Chapter 6

The sun slowly creeps into the sky, as I rest my head on this cool stone wall, not completely sure of why I have chosen to come back here. I was let out of the Hospital Wing only last night—after one solid week of being nearly comatose and another of being bedridden—under Dumbledore's orders. He was "well aware of the fact that my absence did not go unnoticed and thought it best that I return while the eyes of the student body were turned away." I left with every intention of going straight to my common room, but my feet seem to have thought otherwise.

When I got here, the first thing I did was marvel at how quickly and completely everything has been restored. The door is repaired and put back on its hangings, the desks are put back into the neat rows of five. It's as if nothing had ever happened…almost. Of course, I can still see everything just the way it was before the teachers had gotten to it. I can still see the desks, laying upturned and many of them broken, on the floor. I can still smell the sweat in the air, still see the blood all over the walls. My blood. I can still hear my screams, still hear my father's taunts. There isn't a single memory charm in the wizarding world that's powerful enough to erase those memories.

Over there, between the third and fourth desks of the first row was where my father had first lain hands on me. One slap, right across the face. I can still feel the sting of the back of his hand, hear the ringing in my ears that ensued. Then, he threw me into one of the desks, bruising my rib. I was punched, I was kicked, and I was twisted, pulled, pushed, and broken. Then, he began to use his wand. My father never liked to get his hands dirty, no matter how much fun he was having.

A bitter laugh escapes me as this thought crosses my mind.

That afternoon, my father flung me into desk after desk, with a flick of his wrist, determined to overturn them all with my body. Once he succeeded, he went for the walls, throwing me up against them all, but stopping to crush me with an invisible weight at each and gibing.

Have you learned your lesson yet, Draco, he hissed, have you?

I cried, I screamed, I begged for mercy, said anything I thought would make him stop, but I might as well have been talking to a rampaging dragon. Lucius Malfoy is not the merciful type.

One broken hand, three broken ribs—including the bruised one from earlier—and a body almost completely covered in bruises and hex marks, many of which that have yet to fade, were the results of that part of my "lesson", but the worst was yet to come.

After throwing me against the last wall, my father let me fall to the floor. My body felt like it had been run over by the Hogwarts Express. I was bleeding from everywhere, broken everywhere; my mouth was filled with the taste of my own blood. I thought it was finally over. I hoped for it to be. In my mind, I begged that to be the last of it. And it probably would have been, had it not been for my incredible luck. Somehow, the sleeve of my robes got caught somewhere above my elbow, revealing what I had done to myself the night before, and before I could realize even that, his foot was on my broken hand, pinning my arm down to the hard stone floor.

What's this, Draco, he asked me. I was struggling to keep from slipping out of consciousness and could barely comprehend the question, let alone come up with an answer that would satisfy the beast.

He put more weight on my hand. I cried out and tried to pull away from him, but I was weak. I thought I told you to put an end to this nonsense.

Father…please…I begged.

Or maybe, he continued, this is the problem. Is that it Draco? Are you too busy hurting yourself to study? Do you like pain? He took his foot off my hand. Well, if it's pain you want, dear son of mine, it is pain you shall have.

No, Father. Please—but I was cut off with a silencing charm. Then, he raised his wand again.

After that, all I knew was pain. Blinding, excruciating pain, enveloping my entire body. Every inch of my skin was being pricked with white-hot needles. Each of my wounds—old and new—was ripped open, afresh; my bones were on fire. Oh, how I screamed and screamed, and yet no sound came past my lips. I felt my vocal cords start to tear in my throat, but I heard nothing.

My father's Cruciatus was unlike any other. It brought the kind of pain that couldn't be generated simply from anger and disappointment, the kind of pain that could only come from pure hatred. There was no accident in the intensity of the curse, no loss of control. He wanted me to suffer as much as I did—probably even more, knowing him. I could feel it in the way he stood over me, the way he watched me as I writhed in pain. He wanted me to die. And for the first time in my life…I wanted death, too, with every fiber of my being.

I can feel tears sting the corners of my eyes as my mind returns to that single fleeting moment. Oh, God, please let me die…I begged, let me die. I wanted it to end. All of it. I didn't want to…feel anymore. I just wanted peace. Then, like an answer to my silent plea, it was over. I thought I had died, but when I opened my eyes, I could make out some shapes and soon realized that I was still in the classroom. I saw another shape—a new shape—come to me; I felt arms wrap around my broken body; I heard a distorted voice speak somewhere above me, a voice I knew. Something was muttered and at once my ears were filled with the sound of screaming and crying. I heard the voice call my name. Then I realized that the screaming was my own. I wanted to stop, to say that I was okay now, but I couldn't. All I could do was scream as my mind and body continued to live in the memory of my father's beating.

