Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

What Remains	By : Sasunarufan13 Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 6084 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter nor make profit of it. J.K. Rowling owns it.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Author's note: I think this fic can officially be added to my short list of most difficult to write fics .-. Took me nearly a whole week to finish this chapter *drops down* I guess you could say we delve more into Harry's thoughts this time.
Thanks to the following reviewer: Hestia
Warnings: angst; time skip; insecurity; self-esteem issues; dark thoughts; conflicted feelings
I hope you'll like it!
Part 2
He never realised how much attention people paid to looks, how they reacted to someone's appearance.
Until now.
Now he saw it in the way his colleagues winced whenever they looked at his face and hastily averted their gaze as if they could pretend nothing was wrong if they just didn't have to look him right in the eyes.
He realised it when passer-by's gaped at him, abruptly coming to a halt when their gaze fell on him before their faces flushed in embarrassment and they hastily started walking again, giving him a wide berth – as if how he looked now was contagious.
He noticed it when sometimes small children would stare at him wide-eyed, pointing at his face before loudly asking, "Why is that man not pretty?" as their parents reddened and dragged them away, hissing at them that it wasn't polite to say such things.
It was the sympathy in their eyes, the mournful shaking of their heads, the mixture of disgust and pity lingering in their eyes and around their mouths. The shock going through their bodies when they first laid eyes upon him.
The effort some went through to not have to look at his face.
It was painfully obvious when people who just a few weeks before had been laughing and touching his arms and hands freely now turned their faces away, chuckling uneasily as they told him in an apologetic tone that no, they couldn't go out for lunch or a drink, because well, you know how it is, so busy!
Apparently Draco had been right that some people had been more interested in his looks than his money – it didn't make him feel better.
"I finished my report of the theft in Wood Green," Harry said, handing it over to Kingsley.
The man grunted and quickly browsed through it. "It wasn't a difficult one, I take it then," he smiled wryly; tiny wrinkles appearing next to his eyes as he glanced up at Harry.
The older man was one of the very few people who could look Harry straight on without flinching or pity flashing up in his eyes. Harry was pathetically grateful for that.
"No, the thief was clumsy and left a lot of evidence behind," Harry snorted, shaking his head. "It didn't take long to track him down."
"Nice work." Kingsley nodded approvingly and placed the report on a pile next to him on the desk. "You're going to work on something else or are you heading home now?"
Harry offered a weak, lopsided smile; ever since the attack he couldn't smile widely without his marred cheeks protesting fiercely – not that he had smiled much lately. "Heading home," he replied and shrugged half-heartedly. "I've finished my reports for this week and Ron has been subtly hinting that he wants to go home sooner tonight."
"Date night?" Kingsley questioned amused.
"Yep, so I'm wrapping up for today before he becomes even more subtle." Harry rolled his eyes.
"Go on then. I'll see you on Monday; you aren't scheduled for this weekend, right?" Kingsley frowned, tapping his fingers on his desk.
"Not this weekend, no."
"All right then, enjoy your weekend."
"You too, sir." Harry nodded and exited the room, looking resolutely in front of him to avoid seeing the pity on Larissa's face, Kingsley's secretary.
Several of his colleagues were still at work, because it was barely five p.m. but their conversations stilled when Harry passed their open offices and resumed as soon as he was out of their sight – no doubt were they trying to figure out why he was still working here instead of shutting himself in in his house. That wasn't paranoia talking; just two days ago he had caught Brendan and Kathrine right outside Kingsley's office, telling each other they would rather lock themselves up in their home instead of showing their face in public if they looked like Harry. They had shut up immediately as soon as they had realised Harry had heard them, a guilty flush on their cheeks, and had hurried away, as if that would undo their gossip.
He had never been close with either Brendan or Kathrine despite being close in age, but that hadn't made their callous remarks hurt any less.
He was aware how he looked like; his disfigured face stared back at him every fucking morning from the only mirror Draco hadn't allowed him to smash when he had become lost in a rage one week after the attack and had went on to destroy the couple of mirrors present in their house.
The mirror in the bathroom – the square one that Draco had always considered too small to act as a decent mirror – had been spared from his rage because Draco had cast several Permanent Sticky Charms and Unbreakable Charms on it, stating that the mirror wasn't the enemy.
Harry hadn't talked to him for four days.
His relationship with Draco … If he had to be honest, he didn't know what they were doing now. They were suspended in some sort of limbo, tiptoeing around the important issues, desperately trying to act like nothing was wrong.
