Chapter Eleven: Embossed on Dark Skin

Draco hated waiting.

Why was Potter always late for things?

Draco especially hated waiting when the man had seemed so off earlier in class. Draco recalled the dark circles under Potter's eyes, his slumped shoulders, his rumpled appearance. Well, more rumpled than usual.

Had he been losing sleep over his visions? Had they gotten worse? Had the connection between him and the Dark Lord intensified somehow, or turned darker? Worry began to seep further into Draco's skin the longer he thought about it.

And still he waited.

Well, if Potter was going to make him wait, especially considering the circumstances, then he would at least appear unaffected. Sniffing indignantly, he made a point of lounging indifferently on the cushions in the Room of Requirement. When Potter finally did arrive, he would find Draco in a perfect state of bored, aristocratic ease.

Draco realized almost immediately that he was essentially planning on posing for the man.

With a jolt of embarrassment and pride, he started to stand. He knew he was pathetically out of his mind for the Scarhead, but he drew the line at posing.

The door began to creak open before Draco was fully upright, and, startled, he collapsed onto the cushions once more. Almost without thinking, he affected the same position of haughty boredom that he was occupying moments earlier. He hated himself a little for giving in to his impulse, but, well, he supposed that he simply wanted Potter to see him in a certain light… a light that didn't betray his feelings.

"All right, Malfoy?" He greeted.

"Well you took your time, didn't you?" Draco teased.

Potter rolled his eyes and dead-panned, "Yes, I can see that you were anxiously awaiting my arrival."

If you only knew, Potter…

Draco shook the thought away, instead commenting, "One might think I would be used to your perpetual lateness by now. Apparently I'm a slow learner."

"Well, I'm glad you're aware of the problem. I thought it might be rude to say something about it," Potter quipped, green eyes twinkling.

Draco raised a sardonic eyebrow, making him snicker.

The tired, harassed-looking Potter from earlier that day seemed to have melted away a bit. Draco would have liked to think that his presence caused the change, but he wasn't fooling anyone. Likely, it was due instead to the absence of a certain pink toad.

"If you're quite finished," he went on, throwing a small smirk at Potter, "Why don't you tell me what's going on? It looks like you're pushing yourself to the brink of exhaustion."

Potter's demeanor immediately went a bit darker.

"It's this Occlumency business…" he began, and he explained all about the lessons Professor Snape had been giving him. The more he spoke, the more aggravated he became, until he was pacing the room like a caged animal.

Draco had always known that his godfather had a certain bias towards Potter. Hell, Draco himself had shared that bias for years; he could understand the professor's point of view, at least to an extent. Both had looked down on Potter for being a self-righteous, attention-seeking git. Both had, at times, been cruel towards him as punishment, even vengeance. But this… seemed like something else entirely. This was an intrusion that crossed a line.

When Potter had finished his furious diatribe, Draco mused, "There must be a reason that he's pushing you so hard and so quickly. Maybe… maybe he thinks an intensive crash course is in order because of the - the nature of Dumbledore's request?"

"The nature of Dumbledore's request? You mean the fact that I'm connected to Voldemort?" Potter snapped.

Draco flinched before he could stop himself. It didn't go unnoticed.

"You too?" Potter bellowed, his anger at Snape boiling over as he lashed out, "I knew you were freaked out when I told you about the connection, or whatever it is! I had hoped that someone didn't think of me as a freak, but of course that was impossible-"

Before he could ramp himself up further, Draco held up his hands in an effort to call a cease-fire.

In what he hoped was a calming voice that didn't betray his own anger, he said, "I'm aware that this situation isn't ideal for you, but perhaps you could refrain from screaming at me, as I'm only trying to help?"

Potter crossed his arms over his chest, huffing, but went silent.

"And you're wrong, by the way," Draco asserted.

"About what?" He grunted.

"I don't think you're a freak."

He looked at Draco out of the corner of his eye, insecurity peeking through his sidelong glance.

Draco couldn't figure out how to say what he did think of Potter without giving himself away, so to lighten the mood, he added, "...even if you do resemble your vampire relatives when you're sleep-deprived."

Potter snorted a laugh, tension breaking.

"And see," Draco said drolly, "This is how I know you're pushing yourself too hard. That wasn't even that funny. Normally I'm hilarious, but I wasn't even trying just now, and you've still gone all giggly."

"You? Hilarious?"

This time, a bark of laughter escaped the dark-skinned wizard.

Draco huffed, slightly offended, "I have an impeccable sense of humor when I feel like pulling it out."

Potter clamped his lips together in an attempt to suppress his laughter, but he couldn't quite stop from shaking with mirth. It seemed that the more he tried to calm himself, the more insistent his laughter became.

"I'm serious, Potter!" Draco pressed, affecting an unconvincing scowl.

But Potter couldn't hold back any longer. A deep, bubbling chuckle erupted from him, growing into a full-bellied laugh. It was so charming and genuine that it threatened to spread to Draco too, who had to concentrate on keeping his face stoic. He suspected that he hadn't been fully successful, though, as Potter laughed even harder.