The arms wrapped around me pulled me tighter against a body. My face pressed against a chest and I breathed in a smell, a smell I knew quite well. Your smell. You held me close to you, rocking me back and forth, and I began to make out the words you were saying. You were telling me that it was over, that I would be okay. And in that moment, I felt…something. Before long, more voices entered the room and soon, your touch, your smell, and your voice were all gone. Someone poured something wet and foul-tasting into my mouth. I spat it out, but whomever it was only poured more and forced me to swallow. Immediately afterward, I felt myself begin to calm down. More and more of the foul liquid was forced into me until my eyelids closed, seemingly of their own accord, and I slipped into unconsciousness.

When I opened my eyes again, an entire week had passed and I was in the infirmary, bandaged up almost from head to toe. Madame Pomfrey was in the other room and heard me stir. She came to my bed, telling me how good it was that I was finally awake so she could start to heal me. She said Dumbledore had told her to refrain from doing any magic on me until after the effects of the Draught of Peace had worn off. I didn't know what she was talking about; I couldn't remember anything from what had happened before that day. I didn't say anything to Madame Pomfrey though, I simply sat quietly as she removed the bandages and started to heal me, little by little. There was only so much she could do for me with magic, she told me, the rest would probably last for a very long time, if not forever, and that was not including all of the emotional damage that I've probably developed.

Everything came to me at that moment and, as Madame Pomfrey took parts of my body and waved her wand at them or poured potions on them, I relived it all. The pain from it all was still so fresh that I winced at the memories as they came. Madame Pomfrey thought she was doing something that hurt me and asked me what was wrong. I told her it was just a headache. She looked at me for a moment, then, and gave me a look, one that said she knew the truth, but she wasn't going to say anything.

When she was done, hours later, she left me with at least fifteen bottles filled with potions for me to take at various times of the day, a set of pajamas, and the knowledge that I was not to leave my bed, if I could help it. Normally, I would have protested but, at that time, I didn't much feel like I could leave my bed, even if I had wanted to.

The first half of the week slipped by me—probably due to the fact that I was unconscious when I wasn't taking a potion—but as I grew healthier, I found myself to be more inclined to stay awake during the day, meaning I had more than a little bit of time on my hands. I spent most of my "free time" thinking…about you and what I had felt that afternoon when you held me. I still haven't figured out what it is. I know what it could be, but I don't think I'm ready to let myself think that, yet.

No…

By now, the sun is up, and the cold of the stone floor has seeped through my thin pajama pants and sweatshirt. I rise, leaning on the stone wall for support, and take a step towards the door but the knob begins to turn on its own. Who would be coming here at this hour? I wonder, as I watch the door swing open.

"Of course," I mutter aloud, when I see your head poke into the doorway. You enter, dressed much like me in pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, and stand awkwardly in front of the door. "Fancy meeting you here," I say, coolly, yet unsure of how to act toward you.

"I…" you stammer, "you…I still have your sweater." And you hold your arm out, showing me the black sweater I had forgotten in the Room of Requirement weeks ago. "I just thought I'd return it. You know, before we have to leave tomorrow."

"Hmm," I say, nodding. My eyes follow you as you cross the room to one of the desks and put the sweater down on top of it. You stop to examine something else on the desk, but it isn't long before you quickly turn your face away and start to head for the door. I wonder why you did this but before my mind can ask the question, it arrives at the answer. "What's the matter, Harry," I ask, "did the teachers not get all of the blood off of that desk?"

You stop in your tracks and turn to me. "Draco…I…"

"Did you think I wouldn't talk about it?"

"No, I just didn't—"

"Because it's not like I can not talk about it," I continue bitterly, "now that the whole bloody school knows what happened that day. They're all probably in their little dormitories right now, gossiping about how Draco Malfoy's father slapped him around."

"Draco," you mutter, "I'm—"

"Don't apologize," I cut you off, "it's not your fault."

I take a few steps to the desk at the front of the classroom and run my hands over the polished dark wood.

"It's not your fault either," you say, quietly.

