Part IV.

"Draco!"

A woman is screaming, sobbing, her breath shuddering.

"Draco, where are you?"

I spin around wildly, unable to see anything beyond the utter darkness around me. "Mother!" I yell, desperate. "I can't see you!"

"Draco, please, help!"

The complete defeat in her voice scares me beyond belief, and I start running blindly through the darkness, desperate to just get to her and save her. I feel the wind whizzing past my ears, but that is the only sign I have that I'm moving, that I'm gaining some traction on the ground, because everything around me is still dark. I can hear nothing but her sobs, wracking through her body. I try to make out where they're coming from, but I can't pinpoint the location; they seem to be reverberating all around me.

"Mother!" I scream again, tears rolling down my cheeks, still running frantically. "I'm coming, Mother! I'm coming!"

But all the wind is let out of me as I collide headfirst with something hard, my face striking it forcefully. I fall backwards, vision blackening for a minute, eyes watering, something warm trickling down my nose. My head pounding painfully, I reach out, feeling cold stone beneath my palm.

Suddenly, the silence pushes down upon me. I can't hear Mother sobbing anymore. I'm terrified.

"Mother? Where are you? MUM!"

I reach out again, but now there's no obstacle anymore. I get back up, ignoring the throbbing, stinging pain in my nose and start running again.

My stomach drops as my feet meet thin air, and then I'm falling, falling, falling fast, screaming out loud.

I land heavily on my back, but the pain doesn't come. The first thing I notice is that it's not dark anymore - I'm lying in a barren landscape, stunted trees littered around. The sky is a dark whirlpool of pure terror, thundering and raging, its anger apparent.

I sit up, suddenly realizing that my hands are outstretched above my head. I try to move them, but with a chill I realize they're caught there. I look up to see shackles around my wrists, their chains suspended in thin air. I pull against them, but they don't budge.

And then I hear it. A bone-chilling, shrill, humourless trill of laughter.

"No..." I whisper, terrified. "No, please, no-" My blood has run cold, and I'm shaking my head vehemently. I'm seventeen all over again, young and scared and alone. I pull at the shackles again, hard, my efforts in vain.

The Dark Lord stands in front of me, robes billowing around his bare feet. I keep my eyes trained low, unable to look into those red, inhuman eyes. "I think you need to be shown just how displeased I am with you, Draco." I can hear the glee in his voice, and my insides churn.

Without warning, a searing pain runs down my chest. I scream out in agony, blood spurting from my torso down to my legs. Struggling against the shackles is of no use; my wrists simply chaff and burn more.

"Even the sound of your agony displeases me, boy. How unfortunate. So you see that I am suffering as well, with your punishment. How it pains me. But we must all make certain sacrifices, is it not?"

He cuts me open again, flicking his wand, but this time it's a slash across my face. I'm unable to stop sobbing, the warmth of the blood spreading across my cheek. "No..." I whisper again, my voice thick.

He kneels down now, face to face with me. "Oh, but this is only the beginning." He smiles, face contorting into an expression that is hardly human. He extends one long-nailed finger and pushes it deep against the slash on my chest, twisting.

My throat feels like it's tearing as I scream, the sound inhumane. The pain courses through me like no other, my chest on fire, burning and stinging so bad my vision turns black. Keeping his original hand steady, the Dark Lord now slowly pushes his wand into the gash across my cheek.

The pain is so much that my throat convulses, closing up, choking me. I feel my consciousness slipping and I'm praying for it to just stop, to die, for it to go away, when I hear the voice.

"Draco! Get away from him, you bastard!"

My mind snaps back to what's happening. I look up, but I can't see anyone.

"Harry?" My voice trembles. But the Dark Lord is standing up, looking around uncertainly.

"Malfoy! Draco, I'm coming!" There it is again.

I pull against the shackles, and this time they wrench free. Without a second thought, I stumble up and start running blindly in the opposite direction from the Dark Lord, stumps whizzing past me, sky cracking ominously.

"Malfoy! Malfoy!" He's calling me, where is he?

But I can feel something slithering behind me, and I turn just enough to see Nagini at my heels. My heart stutters in fright and I push on, running as fast as I can through the pain, feet catching on brambles.

Harry's voice rings out again. "Malfoy? Malfoy!"

But I can't see him, fuck, where is he, why won't he come rescue me?

I can feel the snake snapping at my heels, and its fangs sink into my ankle as I stumble, falling, the pain blinding, Harry still calling out my name –

–and I gasp as I open my eyes. The sound of Potter calling me in my dream becomes more pronounced rather than fading away, and it takes me a minute to realize I'm shaking violently. I require another moment to sort out, through the haze of my thoughts, that I'm not shaking onlyof my own accord - apart from my shivering, there's a blurry figure hunched over my face, hands on my bare shoulders, rattling me forcefully.

"Malfoy? Malfoy! Fucking hell, Malfoy, wake up!"

I blink more than a few times, my heart thumping insistently against my chest like some sort of tortured, locked beast trying to escape and burst out my ribcage. My breathing is fast, shallow and laboured, my hands twitching; there's a faint sheen of sweat covering my whole body. Potter's face finally comes into focus in the near-light. It's not an inch from mine, his eyes still bare, a look of mingled concern and apprehension on it.

"Are you alright? Christ, you scared the piss out of me."