"Did you know-" he managed, "-that when you're trying not to smile, your lips do this odd tremble thing?"

As he spoke, he lifted a finger, wobbling it in the air to mimic a trembling motion and causing the sleeve of his robes to fall further and further down his wrist.

Draco couldn't help it; he smiled. The man had no idea how endearing he was, how easily he could break down Draco's defenses. It was unnerving. It was enticing. It was -

What is that?

Draco caught sight of something that caused the smile to slip off his lips. Thoughtlessly, he grabbed Potter's hand, throwing his long sleeve up above his forearm.

There, on the back of his hand, was a sight that made his stomach churn. The thin lines of the letters were raised slightly, embossed on the dark skin. Scarred.

I must not tell lies.

"Shit," Potter swore and tried to jerk his hand away, but Draco kept it clamped in his grip, staring, trying to make sense of it.

Then, without a word, he dropped his hand, turned, and made for the door.

Someone was going to pay for this.

"Draco, no!" Potter grabbed his elbow, swinging him back around, holding him in place.

"It was the toad, wasn't it?" he demanded, feeling as if his fury would tear him open.

When had he started shaking?

Hesitantly, Potter nodded.

Draco growled, struggling to be free of Potter's grip, but the wizard had a tight hold on him.

"Draco, stop! I've got it sorted!"

Draco swiftly grabbed Potter's hand again, wrenched up the sleeve of his robes, and turned his hand so that light caught on the ridges of the words.

"Does this look sorted to you?!" he bellowed.

Potter yanked his hand away, "It's fine-"

"It's not bloody well FINE!"

"I can take care of myself!"

"Oh, well that's obviously false, according to the cursed fucking scar on your hand!"

"What do you care?!"

"I-" Draco bit his tongue, letting out another frustrated growl, "Will you just let me help you? What is it with you stupid, self-sacrificing Gryffindors?"

The obstinate look on Potter's face suggested that he was planning to say exactly what he thought about intrusive Slytherins, but Draco cut him off before he could begin.

"How long has the hag made you use it?" he demanded.

"Use what?" Potter yelled.

"The Black Quill!"

Potter's dark cheeks went a bit paler. "How did you know what she made me use?"

Draco rolled his eyes and snapped, "One doesn't grow up in the presence of Death Eaters and not recognize the effects of a Black Quill. Now stop avoiding the question: how long?"

"Since my first detention! Is that what you want to hear?" Potter threw his hands up in exasperation.

Draco flexed his jaw in an attempt to stop yelling.

"Potter," he said through clenched teeth, "That was nearly the start of term. Are you telling me that you've been using a Black Quill for over four months?"

He only huffed, sitting down heavily on a cushion.

"It's not as if I had a choice in the matter…" he grumbled, surly.

"You did have-" Draco began to yell again, but he clamped his mouth shut and took in a deep breath. He let it out again, walking a few steps towards Potter and collapsing onto a cushion beside him.

He rested his elbows on his knees and stared determinedly at the ground. He couldn't look at him when he said this.

"You had a choice, Potter. You could have told someone. You… you could have told me."

There was a slightly awkward silence, before Potter responded, "I didn't think there was anything you could do to help. And I didn't want you to - to worry. Even though you say you don't. Worry about me, that is."

Draco took another deep breath, still pointedly staring at the stones beneath his feet. He gathered up his meager courage and steeled himself.

"Of course I worry about you," he admitted quietly. He managed to keep from adding, for good reason, apparently.

After what seemed like ages, Draco finally tore his eyes away from the ground to gauge Potter's reaction to his statement.

The man's lips were folded in. It looked as if he were biting down on them. It was the same expression Draco had seen a thousand times in Defense class.

He was trying to hide a smile.

"You… you actually care about me, don't you Malfoy?"

Draco immediately returned his gaze to the patch of stone floor beneath him, uncertain. Was Potter happy that he cared? Or was the thought so ridiculous that he was laughing at him?

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

"Care? I didn't say - I worry is all-" he hedged. He hoped he sounded indignant instead of embarrassed.

"You care about me too, admit it!" Potter insisted, beaming.

Too?

Could he really be admitting...?

And this time, he could feel the tell-tale tremor of his own smile playing at his lips.

He stifled it almost immediately, but not before Potter had caught a glimpse, his self-satisfied grin growing even bigger.

"Shut it, Potter!" Draco demanded with mock severity. Shoving the laughing man in the shoulder as he stood, he dramatically brandished his wand.

"Make me, Malfoy!" Potter quipped jovially, clamoring to his feet and pulling out his own wand.

The two faced off as they always did. Draco lost the first round spectacularly, unable to keep his thoughts from running away with him. A cacophony of questions kept going off like fireworks in his head, and his hopeful, terrified heart refused to slow.

They took their places once more, counting down before throwing hexes at one another.

Neither could keep from smiling.