My head pops up and I open my mouth, about to tell you I hadn't been thinking it was my fault, but no words come out as I realize that that would be a lie. A moment of silence passes between the two of us.

"How…how are you feeling?" you ask, breaking it.

I shrug. "I'm not dead."

You say nothing in response and shift your weight from foot to foot. "So do you…are you…"

"I never did get to thank you," I say quickly, ending your awkward attempt to make conversation. "You know, for…"

"It was…nothing. I was just…"

"You saved my life."

"Yeah…"

I watch you take several steps across the room and stop at the window, leaning on the sill. In all the time you've been here, you haven't once looked me in the eyes, like you used to. Now, it seems like you're avoiding them. Has something changed?

"While I was in the hospital," I say, following you to the window and leaning back against the wall to the right of it, "Madame Pomfrey talked about my father. Kept me…updated." You look up, giving me the questioning look that I was expecting. I respond with a look of my own, telling you I'm not afraid to talk about my father, if that's what is on your mind. "I hear he's in St. Mungo's," I continue. "You really did a number on him."

"Yeah," you slowly reply, "I guess I got caught up in all the excitement and went a little overboard with my disarming charm."

I chuckle. "A little overboard? You nearly shattered his skull, throwing him against that wall. He's been in treatment ever since. The healers are having a hell of a time getting his brain back to normal."

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Don't apologize. It's no more than he deserves." I sigh and look at the ceiling. "It's been something of a blessing to your side, though, hasn't it."

"What?"

"You haven't heard? He's been spewing up random tidbits about the Dark Lord left and right, naming death eaters, confessing things he's done. Stuff that should make your job a little easier."

I look at you. "Are you still…" you start to ask, "…I mean, were you ever…or, are you…" You sigh. "What side are you on?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I don't think I have a side, anymore." I pause. "Why? Are you going to try to convert me to the light?"

"What? No, I just…no." Another moment of silence passes. "I guess they'll be carting him off to Azkaban, then, if he ever gets well enough." Without thinking, I laugh aloud at your statement. "What?" you ask me, looking up from the view of the grounds.

I look at you with a raised eyebrow. "Do you really think they'll be able to hold him in Azkaban?"

"Well, I would think that—with all the stuff he's done—and you said it yourself, he's confessing it all. Why wouldn't they take him?"

I shake my head at your question. "Taking him won't be a problem. I have no doubt that he'll be taken to Azkaban. But when his trial comes around, he'll be out for sure."

"But what about—"

"Harry, listen to me. My father has the ministry in the palm of his hand. If anyone can get out of going to Azkaban, it's him. Even with the new Minister." My gaze returns to the ceiling as the harsh reality of my own words sets in. "He'll probably pay off all of the right people and then make up some cock and bull story about how his confessions were really just a manifestation of his subconscious desire to redeem himself, when he goes on trial," I add bitterly. "Slimy bastard."

"Oh," I hear you whisper from beside me. I close my eyes for a long time, opening them only after hearing you speak again. "So…" you say, hesitantly, "so, what are you going to do?"

"What do you mean, what am I going to do?" I reply. "There's nothing I can do."

"You're not going back home, are you?"

"I have to."

"No, you don't—"

"Yes I do, Harry!" I snap at you, turning my head in your direction. I can feel the blood begin to boil in my veins. The look on your face in one of bewilderment, as if I had caught you off guard. I take a deep breath in attempt to calm myself down. "Yes, I do." It's not you I'm angry at, I tell myself. "I can't run from him, Harry. No matter where I go, he will always find me."

"But if you go back you'll…he'll…"

"I know." I sigh. "Besides," I say more calmly, "even if I could leave…where would I go? We leave on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow morning, Harry. I'm not going to find a place to stay with only a day's notice."

"Well," you say, almost inaudibly, "If you wanted, you could…"

"What?" I ask. "Stay with you and those muggles?" I let out a hearty chuckle. "Wishful thinking, Potter," I reply quietly. "That's all that is."

Silence falls upon us a third time. This time, voices from the grounds penetrate the stillness—voices of students enjoying their last day at Hogwarts before the summer holiday, filled with excitement for the coming year—voices of fellow seventh years, reflecting on their years in the castle, woeful with the knowledge of not having another year to look forward to. It's amazing how quickly the time has passed, how much has happened since first year…how much has changed since the time when everything seemed to be perfect.

