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Make Me Bleed	By : Insatiable_Fox Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 7610 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter nor any characters from the Harry Potter series. I make no money nor claim a profit off this work.

Chapter List
- 9
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The passing of time meant little when one had nothing left to live for.

Or that’s what it felt like, to Draco.

When he had given up the one thing that brought him joy, how was he supposed to carry on? Find the will to get up, go out, survive? Bend over, get on his knees, be the whore he had to be, when every touch would feel like a betrayal? Every face a reminder of what he had given up?

One moment of insanity. One moment of insanity, and he had thrown away the only good thing in his pitiful excuse for an existence. Lost the person who had barged his way into Draco’s life, thrown back the shutters, and forced him to feel again.

It had been a mistake to leave. He had known that as soon as he had woken to the harsh light of day and felt the course rub of a tatty blanket on his skin. It wasn't the situation he now found himself in once again. He could survive on the streets; he had done it before. No. It was waking up and feeling the absence he hadn't known had been temporarily filled. It was waking up and realising that he was once again alone in the world, that it wouldn't make a difference in anyone's life if he lived or died.

It was waking up with an aching hole in his gut, and knowing that he had run from the person he loved.

Harry.

It was only now that he let himself think of what he had lost. The night had been filled with a comforting emptiness, his mind unwilling or unable to form a coherent thought. Now, with the cold air biting against his skin, and his breath misting in front of him, he was forced to admit he had been more than a fool. He had been a coward, weak and spineless, letting the past rule his here and now, throwing Harry’s feelings in his face with no regard to the harm it might cause. He hated to think of what Harry thought of him now. Harry, who had dared to believe that they could be more than the circumstances they were dealt. Harry, who had looked at him and seen not the person he had been, but the one who was slowly healing.

Draco knew he shouldn't go back. If the roles had been reversed, he wouldn't have welcomed Harry on his doorstep. Yet the hurt in his gut was a growing ache, a compelling motive urging him to return. He had been too gutless to face Harry’s love. The question now, was if he was brave enough to withstand his animosity.

The risk of going back outweighed the misery of staying away. His choice was made. He just hoped that he could keep his own panic at bay.

Finding his way home, though, was another problem.

He hadn't paid attention last night as he had fled, compelled by an unstoppable need and embraced by numbness. Now, faced by the whole of London and no clue where to start, he felt hopeless. Pulling himself off the hard ground, he surveyed the place which had been his home for longer than he cared to remember. There was comfort in familiarity, and although his sanctuary happened to be situated under a noisy overpass, consisted of only a few ratty blankets, there was no denying that it had been his one saving solace in a life of violence and sexual abuse.

Still. If he had it his way, he wouldn't be back.

Throwing one last glance at his humble abode he set out, face to the sun, relishing the feel of winter heat on his skin and the sense of newness which filled his body. He had his life, he had his love, and he had nothing to lose.

Or so he thought.

As the minutes melted into hours and the shadows lengthened on the sidewalk, his optimism slowly faded. Futility set in, and he pulled Regulus’ too-large clothing tighter around his frail frame, his body falling into a daze as he concentrated simply on putting one foot in front of the other. His eyes stung from the wind that had picked up, and his fingers were numb from the cold. With each step his confidence faded, doubt and apprehension seeping into his head.

He was stupid for going back. A fool for believing Harry would listen to his pathetic apologies and declarations of a love he hardly dared voice out loud. He had misread the situation, and as he walked, Harry was out finding another obedient slut to cut his body and revel in his blood. He was worthless, and would never be more than the good for nothing whore his father had conditioned him to be.

It was hopeless. A senseless endeavour. He recognised that fence.

He stumbled in shock, eyes fixing on the rusting iron railing that led to Harry’s front door. Part of him didn't believe it, and part wanted to laughed hysterically at his luck. The door stood unassuming against the drab brick building, yet Draco felt a surge in his chest. Still, he hesitated at the top of the path, eagerness warring in his stomach against the growing conviction that to knock on the door would be to sign his death warrant.

How long had it been since he had fled down that path? How long had it been since he had stood, green to grey, and decided that he couldn't do it?

In the end, Draco couldn't help himself. He had never had much control, when it came to Harry Potter. Why cease a habit of a lifetime?

It was only as he raised his hand to knock that he noticed the door was open.

Just a notch, as if it hadn't latched quite right and the wind had pushed it.