He pauses, looking uncertain and unwilling to continue. "You looked like you were having a pretty awful nightmare. Woke me up yourself, thrashing about. You were all... twitching and moaning and sobbing and stuff, and, you know..." He breaks off awkwardly, waving a hand over my prone form, as if somehow that would better articulate what exactly I'm supposed to know. My body's still reacting like I've swum a mile in ice-cold water, though; the shivering hasn't stopped and neither has the breathlessness or erratic heartbeat.

But all those sensations take a back seat as I freeze internally at Potter's words.

Oh fuck.

Fuck, bugger, shite, bollocks, fuckity fuck fuck fuck.

Potter caught me having one of my nightmares. He caught me with my guard down, and I was fucking sobbingin my sleep, for fuck's sake.

And he saw it. He fucking saw allof it. Potter, the one person in the whole of my buggered up life that I'd have given even my Gringotts key over to make sure he never saw me this vulnerable,never.

Because, after all, the one time he did catch me with my guard down, admittedly unwittingly, he nuttered out enough to end with me nearly bleeding to death.

And I don't trust him not to take complete advantage of this situation as well.

Oh fuck!

For a minute I don't know how to react, except to keep staring at the drapes of the four-poster above my head, frozen, my back ramrod straight against the mattress, hands balled into tight fists at my sides. My eyes, which had widened with Potter's words, don't seem to want to retract to their original size. My mind is suddenly empty, save for Potter's words bouncing around in my skull like some mocking imitation of an imprisoned bludger.

Moaning and sobbing and stuff...

Potter finally retracts himself from over my form, sitting back on his shins on his side of the bed. He looks at me uncomfortably, obviously at a loss as to how he should be reacting to a post-nightmare former arch enemy who he'd just slept with not hours ago. Apparently, he decides running a nervous hand through his hair seems like the best option.

I snap myself back into reality, wiping the slackness from my brain and tightness from my jaw. For a moment, I'm tempted to flee the scene as quickly as possible; what the fuck am I doing,anyway? I'm sleeping at Harry fucking Potter's house, having shagged him the night before, for sweet Merlin's sake! I should, by all rights, be scampering out the front door moments after it was over. And fucking Merlin, I'm this closeto actually to doing it, to bolting out like a stampeding hippogriff.

I slow my breathing before turning to look at Potter. My gut is still roiling in fear and simulated pain; the remnants of the vivid sensations from my dream. Belatedly, I realize that we're both still completely starkers; although, while I'm still protected by the covers, Potter's side is pulled down while he sits there awkwardly in all his naked glory, seemingly oblivious to his state.

And that's when the determination overcomes my interior, and stays there.

No, I think firmly. Fuck what I'm supposed to be doing; this situation is so outside my frame of reference that it won't matter anyway. I'm notgoing to flee with my tail between my legs like some pathetic Crup; I'm notgoing to give in and toss over another opportunity for Potter to mockme at his next red-haired get-together. I'm not going to make a big deal of this - at the least not in front of him.

I won't give him the power - I'm not intent on staying a moment longer than I have to, but I'd rather make my way out in a more dignified manner, albeit later. But definitely not in front of him like this,letting my fear out through all the cracks in my psyche I've so carefully patched over in the bygone tedious years.

"I'm fine, Potter, it was nothing. Go back to sleep." I try to sound dismissive, but my voice sounds hollow to my own ears. I turn away from him and onto my side, facing the wall with the window, pulling the covers up to my shoulder from where they had pooled at my waist. Grabbing my wand from the dresser, I cast a Tempusthat tells me it is twelve past four. Now that my body has regained some control over its pace, I feel uncomfortable sleep pricking at my eyes again, and if I were honest with myself, I'd like nothing more than to just drift off again. At the same time, though, I find myself silently hoping that Potter takes heed of my comment and doesgo back to sleep himself anyway so that I can make my escape without the drama.

But then a warm, uncertain hand places itself lightly between my shoulder blades and I flinch away instinctively.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" I snarl, snapping around to face him, half sitting up and holding my body defensively, on impulse. "Don't fucking touchme."

Potter, who's still sitting back on his shins, recoils as if I've physically slapped him. The expression of hurt is quickly replaced by fierce anger.

"Oh, that's rich, Malfoy, coming from someone who couldn't keep his hands off me only a couple of hours ago." He growls back.

"Fuck off,Potter, don't flatter yourself. That was a fucking lay, it didn't mean anything. A bloke has needs, and I wasn't feeling picky about who I got off with at that moment."

I'm lying through my bloody teeth, and I know it. But this isn't right, Potter caught me with my defences down, and I'm dealing with it the only way I know - snapping them back up as fast as possible, heedless of who gets hurt in the process.

"You know what, Malfoy? You're just a fucking tosspot, an arrogant prick if I ever saw one, even after all these years." Potter's seething now, his nails digging deep into his palms. "You haven't changed one bloody bit, not in the least. I almost despise myself for believing you had."

"Oh boo hoo, poor Potter and his unrealistic expectations of the world. Come off it. It isn't all pygmy puffs and cheering charms out there, you know, and you're right - I haven't changed at allsince Hogwarts. I never once gave you a reason to think otherwise, so it's your own fucking fault you had to go and disillusion yourself by believing everything's all fine and dandy, that every surviving Death Eater's a reformed angel and epitome of fucking second chances."