Harry was just waiting for the moment when Draco would realise that he could do much better than an ugly freak who flinched every time his lover attempted to touch him.
They hadn't kissed once since Harry had woken up in the hospital; there certainly had been trying on Draco's side, but Harry … He couldn't do it. He knew his mouth had remained unblemished, just like his eyes, so they could kiss, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it. Because Draco was still with him, had chosen to stay with him, feverishly swearing he wouldn't leave Harry, but what if he realised just how broken Harry really had become when they kissed and he felt the odd ridges and too smooth skin touching his own unblemished one?
The odd reddish patch on his right cheek could be ignored, he supposed, if they closed their eyes, but his left cheek – there was no way to avoid the folds that had formed on that part of his face. The bunched up skin felt alternatingly rough and smooth, depending on where one touched it. Like the skin was both too dry, brittle, and yet too smooth, too much feeling like oil at the same time. The folds stuck out slightly and Harry could see them in his peripheral vision if he focused on them.
There was no way to ignore those; especially not if they kissed.
But they couldn't go on. Not like this. Not when Harry both craved and feared Draco's touch; afraid that the moment Draco really came in close contact with the fucked up thing that was now his face he would realise just who exactly he had promised to spend his life with.
Draco had always loved beauty, no matter in which form it came in. Whether it was people, – as evident by the partners he had taken in the past – clothes, paintings or decoration, Draco loved to surround himself with beauty. The blond had proudly shown him off in front of his parents, at Ministry balls or private Pureblood gatherings, smugness radiating from him at being the one who could call himself Harry's partner, proclaiming boldly that there was nobody more beautiful than Harry.
Harry was no longer beautiful.
So where did that leave him in Draco's life?
"Harry, mate, you're okay?" Ron asked concerned and Harry blinked, resurfacing from his dark thoughts.
"Yeah, sorry, just lost in thought," he smiled weakly and the look on his friend's face told him clearly he didn't believe his bullshit, but would let it go for now.
"Mum's wondering whether you're stopping by this weekend," Ron mentioned, voice purposefully neutral. He was cleaning up his desk, half-heartedly shoving unfinished reports into his drawers, keeping his stance casual.
Something in Harry throbbed. "Who's going to be there?" he questioned, locking his own drawers.
"Well, Charlie is back for a few days from Romania and George was thinking of popping in for a few hours if it isn't too busy in his shop," Ron answered lightly and then paused, before continuing too casually, "Ginny took a week off from her training and she said she'll be there too."
Harry stilled; his stomach churning at the mention of the ginger haired woman. "Sorry, Ron, but Narcissa's been hinting that she wants me and Draco to visit again. It's been a while," he said, plastering on a fake, light-hearted smile, and waited right outside their office for the other man to finish with locking up.
Ron deflated. "That's too bad," he sighed. "Well, I'll tell mum; she'll understand. You might want to watch out that you won't get hexed by Ginny, though. She's hellish when she's disappointed," he joked, closing the door behind him. "She's been looking forward to seeing you."
No, she hasn't, Harry thought morosely, but knew better than to voice that aloud.
After he and Ginny had decided that they were better off separated than together – their arguments had been explosive to say the least and they were both too stubborn to admit when they were in the wrong – they had become friends again after a while.
She had visited him once when he was in the hospital after the attack and she hadn't been able to look at him after the first initial glance, flinching slightly every time her gaze fell on him. You'd have to be completely blind and clueless to not realise how uncomfortable she felt around him now. That hurt quite a bit; he knew that the way he looked now was quite shocking but he had thought she wouldn't let it affect her too much, considering one of her own brothers was scarred in the face as well.
But his scar isn't as bad as yours, a poisonous voice hissed in the back of his mind.
"Well, I'll see you on Monday then I suppose," Ron said lightly and clapped his shoulder, glaring warningly at the few people who were gaping at Harry when they passed them on their way to the elevator.
"Say hello to Hermione from me," Harry smiled faintly as the elevator descended, the woman's voice announcing the name of each department coolly.
The elevator was in a state of constant flurry as people stepped on and off each time the contraption halted at a department. Ron and Harry ended up pressed into the furthest left corner and the dark haired wizard did his best to ignore the whispers and the stares once the others realised who was in the elevator with them. Some were more subtle about it than others, but in a small confined space like this it was difficult to not pick up the whispers and horrified looks.
