his crotch. He could only ever be grateful enough to Snape that there were no visible marks of scarring on his face. That is, if one didn't look very carefully below the right-hand curve of his jawbone, where a thin, silvery-white trail could be distinguished. The spell had nearly split his carotid, there.

Reaching for the towel, Draco slid out of the shower. Reluctantly, he wrapped the soft terry cloth around his waist and prepared to go and get some clean clothes from his wardrobe. Wardrobe, that happened to be in his bedroom. Bedroom, that was currently working as a temporary hospital for the precious Chosen One. Snarling to himself, Draco made his way across the spacious bathroom, quickly glancing at his own reflection from the mirror on the wall as he went. He still had a smudge of red gore below his left eye, and he wiped it away impatiently.

He found Longbottom just as he had left him: snoring loudly next to the bed, sprawled ungraciously all across the chair. If a flock of enraged Blast-Ended Skrewts would have entered the bedroom, Draco knew Lonbottom would have hardly reacted. How the idiotic half-squib had become an Auror was entirely beyond Draco's comprehension. Maybe Potter had bribed someone to let him in? Draco moved smoothly across the room and passed by the grand four-poster bed.

A lithe figure of a young man was lying underneath his expensive sheets. Under any other circumstances Draco might have found the situation enticing. Now, however, it was anything but. The young man was the infuriating Harry Potter, and the sheets were as dirty with blood as Draco himself had been only moments ago. Tentatively, drawn by some curious and unrecognizable force, Draco inched closer to the bed.

Potter's black, messy hair had spread like a spiky halo around his head on the pillow. It was unmistakably longer than what it had been in their youth. Potter's pale skin, now slightly flushed with the fever, showed clearly that Mr. Hero of the Wizarding World had not spent his summer lying on the beach drinking daiquiris. If Potter had had a summer vacation at all, Draco did not know, but it certainly didn't seem very likely. The bluish-lilac half-circles beneath his eyes, as well as the worried frown that never seemed to leave his face, even in sleep, told another story completely. Draco decided Potter had a rather otherworldly look about him without his horrible, round glasses. Where said glasses were, Draco had not the remotest idea –but he was still rather satisfied they were missing.

Draco shook his head and sauntered off to his wardrobe. He found a pair of soft, black trousers and a fitted shirt and, making sure Longbottom was still snoring, dropped his towel unceremoniously onto the floor. Leisurely, he began to dress himself, marveling at the softness of the wall-to-wall Oriental carpet under his bare feet. He had been living in this house his entire life, yet such a small, nice detail had never come to his attention before. His instincts must have become heightened ever since the arrival of the Aurors. However, Draco instantly decided that Oriental carpets were the best invention ever –after all, they were even capable of flying, should the need arise.

Draco had just begun to button up his trousers, when a soft voice from the direction of the bed startled him out of his wits.

"What time is it?"

Draco swirled around, his damp hair sticking into his eyes with the movement. Potter was looking at him from the depths of his bed, green eyes serene and intense.

"Uhm." Draco replied lamely, and clutched the shirt close to his body. "Almost nine in the morning. I... I didn't know you were awake."

"And I didn't know you wore Muggle clothing," Potter blinked.

"Don't be stupid, Potter," Draco couldn't help the rosy colour creeping over his cheekbones. Potter had most evidently been watching him while he was getting dressed. "As if I would wear anything even remotely Muggle."

Potter tried to smile, but it seemed to cause him too much effort –and even more pain- and he settled on looking pointedly at his unfinished trouser buttons. "I can see that. Clearly."

Draco hastily buttoned the trousers up. Whether he wore underwear or not wasn't any of Harry Potter's business. "Shouldn't you be sleeping and not making idiotic comments?" he asked, trying to sound irritated despite the fact that his heart was racing.

"I'm thirsty. Besides..." Potter coughed, which made Draco grimace. "Besides this bed reeks something terrible. I want clean sheets."

"Demanding much?" Draco turned around and slipped his shirt on. It felt nice against his skin, snug and warm, and it most effectively covered his scars. After making sure he looked decent, Draco turned around to face Potter again. "Let's make one thing clear, all right? When I took you in, I didn't promise you first-class hotel service. I'm not at your beck and call. This is my home, and since I'm not asking you to pay rent for the room, I'm not extending you the right to make any demands."

Potter's glare matched Draco's own quite admirably. "But I feel like shit. Cold and hot and frustrated... You can't just leave me here to suffer."

"Actually, I can." Draco smirked. "I already patched your wounds and saved your sodding life –in spite of the fact that we're not exactly on cordial terms with each other. What else can you possibly want from me?"