Potter's face is a constant swirl of emotions, flitting by so quickly I can't single each one out. We're both facing each other properly now, sitting up, his hands drawn across his chest violently, my hands balled into fists at my side. I'm feeling horribly vulnerable and nakedhaving this row with Potter without my clothes, and I'm desperately wishing I was dressed, enough to make me want to get off the bed and grab my stuff. But I don't want to be the first one to give in.

There's a beat of silence wherein Potter appears as if he doesn't know how to react, still simultaneously recoiling and seething from the force of my words.

Then, "Yeah, you're right - as much as I hate to agree with you, some people are simply incorrigible, and you're one of them. Fucking stuck-up arsehole. Is that the reason you don't have any friends anymore? Couldn't keep up with your constant tantrums?" The sneer looks foreign on his face. "Everyone at the whole sodding Ministry knows about poor, pathetic, abandoned Malfoy. There are some right gossips around, you know. Your mates all abandoned you soon as they could, didn't they?" Potter's obviously lashing out due to hurt; a defence mechanism I'd know anywhere - I use it myself. But it doesn't make it sting any less. And quite frankly, at the moment, I couldn't give a flying fuck about the whys behind his whats.

"You keep your trap shut about them, Potter." My voice has gone dangerously low. "You don't know a fuck about what you're saying."

Potter has a malicious look in his eye, and he latches on to the topic, knowing he's got me now.

"Yeah, Goyle couldn't wait to get away, could he? Finally did tire out of being your sidekick, bending to your every whim. And Parkinson probably realized just how much of a ponce you were and left you to rot too, going after a fucking realman. I feel sorry for Zabini and Nott, though; poor sods couldn't wheedle their way out of your company. Heard Nott say some pretty nasty stuff about you the other day at the Ministry - looks like there's some stuff even Unspeakables can't keep in." He laughs humourlessly.

My vision goes white. Shocked would be an understatement for how I'm feeling right now. My ears are ringing, blood rushing and pounding through my veins. I've never, neverseen Potter act this way before, to lose that entire Holier-Than-Thou charade that he keeps going. A split second later, he seems to realize the same thing; his expression goes slack and eyes widen perceptibly. In some bizarre, overlooked part of my brain, I register feeling triumphant over the fact that I'm the one person who manages to rile Potter up like no other, to reduce him to that level that he tries so desperately to appear above.

But it's too late; he's crossed the line and gone way too far, attacking the one thing that he should've just shut up about. He fucking has it coming now.

"Fuck, Potter, I'm impressed. I didn't know you had it in you. Finally given up pretending that you're above hurtling insults, did you?" I give him an expression of mock amusement. "Unfortunately for you, though, you've just gone and needled the best fucking player there is, and I'm feeling particularly on form today. You've had your little experiment now, haven't you? So you can fuck off to whatever it is you were doing before. Luckily, it doesn't matter if you prefer blokes or bints; I'm sure your little inbred clan of gingers are so desperate to get you into the family - only for your money and fame, though, I'm sure, considering how pathetically poor they are - that they'll allow you to fuck any of them, Weaslette or Weasel. Maybe you could have a go with Granger, too, if you get bored with Ginevra. A big happy family all around, you all share everything anyway, don't you?"

"You utter fucking bastard…!"

A savage pleasure runs through my veins at seeing Potter's green eyes flame with pure, undiluted hatred. He rises to the bait, hand twitching as he raises it almost imperceptibly, and I ready myself for the blow; I'm almost eagerly anticipating it, I want sofucking much to throw punches right now.

But then, suddenly, the hand goes limp. "Get out," he snarls, voice low. "Get the fuck out. Why're you still here, anyway? Get the hell out of my goddamn house."

That's it, enough -I don't have a reason to stay any longer. I snap myself off the bed, grabbing my wand from the dresser. "Yeah, I was beginning to wonder that myself." I start gathering my strewn clothes, pulling up my boxers and then my trousers, shoving my wand in my pocket. I fumble with the buttons, my hands shaking with barely concealed rage. "I'll get out of your way. Thankyou for your hospitality,Potter, but as you so very rightly put it, I have no need to be here anymore. Places to see, people to fuck, and all that."

Fucking hell,why won't my hands stop shaking so that I can just get my fly done and leave? After a moment, my mind tells me to give up, reasoning that my robes would cover it anyway. I'm about to stop fiddling with it and find my shirt, but then I hear Potter.

"Malfoy." His voice sounds odd.

I don't deign to look up, giving my undone buttons a last shaking flick before finally admitting defeat. Had I raised my gaze, though, I would've seen Potter squinting at me, stumbling off the bed and pulling on his boxers; and been able to move away from his advancing (and still mostly naked) form. But I don't register that he's gotten off the bed and is standing right in front of me until his palm lays itself flat on my chest.

I jump backwards. "What the fuck?" I yell, looking up at Potter. "Get the fuck away from me!"

But Potter's squinting at my chest, eyes narrowed, trying to focus despite the absence of his glasses. "No, it can't be..." He mumbles, and then his eyes widen as he's staring at my chest in shock, and once again he's close, so close. That disconcerting green gaze is looking into me again as it flicks to my face before going back to my torso. I try to push his hand away from my chest, stumbling behind, but he doesn't budge, moving forwards as I do backwards until I trap myself between him and the wall again.

His gaze flicks from my bare chest to my eyes again, staying there, and the shock is replaced by horror and shame.

"I did this to you," he says simply.

I'm still struggling to get his bloody hand off my chest when I reply, "The fuck are you talking about, Potter? Get your fucking hand off me!"