Ron moved around until he came to stand on Harry's left, conveniently blocking the stares. "The wall decoration was digging into my shoulder," he explained and shrugged, humming underneath his breath.
Harry eyed him sceptically, but didn't reply; too relieved that he didn't have to feel the heavy stares anymore. Him being hidden behind Ron's slightly larger frame had as extra benefit that the whispering stopped as well now that they couldn't stare at him any longer.
"I'd say tell Malfoy that I said hello too, but." Ron shrugged and grimaced as they both reached out to take a pinch of Floo powder.
Green eyes rolled but he nodded. "See you on Monday."
The last thing he saw before green flames whisked him away – and which he probably wasn't supposed to notice – was the quick flash of worry crossing his friend's face.
The house was silent when the Floo spat him out, him barely avoiding meeting the floor with his face. He would never get the hang of Flooing.
He loosened his robes and threw them on the coat hanger standing a few feet next to the fireplace. Their house wasn't as grand as Malfoy Manor, but it was big enough to have a small foyer. They could have used the hearth in the living room to Floo, but Draco had been quite peculiar about getting soot on the carpeted floor and so they only used the foyer to Floo in and out.
His breathing and his footsteps were the only sounds penetrating the silence in the house as he made his way to the kitchen. The solitude, the quietness, the feeling of being closed off from the outside world – it made the tension in his body loosen up and he relaxed slightly; the knowledge that he wouldn't have to deal with pitying eyes, disgusted glares and horrified whispers as long as he remained in the house setting him at ease.
It would be so easy to shut himself in in the house. If he stayed within these four walls, these wards, he wouldn't have to deal with the gossip, the staring, the looks on the people's face when they saw how fucked up his face had become. He could shut himself off from all that, wouldn't have to hear the cruel whispers anymore, wouldn't have to see people doing their best to get out of his way as if his scars were contagious. He would be at ease – as much at ease as he could be looking like this. Maybe it would even become easier to ignore how he looked like if he wasn't confronted with it constantly through the reactions of other people.
It would be so easy. The longing to do just that, to remove himself from society, to never have to deal with the awful reactions, it had all been there from the moment he had been discharged from the hospital and had been allowed to go home again.
But he didn't want to give up. He wasn't a quitter; he had always been a fighter. He didn't want to give his attacker the satisfaction of not living his life anymore. Voldemort had tried, but he hadn't succeeded and Harry would be damned if he let some crazy wizard get the best of him.
It was just so difficult.
Sometimes it was difficult to remember why he was getting up in the morning; why it would be worth it to keep living his life. When he looked in the mirror and was confronted by the scarred mess, it took a lot of him to keep going, to force himself to go to work each day, brave the reactions of other people, grit his teeth and remind himself that he was still alive.
Just … Sometimes it didn't seem worth it. When his unblemished eyes stared back at him from the mangled mess that was his face now, when the scars on his left cheek itched fiercely but he couldn't scratch it without hellish pain blooming up, when the chasm between him and Draco grew with each day that passed with Harry flinching back from the other man's touch.
It felt like he was treading water, scarcely able to keep his head above water; not making any progress at all.
The silence helped a bit. When it was just him alone, it was easier to pretend that nothing had happened, that he was fine. It was why he tried to return home sooner than he usually did. For just a few hours he could pretend that he was normal.
In the kitchen he filled a glass with pumpkin juice and with the glass in his hand, he walked upstairs, two floors up, where his study was located. It was a small room; the desk and a bookcase took up the majority of the space, even though the light coloured walls gave off the impression that it was large. The window looked out on a large field with tall grass; large puddles of rain water reflecting the weak sunlight. There were already dark clouds gathering above; it wouldn't be long anymore before it would start raining again.
With a sigh Harry approached his desk, placing his glass next to a pile of blank parchment. Condensation was already forming a circle on the wood when the dark haired man sank down in his chair, staring blankly at the thick tome waiting in front of him.
'The Art of Illusion' greeted him mockingly and he clenched his jaw; his magic buzzing right underneath his skin in reaction to his agitation. He had been trying to search for spells that could help him fix his face. There was no spell to cure him – Healer Calling had warned him about that, but it had still felt like he had been punched repeatedly in the stomach when he had to concede that the Healer had been right. There was no cure for him; his scars were permanent and there was no spell, no charm, no potion that could help him remove them.
He hadn't wanted to give up, though. If he couldn't cure himself, then the next best thing was concealing the scars.