Just a notch, as if someone had absconded in the middle of the night.

Just a notch, yet it set Draco’s stomach on edge.

“Harry?” he called hesitantly as he stepped into the darkened entrance way, closing the door softly behind him. When no answer came he crept down the hall to the kitchen, feeling like an illicit intruder, pausing in the doorway as his eyes swept across the empty room. It was as it had always been. Bottles still lined the counter tops; shattered fragments of mirror glittered on the stone floor. The solid oak bench stood in the centre of the room, a dominant, imposing presence, the blood stains trophies of battles overcome.

It was completely silent.

Attempting to quell the rising panic, he moved, across the stone floor, down another hall to the sitting room which still managed to portray an air of regality despite the dust that lined the bookshelves and dulled the settee cushions. It too sat empty, and fear curled in his gut.

Harry he thought desperately, blankly staring at a loveseat. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Where are you?

Every room Draco checked was empty, and with each room he slipped further and further back to the reassuring nothingness he had sworn to banish, his skin cold and clammy despite the death slowly creeping back into his eyes. Was this what it had felt like to Harry? After Draco had fled? Lifeless. Emotionless. Less.

Was this how Harry had felt after the war? Was this the numbness he fought against with every cut, every slice, every slit of his skin? If so, he couldn't blame him. Judge him. Death would be more merciful, than this suffocating blankness.

Desperation made man do insane things. Perhaps that was why Draco found himself, minutes later, ardently tracing the gold Sirius on the outside of Harry’s door. Perhaps that was why he was climbing into the bed and wrapping his shaking body in blankets that smelled like Harry. He found that the scent he thought would be comforting only succeeded in fueling the ache in his chest, a sadistic reminder of what he would never have again. Perhaps that was why, when lifeless eyes fell on the blade, that tiny, insignificant blade, and stayed there, he didn't stop himself.

Perhaps that was why, when he finally closed his eyes and pulled it across his wrist in a flash of anger, deep, too deep, he was surprised that it hurt.

Where Harry had found peace, Draco found pain. He cried out, the steel falling from his fingertips, confused and shocked and so desperately disappointed that it hadn't worked; hadn't brought Harry back to him, hadn't made him feel like he was there. Where Harry had found redemption, Draco found abhorrence, the sight of red against pale flesh sending him heaving over the slowly staining sheets, and hating himself even more.

Useless. It was useless, he was useless. Harry had run, yet, unlike Draco, he wasn't coming back. He was gone, and no imitation of Harry’s cuts was going to bring him back.

He didn't know how long he sat, frozen on Harry’s bed. Long enough that the blood congealed and the cut stopped bleeding. Long enough, that the last rays of sun were replaced by the white light of the moon which fell through the window and across Draco’s lifeless form.

Long enough, that when his mind finally identified a sound coming from somewhere in the house, his limbs protested as he gingerly unfolded them.

It was the sink. The trees. A cat. A goat in the living room. A unicorn in the hall. It was all of the above, yet Draco knew it wasn't. It was the slightest of whimpers, a disturbance in the frigid, still air. An intake of breath, a hitch of pain.

It was panic, flinging him out of bed and into the hall. Hope warring with terror as he ran toward the one room in the house he hadn't checked, hadn't wanted to, but now wished he had.

It was the gut wrenching, harrowing pain that seared his body as he shoved open his old door and saw him.

Harry lay broken and bleeding on Draco’s bed, his arms flung out beside him in some bizarre sacrificial imitation. Dried blood tracks stained his wrists and hands, coming to pool in a darkened mess on the sheets, palms upturned. Two deep cuts, unnervingly identical, ran gruesomely across each wrists, the abused flesh swollen and red. His normally tanned skin had dulled to an ashen white, his lips a mottled purple, eyes shadowed and sunken.

He looked like a fallen angel, cocooned in a bed of white. Hauntingly ethereal, an intangible, impalpable deity, mangled and shattered. Beauty in the broken; a repulsive, compelling artistry.

Only the hitched rise and fall of his breath signaled that Harry was still alive, the sounds that had drawn Draco to him now ceased. He suspected that it was only the sheer will and power of Harry’s magic that compelled the weak flicker of life; the deep cuts carved into each wrist should have meant a fast death. For not the first time in his life, he was eternally grateful that Harry was Harry - that the absolute gross power of his magic was enough to keep him teetering on the brink of death, an omnipotent, overwhelming force.