"I did this to you." He repeats, and this time it's barely a whisper. His eyes are now trained on my chest.

"Whatthe hell are you on about? You..."

But my voice breaks as I look down at my chest properly, and my blood runs cold. Potter's eyes are running over a set of three pale scars, travelling across my body from my right collarbone to my left hipbone. They're glinting a faint silver in the not-light, raised in slight relief against the contours of my torso.

Oh fuck.

My Glamour Charm must have faded while I slept. I usually cast it before any night of a potential lay, covering the ugly scars as well as the Dark Mark that mar my body. All of the lines, the self-inflicted and the others - epecially this one; the one that I'd gotten so many years ago at the hands of the very person standing in front of me. I never want to scare off my partners when I undress, and despite the fact that they may know who I am, it's always less disconcerting for them to not have the sight of a skull spitting out a snake shoved in their face. Once the Dark Lord had fallen, the magic of the marks faded enough for them to be susceptible to Glamours. But I've never stayed over for this long at any bloke's place, and now I'm paying the price.

My voice seems to have fled me as I stare down at my own torso. I'm choking on my words, unable to speak as my attempts to push Potter's hand off turn feeble, at best.

Potter brings his fingers up to the start of the centre scar, trailing the path across my body. My hands are shaking again, palms now flat against the wall at my back, nails digging into the wallpaper.

"I did this to you," he says for the third time. He's still whispering, a gentle voice one would use when handling someone fragile. His eyes finally rise to look into mine again. They're bright, so bright, and they look like they're hiding behind a faint sheen of moisture. But he blinks, and it's gone. I'm still shaking, frozen as I look back into that transfixing green gaze. It turns shameful, remorseful, self-loathing. "Fuck, Malfoy, I'm so sorry. I'm so, so, sorry, I didn't realize it'd still leave so many scars. I was such a bastard..."

But I'm hardly listening to what Potter's saying, because sudddenly there's a ringing in my ears. I'm staring straight ahead, beyond Potter's shoulder. My hands are pressed painfully into the wall behind me and I'm sure if I look, my knuckles would be a shade closer to white than usual. I'm trembling pathetically, and I don't know when I began breathing so heavily, but Potter's fingers are still trailing the scar and his caress is so gentle and apologetic. He's still speaking, and I shut my eyes tightly, wondering why my limbs feel like they've been turned to stone and why I can't seem to push him away.

"... never meant to do that, I'm so sorry. I know it's asking for a lot so I don't expect you to forgive me, but I hope you know how sorry I am. There's not a day when I think about what happened that I don't regret it, Draco."

My eyes snap open at that word again, and I look at Potter as he beseeches me with his eyes, palm now flat against my chest again, thumb running almost absentmindedly across it.

Draco. Draco.

His voice saying my name from last night with the exact same inflections returns to my mind, and then I'm falling fast into a swirl of blackness, terrified and alone. Potter's voice saying my name rattles around and around in my head until the volume reaches almost a fever pitch. I shut my eyes against everything again, and suddenly there's a constant frame of mental images snapping through my brain; Potter grinning at me in the sitting room, Potter attacking me with his lips, Potter's face after I snogged him, Potter's intense green gaze, Potter caressing my hair as he looked at me like that,Potter as he writhed and wriggled beneath me with wonder in his eyes, Potter's face as he came, Potter's face as he said my name.

The swirling and thundering is back in my heart as the relentless images burst through my mind, that singular word still yelling inside my head. But this time it aches,and fuck, this is so different from anything I've felt before. It's a terrible ache, hurtful yet so beautiful, and it's ripping my heart to shreds from within as it screams out in blissful agony; it's too much and not enough at the same time, and my insides cry in abandon but whether it's a plea of pleasure or pain, I can't make out. It's the most beautiful hurt that I've ever felt and it's addictive. The images swirl faster, the ache becomes more terrifying and then suddenly the word is just a whisper in my head.

Draco.

Suddenly, it's too much for me to take, and I yell out loud as I clamp my hands to my ears as if that might somehow stop everything. Potter's hand retracts itself from my chest in a sudden, startled movement.

"Draco?" His voice sounds scared.

I snap my eyes open again, but everything's spinning in front of me, Potter's frightened face included. "Don't call me that, don't fucking call me that! Don't say that word!"

"What word? Draco?" He's looking at me, utterly bewildered. "Alright fine, if it troubles you so much, I won't call you Draco..."

"NO!" I scream, clamping my hands down on my ears even more.

No, no, no, no.

I need to get away from him now.

I need to escape, I need move away,but he's still standing in my way, blocking my path to the door, my back against the wall. My eyes dart all over, looking for the smallest place to slip out from, but the spinning is simply too much. I realize there's a door to my immediate right, and I stumble away from Potter, terrified, snap open the door, hurtle inside and slam it shut behind me. I grasp my wand from my pocket with trembling fingers and cast a locking charm just seconds before the jamb starts rattling with the force of Potter trying to open it.

"Malfoy? Fuck, Malfoy, what's wrong? Open the door!"

The doorknob rattles even more insistently, and Potter's muffled voice comes through, first pleading, then demanding that I let him through.

"Malfoy, for fuck's sake, open the goddamn door! I'm not going to fucking hurt you!"

