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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
- 7
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Thin, bony feet.

Thin, bony feet on which two legs sat, pale and undefined, the muscles wasted away to leave child-like spindles. Narrow, gaunt hips, the bones accentuated and prominent, stomach emaciated, pallid and haggard. Anemic skin drawn over protruding cheekbones; concave, shadowed hollows buried under dead eyes. Hair, lank and ruined, hanging to a jagged mess around an insubstantial neck.

Two skeletal arms, one patchy with abraded sores, the other a mess of blistered, mutilated disfigurement, the skin ruined beyond repair. The Dark Mark, once a symbol of power, fear, evil, now only a contribution to the patchworked artistry that made up the left forearm. The serpent and skull was now reduced to distorted black lines, an undercurrent that swam menacingly under flesh ravaged by fire. The cloying stench of burning skin only second to the fumes that had oozed sickeningly into nostrils. Muggle acid poured lovingly across a pale arm, its caustic nature peeling back layers of flesh. Flayed and exposed, ending in the... revolting mess which Draco now stared at, eyes tracing over the ruined skin in a pattern he could draw in his sleep.

He hated the sight of himself. He wanted his mother.

He longed for her with a palpable need. Missed the soft brush of her hand over his hair, the way her voice had always managed to soothe him, even past childhood.

But he had never been back.

To go back would be to put his mother in danger. Go against his father's orders, stray back into territory he had so forcefully been banned from. To go back would be to risk life, not only evading the light which sought to punish him, but the dark that lurked, waiting for a chance to end the boy that had turned his back on a life of service. It still stung, the memories of how he had been turned away, not so much from his father, but by the people he had been sure would help him.

His mother had fled with him back to Malfoy Manor whilst the Battle of Hogwarts had still raged on, which is where they had waited for the return of Husband and Father. How naive they had been.

“You!” his father had snarled, striding down the entrance hall upon his return. “Come here, boy.” Draco had obliged, giving his mother's hand a reassuring squeeze before coming to stand in front of Lucius. A sharp slap had landed on his cheek and Draco had staggered back, holding a palm to his face. “Pathetic, worthless, cowardly Blood Traitor!” His father had roared, advancing on him. “How dare you abandon our cause, right in the middle of battle? After everything I have done for you? Even after The Dark Lord graced you with his pleasurable touch?” At that, Narcissa had let out a small gasp. “A disgrace, to the Malfoy name, and The Dark Lord. You are no son of mine.” Lucius had turned to Narcissa, and Draco had moved, flinging himself in front of his mother.
“Don't touch her!” he had cried, staring up into a face that so resembled his, yet was twisted with scorn and hatred.
“And you, my wife” Lucius had said, ignoring his son, voice like ice, “will learn what happens when bitches like you don't follow orders.”

His father had disinherited him, cast him from his childhood home, and revoked him from the wards that guarded the Manor. Draco had fled, first to Pansy, where the sight of him on the Parkinson doorstep had been enough to provoke a flurry of curses and hexes, before begging other so-called friends. Eventually he had landed, filthy and desperate, at the Ministry, where he had fallen and begged Auror Shacklebolt for forgiveness.

None had been given. Why should it, when Draco had been the one to let Death Eaters into Hogwarts to start with? The reason for Dumbledore’s death? The catalyst for the destruction that had soon followed?

He had failed the light, he had failed the dark, and in turn, they had both cast him out. Now, this was all that was left of him.

“Draco? What’s wrong?” Potter asked, startling Draco as he entered the bathroom where Draco stood, staring into the grimy mirror fixed above the sink.

Draco hesitated before deciding to answer truthfully. Potter seemed set on ignoring the events of the last few days, and both men had been making a conscious effort not to upset the other. “I was just thinking about my mother” he said quietly.

“Where is she?” Harry leant against the sink, the ever-moving thumb tracing imperfect scars.

“The Manor, I assume. If Father has not disposed of her by now.”

“You don't know if she's alive or dead?” Harry seemed perturbed by this, and Draco once again felt lifted by this broken man, who, despite all that had happened, could still be concerned about an ex-Death Eater’s mother.