Grateful, awed, and watching the person he loved dying before his eyes.

It wasn't until some automatic response had him dropping to his knees beside Harry that Draco realised he was crying, torn, broken sobs raking through his body as his thumbs shakily traced over each cut, searching for the infinitesimal pulse that promised Draco he still had time. He didn't think about what he was doing, didn’t acknowledge that it was most certainly a futile endeavour. His hands curled protectively over each ruined wrist, and all he could think about was not now, not Harry, not the man he loved.

Swallowing, he willed his magic to his hands. Panic, and desperation; frenzied hysteria, terror and fear, all mingling and strengthening with the absolute, all-consuming knowledge that he wouldnt, couldnt, let Harry die. Tears tracked down his cheeks and gathered along the edge of his jaw, falling intermittently onto Harry’s bloodless skin. He didn't know how long he knelt there, funnelling every molecule of magic into Harry, but his chest was wet from salty tears, and Draco’s body was teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

So much, but he was terrified it wouldn't be enough.

His body was shutting down, shaking in the effort to keep going, to keep pushing, hands clenched over cuts the only insubstantial thread tethering him.

“Harry...” Draco’s head drooped, and he pressed his wet cheek to Harry’s chest, his eyes fluttering closed. “I’m sorry” he mouthed weakly against damp, clammy skin, before surrendering to the inexorable abyss.

*

He was warm.

His body registered this fact before his mind did, curling towards the heat that was pressed against his side.

Warm. He hadn't been this warm in years.

The heat shifted and Draco, still dancing the line between sleep and wakefulness, whimpered at its loss. He blindly reached out, fumbling drowsily until his hands connected once again with the intoxicating warmth and drew it close, basking in the calidity that washed over his skin, permeating through the ratty layers of clothes to encompass him. A soft caresses feathered gently across his brow and he murmured faintly, face pressing into the sweet touch.

“Draco.”

His mind tugged on the use of his name, groggily fighting the absolute exhaustion which detained his body.

“Draco.” A little louder this time, a little harsher, against the shell of his ear. Unenthusiastically, he peeked an eye open, just enough to glimpse black, messy hair, a questionable beard style, and a very alive Harry. Potter grinned. “Hi.”

“Hi?” Draco echoed faintly, his brows furrowing. He pried both eyes open. “That’s what you're going to lead with. Hi?”

Harry shrugged, the movement jolting Draco, causing him to realise he was curled around Harry’s naked body. Had he always been naked? He struggled to remember the night before, wincing at the emotions it induced. “It seemed fitting.”

Faced between wallowing in the pain and embracing the audacity, he went with the latter. “I came back to find you fucking dying in my bed, Harry!” He tried to shout, but his voice came out raspy and hoarse. “Do you know how bloody hard it was to save you? I could have died!” Perhaps that was a little melodramatic, but a whirlwind of emotions was coursing through him, and outrage was the easiest.

Harry’s voice softened. “But you didn't. And you're here. Really here.” He ran a hand reverently across Draco’s cheek, thumb pausing on his bottom lip. “You came back.”

Draco didn't deserve the wonder in Harry’s tone. “I shouldn't have gone in the first place” he said quietly, head bowing so he wouldn't have to meet Harry’s eyes. His next words were barely intelligible. “Was it because of me?” Harry was quiet, and a dagger of self-hate pierced his heart. “My fault. My fucking fault.” He let out a distressed moan.

“Hey” Harry whispered, sliding his fingers under Draco’s jaw and gently coaxing it back up so they were face to face. “You saved me. I don't want to hear it, Draco. You caught me as I fell.”

“Nice of me, considering I was the one to push you.”

Harry ignored the retort. “Look” he said, bringing an arm out from below the blankets, and for the first time Draco saw the aftermath of his wrists. The raw, flayed cut was gone, replaced with a raised, jagged scar. Blood still stained the skin, but the mark itself looked pink and healthy.

“The other one...?” he trailed off.

“The same.”

Draco reached out hesitantly, cautiously running his finger across the scar before letting his hand drop to his side. “Madam Pomfrey would have done a better job.”

“I didn't have Madam Pomfrey. I had Madam Malfoy, who, in my opinion, is pretty fucking amazing. And much nicer to look at.”