However, so far none of the books he had consulted had brought up any useful information. Oh, there had been some useful spells which he had immediately tried out, but none of them worked. The spells seemed to glide off him like water, not even covering him for just a few minutes.
He thought it had been him screwing up the spells. Maybe he had somehow mispronounced them; maybe he hadn't used the correct wand movements. In a fit of pure desperation he had gone to Hermione, asking her to perform the spells on him. Surely if anyone could cast a spell correctly, it was his best friend.
She had done so, a tad reluctant, warning him that the potion had been designed to create permanent injury and therefore the spells might not work. She had cast spell after spell, repeating them twice, thrice, but it hadn't mattered.
The spells had refused to work and Hermione had to give up before either of them became too frustrated.
She didn't know Harry hadn't given up on finding the right spell. She hadn't wanted him to keep searching, hadn't wanted him to become disappointed time and time again and he knew he should stop his search. If Hermione hadn't found a cure – and he knew she had consulted book after book, the bags underneath her eyes stark evidence of her relentless quest – then there wasn't one. If a cure existed, she would have discovered it; she had always found an answer to any question they had been face with after all.
So if Hermione hadn't had any luck, there was no way Harry would stumble upon the cure. He just couldn't let it go. If he stopped searching, if he stopped browsing through thick, old, dusty tomes, squinting and getting headaches from the spidery, often illegible handwriting, it would mean that he had given up, given in.
He needed this search to remain sane, to not give in to the despair, the hollowness that was threatening to overwhelm him, drown him, whenever he caught sight of his face.
He needed to make himself believe that everything would be right eventually. That the scars would disappear, that he and Draco would make it through this okay. That he …
He started when footsteps echoed on the staircase and he hastily closed the book, dropping it into the second drawer before whirling around and snatching a book about Dark water creatures out of his bookcase. He flipped it open on a random page just in time as Draco knocked on the door.
"Yeah?" Harry called out, his eyes fixated on the page but not actually reading what was written down.
The door opened with an almost inaudible 'creak', revealing Draco still dressed in black robes. There was a yellow greenish smudge near his hip and Harry briefly amused himself with the mental image of the usually impeccable dressed blond cursing and glaring at his cauldron when the potion reacted volatile.
"You're home early," Draco remarked, hovering in the doorway. His eyes were a mixture of surprise and weariness when Harry chanced a look up.
Harry shrugged and bit on his lower lip before he answered, "I was done with my reports and Ron wanted to go home early for a date with Hermione."
Draco grimaced but didn't make a disparaging comment about Ron, which was progress – and a bit unsettling as well, because the other wizard never let a chance pass to announce what exactly he thought of Ron. It was the main reason why Harry still couldn't meet up with both his friends and Draco at the same time; the blond's snarky mouth still had some progress to work through.
"Everything all right?" Harry questioned uneasily and his stomach churned when he noticed the distance Draco kept between them. Usually by now, Draco would have crossed the room to attempt to kiss Harry, but he just kept standing there, studying Harry with a queer look.
Was this the moment that …
"Yes, everything's fine." Draco's next exhale came out as a gust of wind and his eyes darkened. "Are they making any progress with the attacker?" he asked stiffly; his back ramrod straight as his fingers were hooked like claws around the doorframe.
Harry shook his head, rubbing a hand over his left wrist. "No, they're still looking for him," he murmured and tried to ignore the flash of panic that rose up at the thought of his unknown attacker who was still somewhere out there. "They told me yesterday that they had some leads, but …"
Harry hadn't been able to give a decent description, the attack too sudden for him to have registered his attacker's face and Seamus hadn't been able to remove the hood, so his description had been rather useless as well. It was like finding a needle in a haystack and privately Harry wondered whether they would ever find his attacker. Unless someone started blabbing, it didn't seem likely. Harry's list of enemies was also too long for his colleagues to actually narrow down some suspects. Literally anyone could have been it.
"Fuck," Draco growled and he glared out of the window, straight over Harry's head. There was a brief pause before Draco shook his head and inhaled deeply. A smile, brittle in nature, played across his lips as he said, "Harry, mother sent me a letter."
Harry blinked, thrown off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Oh? What for?" His mouth felt inexplicably dry as his mind raced, trying to come up with a reason why Narcissa would have sent a letter.
He had seen her only two times since the day of the attack and as always he still couldn't figure out what she really was thinking about him. She had approved of him as her son's romantic partner, but that had been before the attack. What did she think of him now, now that he looked like this? Did she still think he was worthy of her son or was she wondering why Draco stayed with him?