“I have no way to find out, do I? I can’t exactly waltz back home and ask for an audience with her.”

“Why not?”

Draco started at Harry, wondering if he was being purposely cretinous, or if he was just being Harry. For a man who had given up on humanity and himself alike, he still had an alarmingly strong hero complex. “Because I’ve been banned from the wards? Because if I set foot in wizarding London, I'll be slaughtered either by dark sympathisers who still hold a grudge against me for jumping ship, or by the light who still, rightfully so, blame me for the Battle of Hogwarts?”

“I don't think it's so black and white, anymore” Harry said calmly, as if Draco was overreacting.

“Well, if it's such a fantastic place to be, why are you still hiding?”

“You know why” Harry answer easily. “We’re two different cases.”

“No. You've simply lost your mind after being a self-imposed hermit for so many years.”

“I think that happened long before I removed myself from the wizarding world.”

Draco smirked. “That’s probably true, Potter. First sane thing you’ve said to me.”

Harry grinned. It was an echo of the expression he had sported at Hogwarts, his eyes flat. But still, it was there. “This is funny, don't you think?”

“The insistence that you're no saviour, yet can't help but want to heal a poor, broken, soul like me?” answered Draco sarcastically.

“I was going to say the way we’re talking.” Harry’s grin dropped. “Don't confuse me for something I'm not, Draco. I'm no hero. I thought you would have realised that by now.”

“I think you’re closer than you think.”

Potter shook his head. “I’m not having this conversation with you again. Don’t paint me as a fallen angel.” He studied Draco in the intense way he was slowly getting used to. “I think we should find out if your mother is okay.”

“Why do you care, Harry?” Draco huffed, exasperated. “I can’t see her, or help her.”

Harry was grim. “Because if I didn't know whether my mother was dead or alive, I’d want to find out. Because I care about you, and you’re hurting.” His expression softened, and Draco turned away, once again pushing down the feeling that lurked, sinister and unwanted in his gut. “Because I’ve already fallen as far as I can go, and maybe this will count towards redemption.”

“A right paladin, aren't you” Draco retorted snarkily, ignoring Harry’s last words. “So how do you suppose we do this, Potter?” What was there to lose?

“Like this.”
*
They landed with a jolt outside the gates of Malfoy Manor, Draco gagging but managing to hold on to his stomach contents, clutching Harry's arm until the spinning sickness disappeared. His breath caught as he glimpsed home through the wrought iron gates, his eyes tracing the familiar outline he hadn't seen for five years. The gates were still the same, rising imposingly before him, but the grounds beyond that seemed less manicured, darker; the normally perfect landscape now beginning its surrender to mother nature's incessant siege.

The gardens had been his mother’s pride and joy. Their disarray spawned fresh panic in his chest.

“You think she's here?” Harry asked, peering through the gates.

“I don't know. Don't touch those” he reprimed sharply, seeing Harry go to nudge the gates. He was back on guard now, alert to every movement, any perceived threat. That had been one of the more valuable lessons he learnt on the streets. That, and he didn't trust his father.

“So. How do we get in?” Harry looked at him expectantly.

Draco gritted his teeth, his futility turning to anger, ready to lash out at the closest person. “I don't know, Harry. This was your fucking idea!”

“You said your father banned you from the wards, right? As well as disinheriting you?”

“Yes, Potter. Why?” Draco tried to reel his emotions in. It wasn't Harry's fault.

“I wonder...” Harry stepped closer to the gates, hands tracing, but not quite touching the ornate metal. A shirt sleeve rode up, and Draco glimpsed the scars that traversed his arm in their full glory once again. Beautiful, hauntingly so, in the way that their beauty symbolised survival, each laborious gouge and cut counting the days that Harry had chosen to remain alive, to fight. Draco felt a profound gratification for the wounds lining Harry’s arms; their absence would have surely signified death by this point. He fought the urge to play homage to them with his tongue. “I have an idea.” The sound of Harry’s voice drew him from his illicit daydreams, and he chastened himself. “Blood.”

“Blood is always your idea. Slitting your wrists isn't going to get you inside the grounds, unfortunately. Not this time.”

