Title: Indelible
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership to these characters or any plot element belonging to J.K. Rowling. In addition, if any story exists with these same circumstances, I am sorry. I did not write this with the intent of taking anyone else's thoughts.
Note: This story has not been completed. The rating may eventually need to be changed, and no, I do not know where I am going with the tattoo concept. Be patient. Writing is both a blessing and a curse.
Indelible
Draco Malfoy lost his father on the 256th day of The War. It was a cold, dreary day in November and Lucius died at the hands of Neville Longbottom. The irony was not lost on Draco. At first, Draco assumed that his father's death had merely been an accident. Surely that clumsy oaf of a boy could not have meant to kill his father. Surely Neville was too stupid to know that he shouldn't go playing with curses he did not know how to handle properly. Gradually the truth dawned on Draco. Neville had indeed meant it. He hadn't cared that he was killing, hadn't cared that it was his peer's father. He was simply lashing out at someone who was a part of the organization that had stripped away his chance at a family – one with parents.
Draco tattooed a small L on his hipbone. Whether it was for Lucius or Longbottom, Draco did not know.
Narcissa Malfoy disappeared after that. Not physically, oh no. She was still very much present and alive. She was gone mentally, lost in her grief. Precisely one year after his father's death Draco found his mother dead in the bathtub, the water stained red with her blood.
The day after her funeral Draco tattooed a small white flower above the L, entwining them with leafy vines.
By the end of the war Draco was an emotional wreck. He had lost everything. He was drowning in his sorrow and anguish. At night he would lie awake and stroke absently at the tattoo on his hip, now expanded to include another flower – this one larger than the first and blood red. He was ready to give up on the world.
And then Harry Potter walked back into his life.
This was not the Harry Potter Draco remembered from their school days. This man was grown, and handsome. This man was not a hero, at least not in his own eyes. Upon getting to know him Draco realized that maybe Harry never actually had that hero complex. Maybe Harry had always been the kind young man with the captivating eyes and the open mind and the beautiful heart.
Maybe Draco had been wrong about him.
Draco had never admitted the possibility of fallibility before. It scared him that Harry was making him reconsider everything. As much as it scared him, Draco found that he was drawn to Harry like a moth to a flame. And Harry never pressed, never asked Draco to tell him anything. Draco did anyway. There was something oddly comforting about the man's gentle companionship.
The night of the anniversary of his parents' deaths Draco finally broke down. He told Harry everything, spilled his heart and soul, and he cried like a child – something he couldn't recall ever doing. Harry did not mock, or leave. He took Draco in his arms and let him cry, stroking his hair and whispering, "Everything's going to be all right."
Although many had expressed this same sentiment, it was now that Draco finally believed.
Later that night Draco looked up at Harry though large eyes, glassy with his remaining unshed tears. Harry looked right back at him, wiping away tear tracks with gentle thumbs.
And then it happened. Maybe it was inevitable. Maybe it was Harry's way of showing Draco he cared. Maybe they had just shared their first moment, but there it was. A palpable need. Harry leaned down and pressed his lips softly to Draco's – just for the briefest of moments. In those few seconds Draco realized the magnitude of their relationship. It appeared that the combination of simple, unequivocal comfort and the warm skin of Harry's lips as they moved against his own had opened more than Draco's eyes. Harry had done the unthinkable.
Harry Potter had, at last, opened up Draco's heart.