Potter went silent and lowered his eyes. He looked suddenly miserable, even desperate, in the middle of the blood-stained bed-clothes, and he coughed again. Draco felt a stab of something unnerving in his chest, and groaned inwardly. "All right, fine! I'll alert Lovegood to aid you with the sheets. Longbottom can bring you water, if only you can wake him up."

"Of course I can. I'm the one who..." Potter cleared his throat, as if there were something making him suffocate. Which, Draco reflected, probably was the case. "I'm the one who stupefied him."

Draco looked at the black-haired wizard pointedly and raised another of his steel-grey brows.

"What?" Potter frowned. "He was getting on my nerves."

Draco felt a major head-ache coming, and suddenly wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of the room. "Can't blame you on that. However... As I said, Potter, you shouldn't be awake yet. Your fever is still high and you need rest to recover."

"Mmmh. I didn't know that you cared."

"You wish, Potter. The sooner you recover, the sooner I can throw you out of my house."

Quickly, Draco put on his socks and shoes and started to stalk away. He hadn't accounted for the fact Potter might be awake so soon after what he had endured last night. Namely, the similar 'accident' several years ago had left Draco unconscious for almost three entire days. And Draco was certainly not yet ready to deal with Potter. One way or another.

"Malfoy?" The voice was timid and a little bit hoarse, and very much pleading.

"Yes?" Draco spat from between his teeth. He felt exasperated, but still slowed down his steps –although he really didn't want to.

"Thank you. For doing this, I mean..." Potter hesitated. "You really didn't have to help me, you know. You could've just... turned your back on me."

Draco closed his eyes and sighed but did not turn to face Potter anymore. His fingers were already twined around the door handle. "As if anyone could turn his back on you Potter. However, if it makes you feel better, I promise I'll make you pay me back some day. Good day."

Upon closing the bedroom door behind his back, he could hear Potter mutter a silent Ennervate.

---

The Manor's breakfast room was a beautiful, lofty space with wide windows that promised a good view over the Manor's front yard. The small village of Willowbend could be seen in the distance, several pillars of smoke rising up through the air from the rocky chimneys. Heavy, white velvet curtains that were sewn with silver and green hung protectively at the sides of the two glass doors. These doors led out to an enormous balcony that circled around the entire mansion like a great, overly decorated eaves.

Draco was currently leaning against the railing of said balcony, sipping quietly at his morning tea. It was nine thirty in the morning, and he was already wondering how long he would have to put up with his new and exceptionally annoying guests. They had been in his house for eleven hours already, and that was longer than anyone had been there in the past nine years; the house had been practically abandoned ever since the happenings of the summer 1996.

Draco remembered that particular summer well. Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus had been visiting them very frequently at the time. Aunt Bellatrix had been teaching him Occlumency, and Uncle Rodolphus had been just drinking night and day, gloating about his past deeds for the Dark Lord. Draco remembered wishing his father were there to shut the man's mouth, but of course he wasn't. Because of Potter.

Draco felt a heavy feeling strangling his heart when his thoughts turned to Potter. He didn't exactly want to know what it meant.

Draco squeezed the handle of his tea cup and tried to concentrate on the present moment. He realised that he was rather uncomfortable with having so many strange people residing in his house, when all he wanted now was to be alone. One couldn't just tell them to sod off, right? Luckily none of them were Mudbloods; otherwise his parents –rest their wicked souls- would have experienced simultaneous posthumous seizures in their lovely family crypt. Longbottom and Lovegood managed to be even purebloods, heaven forbid.

Draco frowned at his tea. Maybe he could tell Longbottom and Lovegood to sod off? Potter would do just as well without them. Tonks was at least tolerable, because she was family, and Draco firmly believed they could manage to take care of Potter just between the two of them, without any squibs or lunatics disturbing their work.

Not that Draco had any intention of helping Potter, which naturally fought against the idea of sending the rest of the crew away.

Draco sipped at his tea again. Why in the sodding hell couldn't the hospitals be in function? Not even Hogwarts...

Summer 1996 returned back to Draco's mind with full force. It was the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts –the summer of big changes. Draco was rather surprised that his guests had not yet made any remarks about the Dark Mark on his left forearm. He hadn't tried to hide it. He was not ashamed of it. Granted, it wasn't the loveliest of tattoos, but the meaning behind it was much more important than its outer appearance. Draco had been actually happy to receive it, and at such young age, too. From that day on, he had become a man with real responsibilities. The whining boy who used to bully first-years at school had become someone much more important; not even Potter had managed to hold his attention for very long, anymore.

However, a great responsibility was always bound to bring forth great sacrifices as well. There were times, several times during that summer, when Draco would have liked nothing better than to have a comforting chat with his father. He would've liked to have his father's advice. He wasn't allowed to have it, though: one did not visit the prisoners of Azkaban. Lucius had been locked up behind bars for three weeks and two nights together, when Draco had first come to realise that he actually missed the constant counseling of his cold-hearted sire. Draco's life had always had a clear, strong direction when Lucius had been there to guide him. That direction had quickly become a blurry path in the valley of darkness, when his father had so suddenly been taken away.