“No. But yours might.” Harry had no need to sound so... pleased with his ridiculous idea.

Draco crossed his arms, unsure why he was even humouring Potter. “Care to explain?”

“Blood. Your father may have disinherited you, but you're still a Malfoy. I’m wondering if the gates would open if a blood offering was given. Ancient magic is often tied to blood, and wouldn't necessarily follow the laws of today.”

Draco stared at him. “That- that might actually work.” It was easy to forget that the man before him was the slayer of Voldemort, for as obtuse as he sometimes seemed, Harry was quietly brilliant. When he was sane. “Do you have anything? To make the cut with?”

Harry shook his head, brow furrowed, before stooping down to pick something up off the path. “Here. It’s not going to leave a pretty scar though.” He held up a small rock, one end tapering off to create a blunt tip.

“None of mine are” Draco said grimly, staring at the tool in Harry’s hands apprehensively. As versed as he had become with pain, he still had trouble purposely inflicting it on himself.

“Give me your palm.” Harry's voice held an odd tone. He took Draco’s hand gently, turning it up so that the palm faced the sky, green eyes briefly meeting grey. He stared at the pale skin as if memorising its contours, before grimly dragging a long gorge down the palm, A to B.

“Fuck, that hurts” Draco moaned, but Harry didn't answer. He was watching the blood well over the cut intensely, faced pinched as if he was the one in pain. “Potter?”

“You don't know how hard that was to do” Harry murmured quietly, still holding Draco’s hand lightly.

Draco swallowed. “I think I do.” Once again, green eyes locked on grey, and all Draco wanted to do was run. Run, and hide, evading and shunning the awareness that danced menacingly through his body, its threatening tendrils coiling around his psyche until he was a slave to its whim.

Oh, fuck. His body wanted Harry.

Ached for him in a way Draco hadn't felt since school; a desire that flushed his being with need.

But his mind shunned the knowledge with recrementitious force, shuddering at the thought of letting Harry... touch him. See him. Feel him. No. He couldn't do it. Couldn't override the fear and revulsion in his mind, nor allow Potter to see it, or glimpse the quick flash of desire. He wrenched his hand away from Harry’s hold, pressing it firmly to the gates in an attempt to ignore the revelation that had just been acknowledged.

Draco knew how to live in denial; how to play pretend.

After what seemed like an age, the gates started to pull inwards, opening themselves in a regality befitting of their position.

“It worked” Draco whispered, letting out the breath he wasn't aware he had been holding, and gingerly stepped forward until he was standing within the boundaries of the Manor. He looked back at Harry, letting a grin overtake his face, and Harry smiled back, Draco’s joy contagious. Pausing, he looked around. “It's quiet.” A frown deepened his face. “Too quiet. Harry, what do you see?”

Harry looked at him confused. “A house. A pathway. Gardens?”

“What don't you see?”

“What do you mean?”

Draco shook his head. “Maybe you wouldn't notice it, never having really been here. Life, Harry. The grounds used to be full of life. My mother prided herself on the birds that lived here, even the fucking peacocks I hated. Now, it's dead. There's nothing. Do you sense it? It feels lifeless. Abandoned.” He said the last part with tangible worry.

“Shall I hold your hand to keep you safe?” Draco ignored Potter, too wrapped up in apprehension to appreciate Harry's attempt at making him laugh.

“Come on. Let's move. I don't like this.” The walk up the path seemed to stretch on, gravel crunching under foot the only sound to disturb the eerie silence. Shadows seemed to reach formidably for them, their aphotic depths promising sinister surprises for those who wandered near.

“Did it always feel this ominous?” Harry asked in a whisper, and Draco shook his head slightly, holding a finger to his lips.

He was a fool to have come here. A suicide mission, and he was going to drag Harry down with him.

They mounted the steps to the front porch with trepidation, Draco’s hand stilling on the door handle.

“Do it. I’m here. I won't let anything happen to you.” Brave, empty words, from a brave, empty man.

He opened the door.

The entrance hall stretched out before them, its cavernous space echoing the sound as Harry closed the door quietly behind him. Draco paused, hungrily drinking in the sight he thought he would never see again.