I exhale deeply and let my eyes focus on you for a moment. The pensive look on your face as you stare out the window tells me your thoughts are along the same lines as mine. Shining through the window, the morning sunlight seems to frame your head and torso. It really brings out the slightly bronze tone in your skin, giving it a rich, warm glow.

Maybe…

"You know," I say, causing you to, again, look away from the mountain landscape, "my father wasn't the only person Madame Pomfrey kept me informed of, while I was in the hospital."

"Oh?" you ask, raising yourself from the sill.

I nod. "She told me about the people who visited me during that week I was unconscious, as well."

The corner of your lip twitches just slightly. "Draco I…"

"She said you came to visit me every day that week, Harry," I continue, "that you would stay at my side, sometimes for hours at a time." You open your mouth to reply, but close it again when no words come. "I used to have nightmares—fits almost—when the Draught of Peace would wear off. Madame Pomfrey told me you were there, though, comforting me while she went to get more." I pause. "But…when you found out I was awake, you stopped coming. Why?"

"I…didn't think you'd want to see me," you say softly, "you know, after…everything."

Having nothing else to say, I reply with a simple, "Hmm."

You lower your eyes. I lean my head against the wall, staring blankly across the room. "Draco?" Without a word, I turn to you. "How…bad is it?" you ask tentatively, standing to you full height. "The…damage."

I give you a faint smile. "Like I said," I reply, "I'm not dead."

You stand in silence for a moment, looking from my chest to my arms, as if you're trying to see through my clothing. Then, for the first time today, your eyes come to meet mine. "Can I…"

I don't need to hear the rest of your question to know what you want. That's what has been on your mind all this time, not my father. I raise myself from the wall and stand in front of you. Then, I grab the bottom edge of my sweatshirt and pull it up and over my head, letting it drop to the floor. Finally, la piece de résistance has been revealed.

Your mouth drops slightly. You take a step closer to me and fall to your knees. Then you bring your hand to my abdomen and place the tips of your fingers on the first thing you see: a large, black, bruise like hexmark. A shiver steals up my spine when I feel your warmth, as I was expecting a cold equal to my own. Very slowly, your fingers trace the edge of the mark and move on to the next one. More shivers, just like the first one, go up my back, across my chest, down my arms and legs, as your hand moves up and down the entirety of my abdomen, running over every hexmark, every bruise, every burn, every cut. Then, there's that feeling again, the one from the other day.

"Draco…" you whisper.

Your other hand joins the first and they both move to my arms, one at each. Your fingers circle around my wrists, pull my arms out, and turn them over. The undersides are covered with dark red lines of raised scar tissue—the effects of my father's Cruciatus on my self-inflicted wounds. These are among the many scars that will take months to heal, and even then, it won't be completely. Your hand shakes as your fingers come to rest at the base of my wrist. You hesitate for a moment before sliding them up my forearm to the first scar. As soon as you make contact with it, though, a sudden, sharp, pain erupts in the area and I pull my arm back, just slightly, having not anticipated it.

"Are these still…" you start to ask, without looking up at me, but your voice catches and trails off.

"Mm-hmm," I respond.

"Oh, Draco," you sigh, painfully.

"It's really not as bad as it looks." I say, in an attempt to console you.

You see right through my lie. "Yes, it is," you whisper, shaking your head. "Yes, it is."

I watch you bring my arm closer to you face, to your mouth, and it isn't until I feel the moist softness of your lips press against it that I realize what you are doing. My breath catches in my throat. You kiss my arm again and again, moving further up and spurring new sensations from within me with each kiss.

"Harry…" I whisper.

"Draco…" you whisper back. Your arms move to my hips as your lips move to my abdomen, kissing each of the scars and bruises you had just been touching. "Draco…" you say again, sending your warm breath to my cold skin, "what do you want?" You rise and my eyelids fall shut as your lips come to my shoulder.

What do I want? I think as I let myself fall deeper into the feelings that come from your kisses.

"Please, tell me."

"What I want," I say finally, as your lips trail up my neck, "I'm not sure…anyone can give to me."

As you reach my ear, your hands wrap around my wrists a second time and you bring them up to rest on your shoulders. "At least…" you whisper into my ear, "let me try."

You press your lips against my ear, my eyelid, my cheek, and finally my lips. A warmth begins to spread from within me and I start to feel again. I can feel your hands sliding from my hips to my waist, wrapping around my body to my back, pulling me right up against your body. I can feel your heat, radiating through the thin fabric of your tee shirt and pants. I can feel your want, your need, as you press your lips against mine. Do I like what I am feeling? I ask myself. Is this what I want?