Early in July 1996, not very long after the fateful battle in the Ministry of Magic, the Dark Lord contacted Draco and his mother, Narcissa, and told them about his cruel, nouveaux plans. He had been furious with Lucius, and had not spared the rest of the Malfoys from his wrath. Aunt Bellatrix and her husband had then arrived at the Manor, apparently on Narcissa's request, to aid Draco through his first days as a Death Eater. Aunt Bellatrix had made it her personal duty to teach him Occlumency. She had made him defend his mind every day from July to August, until he had been ready to collapse with the weight his own worst memories flashing day and night in his eyes.

Aunt Bellatrix had proved to be a very cruel teacher. There was one day, somewhere around mid-July, when she had been particularly vehement in her training. Draco had soon learned why. Lord Voldemort had not wanted Draco's Death Eater initiation to become a widely acknowledged fact, and therefore only selected few were told about it. Aunt Bellatrix, always being half maniacal about everything the Dark Lord said or did, had taken it as a personal insult that Professor Snape had been one of the trustees. Aunt Bellatrix hated Snape, and therefore this unfortunate news reflected instantly on Draco's teaching.

Draco had re-lived the near drowning exprerience from his childhood again and again for three weeks afterwards, which had frequently made him look pale and tortured.

Secretly, Draco had started to believe that Aunt Bellatrix actually fancied Snape instead of hated him, because no other person, save for the Dark Lord, had ever managed to discompose her so utterly and completely.

When the end of July neared, Draco had been exhausted, in every sense of the word. He had spent many sleepless nights thinking over his rather difficult situation. He was supposed to get rid of Albus Dumbledore, preferably already before Christmas. His mother, Narcissa, had also been very worried. She had been constantly blabbering something about revenge and Lucius's failure. This, of course, had most effectively shattered every last piece of Draco's nerve-ends. Mother had been screaming that, should he fail, the Dark Lord would mercilessly kill them. Kill her, kill Lucius. Kill Draco. Kill them all.

Draco had not believed her. Then.

When July turned to August, Draco had slowly started to believe. He had experienced three Cruciatus curses, and his mind had been raped with more horrific scenarios of his own death than he'd ever thought possible.

A small bird flew down from the sky and sat on the edge of Draco's tea cup. Blinking, Draco woke up from his trance-like state. The bird escaped, and Draco followed it soaring through the grey sky. The morning forecasted a chilly, rainy day. The Manor's walls seemed to be oozing cold wrath, and the air felt freezing. Draco smiled at himself and dropped the tea cup over the balcony's railing, watching it shatter over the tiles below. Then he glanced at his left forearm that was now covered with the smooth material of his shirt. The Dark Mark was still there, and not even best quality canvas could hide its ugly grimace from Draco's mental eye.

Still smiling, Draco returned into the house.

---

The hours of that day went by faster than Draco would have ever expected. After opening a bottle of wine straight after his morning tea, for obvious reasons that had everything to do with Potter and Lord Voldemort, Draco had decided he should go for a walk outside. He needed some well-earned fresh air. He didn't particularly worry that his guests would wreck the house in his absence, but he decided to stay near the house, just in case. One never knew what Longbottom would be up to. Besides, cousin Nymphadora wasn't known of her extraordinary talents in gracefulness, either. Draco had cast the firmest locking charms he could muster –wandlessly- over the library and potions lab doors, and had ventured outside.

It had begun to rain just a few minutes after Draco had stepped under the dark and heavy, low-hanging sky. The clouds that had been far in the horizon in the morning now seemed to have gathered closer together and formed a black and grey mass that was in constant swirling motion. Flashes of bright lightning bolts could be seen every now and then crossing the sky. How very fitting, Draco thought, while wiping away the rain from his eyes. Maybe the entire sky was mourning after its greatest lightning bolt: the one that was currently sleeping in a bed that belonged to a Malfoy.

"Terrible weather."

Draco recognized the voice as his cousin's. Obviously the woman had followed him outside. Draco grinned, despite himself. "I find it charming."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" Tonks caught up with him.

Draco hummed, satisfied, but did not say anything.

"Neville's with Harry now." Tonks stuffed her hands in her pockets and shivered slightly with the dismal weather. "He's trying to do something about the sheets."

"Indeed?" Draco bit his lip as to not laugh out loud. Potter had indeed learned how to order people around. Too bad his extraordinary power was rather limited when the current master of the house was in question. Draco would die before jumping up at Potter's word. "And where is Lovegood?"

