The situation of Harry and Draco locked up together in one cell and getting tortured consecutively was inspired from the wonderful fanfic "Once spoken" by Rurounihime. The idea of one lover begging for the other one to be tortured instead of himself was used in the famous book by George Orwell, "1984". The last sentence of the summary is a quote from "Love Story" by Erich Segal. And the final title I chose for the fic corresponds with a song from Sting, therefore I included some of his lyrics as a kind of foreword.
I made Narcissa's character slightly ambiguous, to fit her better to the canon, although she remains OOC, I fear.
Dear reader,
I'm alway interested in your thoughts
Fragile
If
blood will flow when flesh and steel are one
Drying in the colour
of the evening sun
Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away
But
something in our minds will always stay
Perhaps this final act
was meant
To clinch a lifetime's argument
That nothing comes
from violence and nothing ever could
For all those born beneath an
angry star
Lest we forget how fragile we are
('Fragile' by Sting)
Draco looks at his wrists. They always hurt since the war, the result of being broken and healed too many times. He still has trouble performing the more complicated spells, his wrists too stiff for the swish and flick. He looks at his lap, head down, and wishes that everything would be as easy for him as broken wrists.
The morning is young, the colours still lost to the grey of the dawn. He hasn't been able to sleep any longer. No need to disturb Harry by tossing and turning. Draco is an early bird now, rising at dawn on most of his days, although there is no worm to catch. Not any more. They are still recovering, all of them. And every new life is greeted with a shy welcome, as if they cannot really believe it is over, as if they are still not sure that happiness has truly come back for them. Granger and Weasley's youngest daughter is still at St. Mungo's, but mother and child will be home in two days' time and Ron has invited the closest of the remaining friends for a little celebration at the Burrow.
Draco's gaze travels past the silvery lines on his wrists, unfocused. He knows without looking how the scars embrace his joints. He can feel them and knows that Harry feels them too when he touches Draco all the way from his wrists to his chest, tracing down the ribs and further, kissing, licking, nipping, making love to Draco. They are etched into his skin, two expensive ribbons, crossed by innumerable tiny slivers. Bracelets he will never be able to take off. No other jewel has ever been so dearly paid for. Through the beatings, they hung him from the wrists in shackles and when they were almost finished, they smashed his wrists with a club. It didn't take long for the bones to splinter.
He remembers the day he finally cracked. He remembers it clearly, as if it was yesterday. Draco had been lying on the floor, unable to speak from the pain. He could only shake his head to refuse Harry's help. They had dragged Harry in some time after him, still trembling under the aftershock of a curse. Harry always got the curses. Draco always got the whipping and the bone breaking. They never healed him up after the torture, leaving it to Harry to perform the spells.
It was their idea of fun. Either Harry was drained from his last bits of magic or Draco was left to linger in pain.
Each choice painful for both of them.
And they were bound to suffer, no matter what they did.
The door opened, and four Death Eaters stepped in. They were wearing their masks. He never saw their faces, always hidden behind their masks, wouldn't know if his torturers were the fathers of his former classmates or the boys themselves. They approached Draco. He tried to crawl away from them. Somehow, they seemed familiar, but this only increased his fear. Draco heard one of them cackle. And suddenly, he knew, he saw behind their masks. It was Bella, his aunt, together with her husband, Rodolphus. The third Death Eater came near, while the last one remained in the background. Bella and Rodolphus grabbed his wrists and twisted them and he simply screamed from the pain. Bella gave another cackle. The third Death Eater took Draco's chin and lifted his head up to look him in the face. All Draco could see was a white mask with distant eyes staring at him and a single blond hair on the perfect black cloak. And then, there he recognised his father, and ohmygod it had to be his mother back there in the corner, he remembered her stature and the regal way she held herself – always upright, no matter what life threw at you.