Hand still clutching my wand, I walk backwards from the door, realizing that I'm in his bathroom. I try to take several deep breaths to compose myself. But it doesn't make a difference, I can't calm myself down and I'm so scared because the ache is still there and it just won't go away. I stumble backwards until my back hits a glass barrier, and I realize the shower cubicle is right behind me.

A familiar sensation starts creeping over me and my insides freeze in terror.

My breath catches in my mouth and my skin starts crawling. I catch a familiar whiff of that stench, that smell that haunts me in my most broken state.

No.This can't be happening now. Not now, not here, not like this. But even my most vehement pleas don't stop the sound of my mother from my dream returning to ring in my head.

"Draco, where are you? Help me, Draco!"

I scream out loud in desperation, ripping my clothes off my body, desperate to wipe the stink off my skin. I tumble into the shower, flipping on the water and turn it as hot as possible. I'm sobbing now, incoherent, as the burning water cascades down my body, scalding my skin.

The rattling of the doorknob stops as Potter hears the sound of the shower.

"Malfoy? Was that you yelling? What the fuck are you doing? Fuck, where the hellis my wand..."

Hurried footsteps recede from the door. But I don't care; I'm scouring my skin with my own nails, leaving red torn trails in their wake.

"No… No, no, I'm so sorry, no…" I'm mumbling and stuttering, I don't even know what for.

I turn my left arm over and am scrubbing at it with my nails when I see it again - the Mark standing out clearly against my pale skin. Even though the colour had faded, my complexion is such that it makes it look just as dark in comparison. A wave of pure hatred and nausea takes over my senses, and I howl as I dig my nails into the black lines, tearing flesh due to the sheer desperation of my actions. I scratch at it, desperate to wipe it clean, to make it go away so that I don't have to live with it anymore, reminding me everyday about the choices I made and where it got me - with no one to lean on, desperate and alone and forgotten, a shell that feels so hollow all the time.

Why won't the stench go away? It's choking me, I can hardly breathe; my vision is turning black. There are deep red swirling trails in the clear water circling down the drain but I'm still at it, scratching and scrabbling and sobbing and choking. The scalding water burns the raw scratches even more, heightening the hurt to this point where it's all just a frenzy in my head. The smell of guilt; it's squeezing my soul, sapping the life out of me, and all I can think of is no, no, no, no –

"ALOHOMORA!"

The door bursts open with the loud boom of that voice and Potter tumbles in, still clad in only his boxers, but wearing his glasses now. He takes one look at my state and lets out a shout of protest as he hurtles towards the shower, whipping open the door and turning off the spray of water.

"Malfoy!Oh fuck,what the hell do you think you're doing…?"

He reaches out for me, but I turn towards him and step out of the shower. "Don't c-come near-r me, Potter, I'm w-warning you." I say, my hands outstretched to keep him at bay. My voice is trembling, my hands twitching. I vaguely register that my arms are still bleeding.

Potter holds his arms up in a gesture of surrender, but he still inches towards me. "Malfoy, please, I'm not going to hurt you. Just let me take a look at you, I can stop the bleeding."

"N-no. Just s-stay the fuck away." I pull my boxers lying on the floor up my sopping legs, uncaring about the water and just wanting to be clothed.

"Could you at least allow me to heal those cuts? That's all I'll do. Nothing else."

"I don't want you to h-heal them."

"Please, Malfoy. You're still bleeding."

I look at Potter, his face earnest, tone pleading. I will never know what prompted my next move, but suddenly I feel all the fight go out of me, and then I'm slumping against the wall as the pain and burning returns in full force. I nod jerkily in acquiescence once, and Potter approaches me tentatively.

"Can I touch you? I need to hold your arms to heal them."

I nod again, stretching out my right arm. Potter grasps my wrist gently with his left hand and starts slowly running his wand over the grazes, murmuring an incantation that I don't recognize under his breath. I watch as the blood trickling out returns to them as if being sucked back and the epidermis slowly forms thin layer after layer of skin above the hurt areas. Soon enough, all the cuts are healed, and Potter reaches out for my left arm. I hesitate for only a minute, before I offer it, palm facing upwards.

Potter's hand stills for a minute as his eyes rake over the shorn lines of the Dark Mark. His eyes rise to mine, and I give him a defiant glare, challenging him to say anything about it. He merely gives an imperceptible shake of his head and reaches out, healing the grazes again. He doesn't stop when he reaches the skin of the Mark, only runs his wand over it like it were any other cut. It takes a few more chants of the spell and comparatively more time to heal, but it does as well.

I watch Potter as he goes about murmuring, his brow furrowed in concentration. His actions are precise, orderly and calm, and I feel myself getting comforted by them. My heart rate has slowed down now and I'm feeling much calmer with his ministrations. There is something soothing about the calculated, controlled and specific actions of his healing, a consolation in the predictability of the movements. Since I was a child, I've always been able to find comfort in patterns, and now was no different.

Potter finishes the last of the cuts, and then, after a beat of hesitation in which his eyes flick to mine, slowly runs a hand over the Dark Mark. I let out a sound due to my sharp intake of breath but don't pull away, and look up at Potter, watching his face as he frowns at my arm, still smoothing the skin of the Mark. I almost expect him to make some sort of disparaging comment, but I'm surprised when none is forthcoming.

He looks up at me, expression unreadable. I reckon something in my noticeable calmer expression must have given him the go-ahead to speak, because then he's asking me a question softly.

"Why did you do that to yourself?"

I shutter my face immediately, and Potter seems to notice it. He looks faintly disappointed, but not surprised.