Finally, just as I feel your lips start to relax against mine, I respond. I wrap my arms around your neck and pull you closer, kiss you back, kiss you harder. I want you. I want to feel you. My hands return to your shoulders and push you away. You begin to protest, but by now my hands have already left your shoulders and have grabbed the edge of your shirt. As I pull it up, exposing your bronzed abdomen, I realize how heavily I am breathing, how excited I am. I feel as if this is the first time, when I had sought you out in the showers, that night, after that particularly long Quidditch match; when I had stripped you of your uniform and taken you on the tiled wet floor. That same excitement is coursing through me.

The shirt is on the floor, now, and you are looking at me, questioning me, asking me if I'm ready. I give you a look in return, answering your question. Everything you've ever tried to tell me, everything you've ever tried to show me—I want it all, now. You smile and bring your lips to mine again. I bury my fingers into you spiny black hair and angle my head enough to allow you to part my lips with your own and bring your tongue between them. It dances with mine en media and I moan as your taste fills my mouth. You take a step forward; I take a step backward. Once, twice, three times—until my back touches the wall. Involuntarily, my spine arches away from the sudden cold contact of the stone, drawing me closer to your warmth. But you are more than just warm, you're skin is blazing. You kiss me harder, more passionately. You mutter something against my lips. I don't hear it but whatever it is, I agree.

Suddenly, your hands are leaving my waist, travelling to my hips again. They drift to my front and start to tug at the drawstring of my pants. In less than a moment, I feel the band of fabric loosen. You relieve me of them, without hesitation—my boxers as well—and, when you return to kiss me, I allow you to for only a moment before returning the favor. The next several minutes are dedicated to the removal of anything that keeps our bodies from coming together completely. Pants, shoes, socks, boxers—all of it is taken away until, finally, you are naked and I have given you my back.

I can feel your hands on my body—one on my hip, the other on my abdomen. I can feel your lips and tongue against my neck and shoulders, your chest against my back, the fronts of your thighs against the backs of mine, your hardened length against my arse.

I gasp.

You groan.

We start to rock, slowly and rhythmically. Your hand slides to my cock. You pump, slowly and rhythmically.

I moan.

You whisper against my skin.

"Harry…"

"Draco…"

My hand goes to the wall, clawing at it as the rocking picks up speed. You squeeze my hip. I rock back against you. You thrust. I moan. You groan. I beg.

"Harry…please…"

I want…you thrust. I need…you thrust.

"Harder…deeper…"

You thrust. I feel myself begin to peak. You pump, harder…faster.

"Harry…" I beg, "don't…"

You thrust. I reach my breaking point and cry out as I come in your hand. You thrust. I feel your body go rigid as you come inside of me. Then, your body slumps against mine and we breath slow, deep, cadenced, breaths. You release my cock as my body releases yours and your hand returns to my belly, joined by the other. My head rests against the wall, welcoming the cool relief of the stone touch; yours rests against my shoulder. We remain silent for a long time, both of us enjoying the feeling of the other's naked body, sticky and moist with heat and sweat, rising and falling with our slowly regulating breaths. I feel your head lift from my shoulder. You press your lips against the very end and drag them across my back, stopping every so often to drop a kiss on a bruise or a hexmark.

I close my eyes and let myself fall into the sweet comfort your kisses generate. In this moment, I finally feel the peace I have been searching for, for so long. In your arms, I finally feel warmth after being so cold for so long. Nothing can touch me; nothing can hurt me. And this is all I need.

"Draco," you whisper into my ear, bringing me back from my musings.

I open my eyes and turn my head as much as I can to face you. "Hmm?" I reply.

"Thank you," you whisper.

"For what?"

You smile. "Letting me love you."

I return your smile. You bring your head over my shoulder and press your lips against mine. My hand comes up from the wall and rests on your cheek. I think I might be ready to let you know your feelings are being reciprocated.

Yes…

Fin

Feech's Note: Yes! Yes! Yes! Chapter six is complete and posted and you can't hate me. Well acutally, you can because I said New Years and its definitely February. Why the delay? Because I spent my Christmas vacation in UTAH with no computer! So, I apologize and this chapter is my way of making it up. As always, review me tons. I can't wait to hear what you think! Peaches. Oh, and I'm thinking of adding a chapter seven, but I doubt it will be this long. Let me know what you think about that too!