Draco could stop the small smile that tugged at his mouth. “You need to fix this.” He cupped Harry’s jaw. “The demi-beard is hideously uncouth.”

Harry rolled his eyes but got out of bed, stalking out the door with no heed to his nakedness. Once he had left, Draco sighed and closed his eyes. So much had been left unsaid, yet he didn't know if he had the willpower to face those conversations, not just yet. Not when it still seemed like a sadistic illusion that Harry was here, walking and talking and acting in a general Harryish way. As if Draco hadn't run. As if Harry hadn't decided a life without him wasn't a life worth living.

“Does this satisfy your delicate, aristocratic decorums?” Harry's voice startled him from his reverie, and he looked up to find his face clean shaven.

“Much better” he replied, before stilling. It was only now, with Harry standing in the doorway in all his naked glory, that Draco let himself look. Look, at the lean body, follow the lines from shoulders down toned arms, stomach and legs. In the last five years since Draco had laid eyes on him, he had changed, and there was no denying that the Harry standing before him was no longer a boy, but a man. Draco’s body clenched as he allowed himself, for the first time, to appreciate. There had been no denying that his body had wanted Harry, but as he lay frozen on the bed that longing doubled, and even though his mind still shied away from the thought of contact, he now knew what it felt like to have lost Harry, and that grief would, he hoped, be enough to overcome his past.

Harry swallowed under Draco’s heavy gaze and he approached him carefully, warily, until he too was on the bed, close, too close, but not close enough. “Whats this?” he asked in a breathy huff, his thumb tracing Draco’s wrist and along the cut, the one that had been made in desperation, in agony, and in love. Green to grey their eyes met. It had always been green to grey, even when it shouldn't have, years of history captured in the split meeting, a compelling attraction channeled into a distorted animosity, hostility a flimsy farce.

Green to grey when it shouldn't have been, and now, when it should.

With their lips still millimeters apart, Draco knew that this was it. A second chance to not be a coward. A second chance, to ignore the dark of his past and instead, focus on the light of now.

A second chance, and he could see the question in Harry’s face, feel it in the tentative touch of a hand curled cautiously over Draco’s hip.

A small sigh left Draco’s mouth, and he closed the gap.

It was a soft, chaste kiss, a symbol of fears being conquered and a promise of more. It was an explanation, words going unsaid as understanding passed between them. It was a declaration, of something both felt, yet couldn't voice out loud.

It was pleasure, as their mouths parted and Draco drank in the sweet, breathy moan that escaped Harry. It was heat, as Harry’s hand slipped lower to grip Draco’s arse, fingers digging in possessively and igniting the slow burn in his stomach to a clenching inferno, wanting more, needing more, as much as he could take. It was tenderness, as Harry slowly pulled away and Draco swore there were tears in his eyes, gentle hands, ardent touches, vulnerability. It was hope, that they had finally found a safe place, and hands to catch them as they fell.

“You can't cut again” Draco whispered breathily into the crook of Harry's neck, and he felt, more than saw, a smile spread.

“At all?” Harry smirked, and when Draco pulled back to look, he was greeted with fire burning in Harry’s eyes, the smouldering promise that had been evident the other night, a silent oath that the dangerous game he wanted to play would be beneficial to both. He grabbed Draco’s wrist, bringing it slowly, ever so slowly, to his mouth. Appraisal, a deliberate pause before, and without breaking their gaze, he languidly ran his tongue across the wound. Draco lay motionless as he watched, Harry’s tongue back on the blood now he knew Draco wasn't running, lapping and sucking until his wrist was clean. A debauched groan had Draco’s gaze flicking down, knowing yet still seeking the hardness he saw there, his body needy, fearful, wanton at the sight.

“Rebel against it, Draco.” Harry’s voice was husky, low, and Draco had forgotten, forgotten how much he saw and how quickly his mind worked. “Fight it. Don’t let the people in your past write your future.” Draco gulped, swallowed, his own cock pressed fiercely against the waistband of his trousers, his body wanting and hungry and so insanely scared he felt ill. “Feel alive, Draco. Just for a moment in time.”

One breath.

Two, three, before he deftly reached down to grasp the hot, hard heat between Harry’s legs. A choice, his choice, one filled with terror and defiance, but still his.

“Scared, Potter?” A smirk.

“You wish, Malfoy.”
- 9
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Make Me Bleed