"Oh. I sent her to Willowbend."

Draco looked slightly displeased. "I thought you didn't want their interference?"

"I don't. I sent her to buy us some food."

Draco nodded in approval. After all, someone in the house had to make sure the Aurors wouldn't starve, and Hell would be a party house for drunken angels before Draco Malfoy went grocery shopping himself. It was just so common. In fact, Draco wouldn't have minded if the Aurors would have starved, but it wouldn't have looked mighty good in his curriculum vitae. Especially considering what already lay there.

"There's one thing I don't understand, though." Tonks sounded confused. "I've just come from the kitchen, and I must tell you I've never seen emptier cupboards. Not even a slice of bread! How you live is beyond me. From thin air?"

"Surely you didn't think I would spend my valuable time cooking?" Draco sneered in disgust. "I don't happen to store up food. I happen to receive my meals straight from Willowbend four times a day, using the same method they use at Hogwarts: enchanted tables. The house-elves of the Red Dragon Inn have the matching pair of the table I have in my breakfast room."

"Enchanted tables?" Tonks stared. "So the food just... appears in front of you, every day?"

"Well, yes." Draco drawled. "And it disappears the same way, after I'm finished. It's rather convenient, really. No dishes."

Tonks was amazed. "Must be expensive."

"You'd be surprised."

Tonks didn't know whether Draco meant the food indeed was expensive, or whether it was surprisingly cheap. She didn't inquire. "Then I guess I sent Luna out there for nothing," she sighed. "I didn't know of your fancy arrangements."

"I suppose it's alright. I haven't yet informed the Inn of my extra guests. They wouldn't have sent us enough food, anyway."

Tonks nodded, and hugged herself. The wind was blowing the raindrops sharply against her body. "Okay."

Draco halted his steps next to the fountain where the grindylow was supposed to live. "I do hope you had enough sense to not send Lovegood out there without any... camouflage. She can't just go to town, buy a handsome load of food and walk up the hill back to the Manor, you know."

"Why not?" Tonks simpered, already knowing very well what Draco meant.

"Why not?" Draco was aghast. "Because people would start to talk, that's why! I really don't want them to think that I might be somehow involved..." Draco shuddered. "...with Lovegood."

Tonks laughed. "Don't fret. She took Harry's Invisibility Cloak."

Draco refused to snarl. He didn't like the idea of someone prancing around the Manor invisible. The idea was outright repulsive, and he made a mental note to speak to Potter about it. The scar-faced git would have to keep the Cloak firmly out of usage while residing under his roof –or better yet, hand it over to Draco. Internally boiling, he raised his eyes to examine a marble statue that hovered over the fountain. It was the figure of his mother's cousin –the one who had been killed by Lord Voldemort shortly after Draco was born. Tonks came over and wiped a layer of dirt off the statue's nameplate. The name Regulus Black 1961-1980 became clearly visible in engraved alphabets.

"Regulus was a handsome man," Tonks observed.

"Aye. And as stupid as me. Almost."

"What do you mean?"

Draco felt Regulus Black was sort of a kindred spirit to him; after all, Draco had almost lost his own life the same way, seven years ago. By Lord Voldemort's hand. "Well," Draco said. "Regulus had enough sense to get himself killed somewhere in the middle of the Death Eater process. I didn't. He became a martyr and a hero, sort of. I became... non-existent."

"You're not non-existent, Draco. At least not... to all of us."

Draco didn't reply. He was suddenly feeling morose, and turned his eyes away from the statue. Instead, he peered into the fountain in order to see if the grindylow was indeed dead. At least the sparrows were now absent.

"You wanted to know what happened last night." Tonks said this matter-of-factly, still keenly examining the marble face of Regulus Black.

Draco was surprised. He had thought Tonks had forgotten the question he had made earlier in the morning –or just promptly decided that Draco didn't deserve an answer. Now, however, she was offering an explanation with bright, if somewhat narrowed eyes. "I wouldn't mind hearing it."

"I know." Tonks absently played with her bracelet. "I just had a word with Harry and he said that I should let you in on things. Even if I don't know if it's such a good idea, myself."

"I must agree with him, for once." Draco sat down on the wet fountain edge and leaned back to touch the water with his index finger. "I think I really should know what is going on."

"Have you ever heard of the Knights of Walpurgis?" Tonks asked.

"Of course I have. Grandfather Lestrange and that mangy old goof Avery were the earliest members of the group. Used to go to Hogwarts with the Dark Lord, I understand. I've heard their stories more times than what I care to remember. Of course, grandfather Lestrange has been half an invalid ever since the 1960's. All he has is his stories, which may well be over-exaggerated bullshit."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that." Tonks turned to face him, a strange look in her eyes.

...To Be Continued...