He was struggling in their grip now. Someone was screaming and he fought and realised that it was him who was screaming and he screamed even louder, because he did not want to go with them. He didn't want to be hurt. And if he had to be hurt, why did it have to be his father and mother, when fathers should proudly guide you on your first steps into the world and mothers were supposed to take care of you and hug you and kiss you goodnight? And he screamed, NONONO NONO NO, until his voice was hoarse and his throat was raw and he could not scream anymore. They were still holding him at the wrists and his father was still lifting up his head and his mother was watching him from afar, like a wild animal that had been trapped and was too dangerous to be touched. "You can beg, Draco," said the man who once had been his father. So Draco obediently tried to swallow, just once, to speak, to ask, to beg. He had always been the weak one, the one to lose. "Don't take me. Please." And after some time, when they all seemed to be waiting for him to say something more: "Don't take me… take… him. Take… Harry."
They dropped him at once and his body hit the concrete. Hard. Another cackle from Bella. He was worthless now, a traitor for the second time. They stepped away and relief washed over him. It didn't last long. They picked up Harry, oh, no, not him! He seemed unconscious, he will never know what I did. They turned to leave the cell, they can't take him. NO, don't take him, PLEASE! I'm sorry! Draco screamed again, only to find out that all he could utter was a croak. He heard their boots, marching to the door, cackling and cracking. They kicked him away as he tried to clutch at them, to hold them back.
When they brought Harry later that night, Draco was still crying, a cowering bundle on the floor. Harry's wrists were broken, his back was covered with whip marks and burns. He was shivering and Draco didn't have any magic left to heal him. He wasn't sure if he was worthy of touching Harry any longer, let alone holding him. Nevertheless, he crouched beside the tortured man and snuggled against him, trying to keep him warm.
The next time the door opened, the werewolf stepped through. Remus was followed by Tonks and other members of the Order, a whole party to rescue them. They brought stretchers and carried the two young men away from the cell. Harry's hands were bent away from his arms at an odd angle. Draco wanted to touch him so badly, wanted to hold him; but when he fought to reach over, they urged him to lay down again. He thought he could see tears on the werewolf's face. But that could have also been the blinding of the light in his eyes, outside, where the sun shone on good and bad days alike.
He remembers it clearly, as if it was yesterday.
Every day since starts with Draco remembering.
And sometimes when he can't bear itany longer, he fears that in a way those Death Eaters succeeded in tearing himthem apart.
He sighs and looks up from his lap. Harry sits in his favourite armchair and just smiles at him. Draco hasn't heard him coming in. "Lost in thought?" Harry asks, and Draco nods. "Come over here," Harry says. Draco gets up and walks towards his lover. He doesn't deserve him, he doesn't deserve to be held. Not after that. Harry takes him in his arms, as Draco snuggles against him. The armchair is not big enough for both of them to be comfortable, but provides a closeness which feels good anyhow. Harry likes it that way and this is good enough for Draco.
"Don't even think about it, Draco," Harry says, "you know I love you." Draco remains silent for all the objections in his head. Harry knows. Draco has told him everything, while he was sitting through countless nights at Harry's bedside, watching him drifting through unconsciousness. Draco has told him time and again in his nightmares, only to wake up and find Harry by his side, holding him tight. "And I love you, Harry."
At times Draco thinks that he remembers Harry telling him, "It could have been me, instead of you, the other way round," but he doesn't trust that memory and fears that maybe it was wishful thinking on his part. Draco remembers Harry telling him, "I was just lucky, that's the only difference there is."
Nobody else knows and nobody else will ever know. Nobody else would understand the way Harry does, forgiving him the way Harry does. Forgiving him for being human – besides being a coward and a traitor – with the need to love and to be loved.
He can feel Harry's fingers, caressing his hair, striking down his spine and resting warm in the small of his back. Draco can't help sighing with content. "I love it when you do this." And Harry makes that small sound in the back of his throat which only Draco is ever allowed to hear.
Maybe Harry is wrong and Draco is right and he doesn't deserve happiness. But Harry does deserve to be happy, to have a life after, that much Draco knows. And if Harry does, then maybe Draco should simply try to heal and be happy, too.