Not that he could really blame her if she did. He was asking himself the same question.
"The Greengrass family is organising a ball tonight," Draco spoke slowly and dread was like a leaden ball in his stomach when Harry realised where this conversation was going. "It's a gathering of all the old Pureblood families and the Malfoys were invited. She asked us to join them there."
'Asked' was not the right way to describe how Narcissa had formulated her request. Harry hadn't known her personally for that long yet, but by now he knew her well enough to know that she didn't ask, she demanded. If you thought she gave you a choice, you were in for a nasty surprise.
"Draco, I'm not really feeling up to - "
"It's been a while since we last went to a gathering," Draco interrupted him and his eyes were intense, piercing like a hawk, when they looked at Harry. "According to mother, they will discuss organising a charity event to collect money for a new orphanage. I know you dislike Pureblood politics, but this is for a good cause."
Harry attempted a weak smile, but he felt like he could throw up any second now. "You've always been better at this politics stuff; you don't need me to be there to - "
"But I do need you," Draco said sharply and the look in his eyes was so wild it made Harry shut up immediately. "I need you to be there with me, okay? I want you with me like before. It's – not the same without you. Besides, we need to shut Blaise up. He seems to be under the impression that he defeated me with finding the best, suitable partner and you know how impossible he becomes when he thinks like that," Draco smirked, clearly attempting to create a lighter atmosphere.
Before Harry could stop himself, he blurted out, "But he's right. Look at me! No matter who he comes with, they're bound to be bet- " He swallowed the rest of his sentence when Draco suddenly stormed over, a look of pure anger plastered on his face as he loomed over the younger man, leaning his hands on either side of Harry on the desk so that he could bend closer, bringing his face close to his.
"He's not! He isn't, okay? Because you're still the most beautiful person I know and you'll outshine everyone there at that bloody gathering! I don't know what I have to do or say to make you believe me!"
Silence rang heavily in the room, only broken by the harsh panting of Draco as he struggled to calm down; his body so tense it hurt to look at it. Eyes treacherously pricking with hot tears Harry looked away, no longer able to look Draco right in the eye; his hands clenched around the arms of his chair.
He desperately wanted to believe Draco, trust the blond when he told him he still found him as desirable and beautiful as before, but he just couldn't. He couldn't allow himself to believe him.
Because it would hurt that much more when the moment came that Draco realised he could do better. A lot better.
Harry flinched when a hand cupped his right cheek carefully and there was a pause, a moment where Harry's skin prickled and he was waiting for Draco to pull his hand away, to back off, return to the status quo they had kept up for weeks now, but the moment passed and Draco cradled his cheek firmer and gently coaxed him to look up, straight into too soft grey.
"We're going to get through this," Draco said quietly, but determined. "I'm not going to let this tear us apart, Harry. I won't allow it."
Harry kept quiet, the lump in his throat too big to even attempt opening his mouth.
"Will you please join me at the gathering?"
Draco regarded him with patient eyes, but there was also a hint of desperation lurking into those grey depths; Harry realised with a start that this revolved around more than simply a chance to make Blaise shut up. This was a way for Draco to make the first step, to get their lives back on track; to get some normalcy back into their lives.
There was a bridge between them, Draco standing on the other side and one misstep could be fatal, Harry knew.
He closed his eyes in resignation, swallowed down the big lump and nodded. "Yeah, okay."
He would do this. He would join Draco at the gathering, would endure the looks he would no doubt receive when people saw his face in real life – there was after all a difference between seeing the picture and actually seeing it with your own eyes.
It wasn't okay, not really, but there was a tremor going through Draco's hand, his impeccable mask wavering and Harry would do anything to get rid of that look of pure desperation in Draco's eyes.
Draco nodded, his eyes suspiciously damp, before he suddenly pressed his face against Harry's shoulder; his breath washing over Harry's neck as Harry slowly brought his arms around him, feeling their bodies touch for the first time in what felt like forever.
They remained in that position for a long time.
AN2: This chapter was quite difficult to write - I have a feeling that every chapter of this fic will give some difficulties. I hope I didn't screw it up too badly, though *winces*
Please leave a review behind with your thoughts; should you spot any mistakes, please point them out to me.
I see you all in the next chapter! I wish you all a Happy New Year and I hope to have you all back in my future chapters/stories!
Cuddles
Melissa
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What Remains