"I'm not talking about this, so please don't waste your time."

I'm surprised when Potter doesn't put up a fight. "Alright." He looks at my body once, still dripping water onto the tiles. "Would you allow me to cast a Drying Charm on you, at the least?"

Without waiting for an answer, he casts it anyway. I don't realize his hand was still gripping my wrist until he lets go and steps backwards. Looking at me once, he steps to the door and says, "I'm going to allow you to dress now, okay?" His tone of voice is firm, and merits no disagreement. "And then I'm going to make a cup of tea for us both. Stay, drink, and then leave, if you want." Once again, he doesn't wait for me to answer before he shuts the door.

I stand there, dumbstruck for a few minutes before I remember myself. What the hell was that all about? He probably thinks I'm a nutter or I'm mental or something, treating me as if I'm a child. I'm resolutely ignoring the rather large part of me that was comforted by his actions, his touches, his offer; the part that could actually do with a sodding cup of tea right now. After a few moments of staying in the same position, I finally move and pull on my trousers (I'm able to do up my buttons this time, thankfully) and stuff my wand back into it. I take a deep breath and step out the door, but Potter's not in the room anymore. Locating my shirt and robes, I don them and hesitantly make my way down the stairs.

I step into the sitting room, looking through the doorway that connects it to the kitchen. I see Potter standing there through the opening. His back is towards me and he's humming tunelessly as he goes about making the tea. He's worn a thin t-shirt over his boxers now, and he's nattering about, looking as if he doesn't have a care in the world.

I stand there for a few moments, watching Potter, allowing the calm to flood me. He looks at peace, at home, and my heart twitches with something. I watch his movements, seeming haphazard but finally understanding the rhythm and pattern behind them as he continues. I don't know how long I stand there, but suddenly I feel a weariness overtake me.

Without another word and with one last glance at Potter, I soundlessly make my way to the front door, open it and step out into the night, Disapparating on the spot.

.oOo.

I don't even know where I was thinking of when I Disapparated, but looking around, I find myself in a deserted alleyway near Vauxhall Station. I take off my robes and Transfigure it into a scarf, winding it around my neck so that I don't attract any unwanted attention from the Muggles due to my unusual attire. Making a split-second decision, I head towards the Thames.

I make my way onto the Albert Embankment, walking along it towards Lambeth Road. I stop at one point and lean against the wall of the embankment, staring out at the waves of the Thames. It's rather still tonight, not as choppy as usual. There's a faint mist that has settled on the water, the lights from the other side of the bank glowing fuzzily through the haze. I shiver in the cold, and belatedly realize that I've left my coat in the Spitting Horntail in my eagerness to leave with Potter. No matter, I think. I'll drop in tomorrow and retrieve it, I'm sure Oliver had noticed and kept it away safely. But the cold is biting into me. I consider Transfiguring my robes-scarf into a coat, but deem it too risky, even at this hour of the morning. Looking around to make sure the few early morning stragglers aren't watching, I cast a surreptitious Warming Charm with my hand grasping my wand stuffed in my pocket. The warmth envelops me, providing some relief.

I sigh, raking a hand through my hair. I remember, when I was barely eight, Mother would make trips from the Manor to Diagon Alley to shop, taking me along. I'd accompany her eagerly, wide-eyed and full of wonder at the shimmering displays in the shops around as well as the salespeople hawking their wares. I'd stop outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, nose pressed up eagerly against the glass. I'd run eagerly into Flourish and Blotts, thumbing through the tomes; my father's vast library has ingrained into me a love of books from a very young age, something only my family and closest friends knew about. And at the Apothecary, my favourite place, I'd go through all the ingredients and potions, full of awe. After, Mother would take me to Fortesque's Ice Cream Parlour, and she'd allow me to have one large scoop of whichever flavour I wanted. She'd watch me eat and slurp messily, a twinkle of love in her eye, and sneak a spoon or two when I wasn't looking just to tease me.

I also remember the day she suddenly decided to take me to Muggle London. I was only thirteen, home for the Christmas hols. After our round of Christmas shopping in Diagon, she turned around and told me we were going to the Muggle side of London, just to look around. I gaped at her, wondering how a pureblood would even know their way around the place, when she told me with a mischievous smile about how, when she was at Hogwarts, her friend Louisa and her mum had taken her to that side of the city, unbeknownst to Mother's family. She said it was a sight I had to see once.

I discovered something new about my mother that day - underneath the cold, pureblood, stately woman-of-society exterior that she always kept up, there was a person who enjoyed seeing the side of things that remained hidden, the side of things she had been brought up taught to hate. It was a something about her I doubt anyone apart from me knew about, Father included. He'd have probably thrown a fit anyway, had he known.

We walked down the bank of Thames, watching the strange things in the river (Mother told me they were called barges), the Muggles going about their Christmas shopping as well. The ducks squawked at us, and Mother merrily tossed them a few crumbs of bread from the edge of the sandwich I was eating while I scowled indignantly at her. We looked at the spires of the Parliament, while she chattered on about some inane Muggle thing, reminding me horribly of Arthur Weasley. When I turned to look at her, blank and disbelieving, she merely laughed, winking and telling me there was a lot I still didn't know about her, and I found myself smiling too.

