Chapter 12 Without you.

"So you never did say what happened between you and Draco last week," Neville prodded Harry as they walked to class.

"I never intended to," Harry replied haughtily, hoping his tone would dismiss the topic. Truthfully he had hoped everyone would forget about it, remembering only Harry's drunken foolishness. But apparently one person had not forgotten.

"Sorry but I can't help but be curious, especially with those looks he keeps sending your way." Neville said with a bemused smirk. "Who'd have thought Malfoy could make a face like that?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, instantly regretting it. He did not care what Malfoy thought, or whatever kind of looks he was giving. He wanted to take it back but Neville was quicker.

"Oh, you mean you haven't noticed that soft look in his eyes. If I didn't know better, I'd say he fancies you. But then again with Malfoy, you never know..." At his words Harry felt a warm blush creeping up from his neck. This only served to egg Neville on. "I mean, have you ever actually seen him with a girl besides Pansy? And judging by the way she's been hanging all over Blaise it's clear that whatever might have happened between them last year is definitely didn't mean much. I mean, I just don't get it, a good looking guy like him, money and status, up until this year he should have been crawling in the girls. Just strikes me as suspicious, don't you think? Like he was always just focused on tormenting you, ya' know?" Neville's smirk had grown visibly during his short tirade about Malfoy's presumed sexuality, meanwhile Harry's face had become beet red as a mix of emotion splayed his face.

Harry intended to tell him off about Malfoy, but the words didn't come. "He doesn't fancy me. That's just stupid." Harry replied lamely. "Anyway I've got to get to class. I've got DADA and Cyron's a real prick if your late." He hastily waved and hurried off towards class.

"Later man." Neville waved, grin never leaving his face.

Truthfully, he had a full twenty minutes before class, and Professor Cyron had been nothing but kind and understanding. He had just become nervous about Neville's line of questioning, though he couldn't figure out just what had him so flustered. None of it had been his doing. So what if Malfoy did fancy him, it wasn't his fault after all. It wasn't as if he was going to actually fall for Malfoy. That couldn't happen. No way. Not ever. Ever.

Harry was so lost in his thoughts that he barely noticed the other presence in the classroom as he arrived. He was still a good 10-15 minutes early so he hadn't really expected much of anyone to be here yet. He strode over to his usual spot toward the back right of the room. It wasn't that he meant to hide from the teacher; he found he enjoyed his Defense Against the Dark Arts class with the new professor. No, it was the other students that he felt the need to hide from. It was as though he could feel their scrutiny boring holes into his head when they eyed him from behind, all wondering about the boy-who-live-twice, all curious about their great savior.

"Here a bit early, aren't we Potter?" An icy voice broke through the insidious tranquility. Harry froze, painful familiarity reverberating in every syllable. He whipped his head around to face Malfoy.

"You don't have DADA this hour," He countered.

"I do now," He said smoothly. Then, catching Harry's mortified look, added harshly, "Don't get too excited. I didn't come here because of you." Draco's eyes narrowed. "I had to switch in from the other 7th year DADA class. I- we- that class- it just wasn't going to work!" he stammered tartly, looking suddenly ashamed.

Harry said nothing for a moment, pondering what could have transpired that would cause him to switch classes. "You're here early as well." He managed finally, sounding more meek than confident.

"It's easier." Draco said, his voice barely a whisper.

Harry averted his eyes, uncomfortable with the thought of the daily bullying Draco received. Draco saw Harry's abrupt change in countenance, and incorrectly concluded it was because of Harry's distaste for him and his proclivities. He re-fixed his eyes on his class materials spread before him, trying desperately to forget the color of Harry's eyes and the hollow look in them everytime they blew Draco off.

Xx

"Just die already, you worthless piece of shit." A fifth year student barked as he shoved Draco hard into the smooth marble walls around them. "Fucking death eater murder!" He raged, punching Draco hard in the stomach.

Draco did nothing to defend himself, crumpling weakly at the classmates blows. Vaguely he heard the aggressor's friends calling him off, excited and anxious at the same time, as his slid down the cold marble wall.

While Draco had never actually killed anyone, he felt they were justified. He had not cut himself in over a week, and the impulse was building dangerously inside him. He needed to fix this.

Draco couldn't explain his compulsion. He'd never cut himself before this summer, but since then he hadn't been able to quit. Somehow before it felt as if he never really controlled what happened to him or his body before, (as evidenced by the Dark Mark), but now he was free. Free to self-destruct in ways he'd always longed too.

It all started after the war. He'd been spared from Azkaban, but even so he found he could not walk down the streets of Diagon Alley without sending little tots running to their mothers. At first it annoyed him, pissed him off even. Who the hell were they? What did they know of what he had to go through? Do they really think he asked to be forever branded with the Dark Mark at the tender age of 16? How he resented it, resented them. But as the toll of the war weighed on him with increasing distinction he came to realize it wasn't their fault. The horrors experienced by so many surely overrode his own trials. He wasn't the only the receive the Cruciatus curse from the Dark Lord after all. He'd been lucky enough to escape, more or less intact. Others hadn't been so lucky. Others like... The memory of those lost always made him shudder. So it was that he grew increasingly obsessed with removing the mark that branded him a terrorist to all.

He had been sure they was some way to remove it, albeit it would probably be quite tricky. Likely no one would try to figure it out now, attempting to punish those who had foolishly followed Voldemort. Leave 'em marked for the world to see.

He'd poured himself into research. How was it made, how was it controlled, he searched and searched, but the information just wasn't there. Anyone who was close enough to Voldemort to understand the process, if there was indeed anyone, was either long dead or rotting away, half- mad in Azkaban. The closest Draco could come to a lead was his own father, who he wouldn't have visited if he were on his deathbed, so reluctantly he was forced to abandon his research.

He had always hated that mark, even as he bore it in front of the Dark Lord. Ironically it reminded him too much of his fathers fists raining down on his soft, young body, filled with disappointment and unfulfilled expectations. Seeing its wickedness everyday on his arm after the war etched away at him driving him into a near frenzy. It was in one of these fits of self-hatred that he first struck out at it. He wasn't sure what he would accomplish, he just hated the sight of the vile marking on his perfect, beautiful, snow-white skin. So with a knife in hand he slashed angrily at the stupid snake.

He fell in love.

The cool feel of the knife pulling his skin, marring the image that tormented him. He'd done it over and over again and again, until he felt satisfied in its destruction. Of course the mark had never disappeared or faded in the slightest, but somehow he felt it gave him control. If he could hack at the spectral effigy bit by bit, ruining it each time, it would be okay. Soon it wasn't enough just to attack the serpent, he was running the stinging blade across his pure arm, enjoying the corruption. It felt so right. The sweet trickle of his blood, red staining alabaster. It was in those moments that he realized just how much he needed this. He didn't see it before, but they had been so right to run. He was bad, a bad thing. A wrong person. An evil soul. He could tell now, so acutely, by the way it felt so good to violate his flesh, mutilate his skin. It had been a pain in the ass to hide from his Ministry-appointed-ward, but thankfully she thought he was just shamed by his Dark Mark.

Now he was itching, feeling the burn that told him it had been far too long. He made his way quickly and quietly down the halls towards Myrtles bathroom, praying he ran into no one along the way.