I remember her tinkling laugh, the open and unguarded smile I'd only ever seen her give me. The sound rings through my head, and I shudder involuntarily, a wave of nostalgic sorrow overtaking me. I miss her so much; sometimes it's too hard to bear. I still feel horribly responsible for her death. If only I was just here,in England, instead of way over in some underbelly of France, getting completely pissed and tending to my own carnal needs, I'd have gone with her, been there to stop it, saved her; anything.

Because I know that's what I'm truly sorry about, the fact that keeps me up at night, the thing that haunts my nightmares, the reason my guilt chokes me.

I pull out my left arm in front of me, trailing my eyes over the now invisible cuts and the faded tattoo. I lost my head enough over it today to have a full-blown mental breakdown in Potter's house, of all people. I feel completely knackered, all of a sudden, and terribly old, aged beyond my years. I regret the mess I'd gotten myself into, the choices that passed me by. I regret that I wasn't brave enough to grasp them. I regret it all.

And the scars they've left hurt, all of them, both the physical and the invisible. I feel broken, shattered apart at the seams, my attempts to put myself back together feeble and trembling. The only time I've felt calm, honestly soothed and still in a very long time was today, in Potter's bathroom as he healed my cuts. Just like that, my thoughts drift back to him, and I find myself thinking of the way he gently grasped my arms, movements firm but sure. The way his skin felt against mine, solid and tangible.

It's predictable that he'd be the one to heal my scars, some sort of fucking poetic justice that he'd come prancing in and be the one to put me at peace. Hewasn't the one who had to play host to the Dark Lord, he doesn't know what horrors I've had to face. Whatever scars he got in the War were superficial, at best, and faded away completely after it. The less jaded and biased part of me points out that this is probably an unfair judgement, but I don't really want to listen to it.

As if to prove its point, a vision of Potter's bare room jumps unbidden into my mind. I let out a sharp breath as I wonder, once again, what the story behind it was.

It's there, a niggling realization, trying to push up from my subconscious. But it's not ready yet, it only reveals one thing to me.

That we were all scarred, in more ways then one; some directly by the War, others by consequences of it. And not all our scars jut out in relief on our body - most of them play on our mind, our relationships, our surroundings. But they're all there, on each one of us. And we deal with it in different ways, the only ways we know how - Potter included.

Suddenly, my numb existence seems superficial, shallow, insincere; a cover I forced myself to believe to polish over all the feelings that were still very much alive. I wonder how long I've been trying to convince myself otherwise. After last night, I don't seem to be able to, anymore.

We're all marked. Potter and me probably more than the others.

Is that why I've always been drawn to him? The hate that I know I felt, the lust that I know accompanied it, later. Regardless of whatever my sentiments have been towards him, I've never ever been able to simply ignore Potter, to let him pass me by. I've always grappled for his attention, in whatever way he deemed fit to give me. I've always wanted him to see me, to notice me.

And later, I almost hoped he'd understand me, in some twisted, fucked-up way.

And then there it is, the realization in full force, hitting me like a broomstick upside my head.

Maybe one night with Potter was exactly what I needed to go on the so-called 'fucking soul-searching trip'.

A sudden wave of shame hits me as I think of how I lashed out at him when he was simply trying to comfort me after my dream. I feel gutted, wanting to take back the acid I spewed from my tongue. The way I pushed away the one person who showed any interest in my demons in such a long time.

Suddenly, I feel more alone than before.

I lean back from the embankment. The fog has lessened now, enough to faintly make out the spires of Whitehall. I don't know how long I've stood here, and the Warming Charm is starting to wear off. I make to walk towards Waterloo Bridge, even though it's a way off. I feel the urge to walk around a bit, clear my head. Maybe I'll make my way over to the other side, to Victoria Embankment too; I'm not ready to Apparate back to Wiltshire yet. I'm thinking it's a good idea anyway; I need to move before my legs freeze off my body, when a familiar voice breaks through from behind me.

"It's awfully cold out to be taking such an early morning walk without a coat on, don't you think?"

I snap around so quickly my neck cricks. I see Potter standing there, hands pushed into the pockets of his coat, face flushed with the cold. His chin is pushed into his collar, hair flowing slowly in the gentle wind. His eyes are a bright green behind his smudged glasses, the reflection of the water catching in it at certain angles.

I rub my neck, turning around to face him. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't reply. I don't think I expected him to, anyway. Not to that question. I rephrase.

"How did you find me?" This time, he answers.

"Well, I don't mean to brag, but I'm not the youngest Head Auror in almost a century for nothing, you know." He grins, face breaking into that patented expression. My breath catches for a moment. He looks beautiful.

I turn back, facing the water again, shivering slightly against the cold. Potter joins me at my side, leaning against the embankment, looking out at the waves as well. I can't make out if I'm feeling annoyed or relieved that he followed me, and I don't know how I'm supposed to act now, so I avert my eyes. But Potter simply extends an arm, still looking forward, and I look down to see a second, unfamiliar coat hanging off it. I hesitate for only a minute before I accept it and put it on. The sudden warmth is gratifying, and I register vaguely that it probably has an in-built Warming Charm on it, in addition.

"Why did you leave so suddenly?" he asks, voice soft.

I let out a humourless bark of laughter. "Honestly? You're actually asking me that?"

He turns slightly now, eyes on me. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, registering the look of faint hurt on it.

"I thought you'd stay for tea, at the least. You looked like you could do with a cup, anyway."

I stay quiet, still looking forward. The silence stretches out, but it's toeing the line between highly awkward and not uncomfortable, not quite making up its mind which way it wants to go.

Then Potter breaks it, softly. "I'm not judging you about what you did, you know." His voice is tentative.

I stiffen. "I don't recall asking you if you did. And I thought I made it clear I didn't want to talk about this."

I make to walk away, but Potter's hand is on my arm in a moment, stilling me. I almost make to shove it off again, but then I stop myself, remembering what happened the last time.

Maybe I can allow it, just this once.

"Look, I don't really care what happened. If you want to keep it to yourself, it's alright, I honestly didn't expect any different. But I don't think I want to burn any more bridges, do you? Especially not one that's already so shaky to start with." He grins again, trying to inject some humour into the conversation.

"I wasn't aware we had anything remotely resembling a bridge between us."

"But we don't exactly hate each other anymore, do we?"

I hesitate for a moment, unsure as to what I should say to that - simply because I don't really know how I feel about Potter anymore.

"At least I haven't, not for a while now." He looks up at me, making proper eye contact, and my heart stutters in my chest. His hand is still on mine. "And I'm so sorry about the things I said, I didn't mean them, not one bit."

My face shutters impulsively, but Potter looks at me, determined.

"And why should I accept your apology?" I raise a cold eyebrow at him.

"Because you were just as much of an arsehole as me, and frankly said an even amount of stuff back." He smirks, but there's a twinkle of amusement in his eye. "I think you'll agree that we both bring out the worst in each other, whether on purpose or not."

I stay silent. I don't know what Potter sees in my face next, but he looks satisfied and his face relaxes, giving an almost imperceptible nod.

He flicks his eyes to me as he speaks. I register his hand still grasping my arm, grip gentle. "I meant it when I said I thought you'd changed."

I turn fully to look at him, incredulous. "Honestly, Potter, you're the most gullible twat around if that's what you truly believe. You don't even fucking know me, let alone have any right to pass judgements on whether I'm suddenly the embodiment of change for the good."

Potter sighs in exasperation and lets go of my arm. It feels cold.

"I didn't mean that. Call it intuition, call it wishful thinking, I don't really care. I just..." He breaks off, sighing again, carding a hand through his hair. He turns to look back at the water. "I don't even know what I meant myself."

I lean back onto the embankment, imitating his gaze.

There's silence again, but this time it's not as strange, it's more of a quiet, thoughtful sort. I feel Potter absentmindedly shift closer to me as a gust of harsh wind hits us, and I can feel the warmth radiating out from his body.

I haven't, not for a while now.

Once again, my skull seems empty save for these words bouncing about in my head. How in the world does Potter expect me to react to that? It's always been a given, we're simply supposed to hate each other. That's what's expected of us.

Yeah, and that's exactly why you just had the most unbelievable sex with him last night, didn't you?A small voice in my head says.

And that ache. I think of the ache in my chest when he said my name. That beautiful, terrible, addicting ache. I sigh deeply.

Choices, I think. Choices that have passed me by. Choices that I regret being too scared to grasp on to.

I want to feel that ache again. But not scared, like I was before. I want to face it with courage, taking the risk; to actually feel it and see where it leads.

I take a deep breath, knowing my next question could change everything, depending on whether Potter understands what I mean by it or not. "What's the story behind the room?" I ask tentatively. "You can tell me."

Potter turns to look at me, a glint in his eye. I think he understands just as well as me the unspoken acquiescence behind my query.

"I think that's a conversation that merits a cuppa." He's speaking slowly, almost as if he's weighing each word before he says it. "The tea's getting cold back at home, you know."

He turns to look at me, hopeful. I turn as well. A faint gust of wind lifts my own fringe, and his hair flails wildly in it. I catch a whiff of that indescribable scent of his. It's a smell somewhere between the musk of spring rainfall and cool winter Quidditch pitches. I breathe in deeply.

The wind is changing. I can smell it, I can feel it in my bones.

He extends a hand towards me, palm faced upward.

I have a sudden case of déjà vu as I remember myself, over a decade ago, offering a hand to a boy with circular glasses and a lightening bolt scar.

Choices, I think. Some of them might have been made for me, like the one that day. But I have the power over the ones I make now - more so than ever before. Choices.

"So?" Potter asks, his hand still outstretched.

I close my eyes, and a vivid creation of Potter from my mind's own subconscious jumps out at me, one I didn't even know I still had stored away.

You have a choice to make, Draco. You can't keep living like this.

I open my eyes to see the real Potter still standing in front of me, hand outstretched.

Yes, the wind is definitely changing. And maybe now I know what my own Harry meant when he said those two lines.

I extend my palm towards Potter, placing it on his warm, callused one. He grips it hard, corners of his mouth tugging upwards.

Choices. I'm making them. Not the one I'd have expected myself to, but contrary to my belief, it feels better than what I'd thought it would. I'm retreating once again, but this time it's from coldness and desolation to an unknown path I've never given a chance before, one I simply passed by. Or maybe it's not even a path; maybe I'm simply striding in the opposite direction now, the same road stretching out on either sides of me. But regardless of whether it's a fork in the road that I passed or just simply a decision to turn around and walk back, I'm returning to look at this choice now. It's glinting at me, a spark of hope there, and I feel brave enough for once in my life to walk down it. To see where it goes.

And as the real, solid, tangible Harry beams at me once again with those breathtaking eyes and Disapparates me into the night, I can't help but think that this time, maybe I won't choke on the dust of my retreat.

fin.