Without warning, a door to their right opened, and out stepped Narcissa.

Time seemed to stand still as her gaze fell upon her son. “Draco?” Her voice was a whisper.

“Mother?”

One breath, two. Three, before the opening of the flood gates.

“Mother!” Draco threw himself at Narcissa, catching his arms around her neck and pulling her close, breathing in her unique scent which would forever correlate to ‘home’ in his head.

“My Draco, my precious Dràkon. Draco, Draco, Draco” his mother cooed into his ear, her own arms wrapping around his body to hold him tightly to her thin frame. They stayed like that for a long moment, locked in a fierce embrace, the bond between mother and son an irrepressible and ceaseless force. It was only when Narcissa pulled back to regain her composure did she seemingly notice Harry. “Mr Potter.” Her voice was instantly cool, not betraying any of the emotion she had just displayed.

Harry squirmed under her cold gaze. “Narcissa. Mrs Malfoy.”

She gave him level look. “That is an interesting style of facial hair you have chosen, Mr Potter.”

Draco let out a manic snort, having forgotten about the demi-beard Harry was still sporting. Narcissa went rigid at the sound, eyes flicking to a door down the hall before landing back on her son. “Draco” she whispered, and there was fear in her voice this time. “Why are you here? Do you not know what Lucius will do to you if he finds you?”

“I didn't even know if you were alive, mother.” Draco dropped his eyes. “I missed you.”

Narcissa’s features softened momentarily. “And I you, my Dràkon. But it's not safe for you to be here. Especially with Harry Potter.” She looked at Harry. “Who, may I say, we are all very surprised to see alive. You’ve been absent for a long time, Mr Potter. People like my husband are thriving in that absence.”

“If it wasn't for Harry, I'd still be on the streets selling my ass to survive” bit Draco. The joy of seeing his mother alive and healthy was being replaced with bitterness. “You didn't try to find me once? Help me? Five years, Mother. Five years I have worried about you, convinced Father was torturing you in some way.”

“Your Father thinks you're dead” Narcissa stated plainly. “Neither hide nor hair has been seen of you for a long time. I think you would prefer for him to stay under that illusion, don't you? Time has not softened him, Draco. In fact, if anything, it has made him harder.”

“Why haven't you left, mother? You would choose him over me? You knew what he was doing to me!”

“Draco!” It was the first time Narcissa had raised her voice, and let out a small gasp straight after, eyes looking around wildly. “It was never easy with Lucius.” Her voice dropped. “If I could leave here, and not face any repercussions, I would. You have got to know that I would have never let him do the things he did, if I had known. You're my only son. I would do anything for you.”

At that moment, there was small pop, and a house elf appeared in front of Narcissa. “Missus Malfoy, Master Lucius Sir would be liking you in the dungeons now.” The small creature then turned and let out a squeak, spotting Harry and Draco. “Master Draco! Master Draco has returned! And Mister Harry Potter Sir. Mister Harry Potter should not be in Malfoy Manor!”

“You will not tell my husband that Draco or Harry Potter are here.” Narcissa’s voice was firm. “Do you understand, Bilbo? He must not know.” The small elf nodded, its ears hitting the ground. “Now, please tell me what Lucius said.”

“Master Malfoy be saying he needs Missus Narcissa in the dungeons at once. Master Malfoy has been a very angry man, and needs his messes cleaned up.” The small elf frowned. “Bilbo said Master Malfoy that Bilbo will be cleaning up the girl, but Master Malfoy said he be wanting Missus Narcissa.”

Narcissa’s already pale face blanched. “That will be all, Bilbo. Thank you. Please remember, not a word to Lucius. You are dismissed.” The elf bowed deeply, before disappearing.

“Mother?” Draco’s voice was strained. “What did Bilbo mean by ‘the girl’?”

“I’m afraid, Draco, that your Father’s taste of violence and... sexual desires-” her mouth twisted around the words “-has not lessened in the years you have been gone. I'm afraid that his latest toy has met an unfortunate end.” She looked once again at the door way. “You need to leave, my darling boy. Leave, and don't return. Forget about me. My fate has been chosen.” She placed a small kiss on Draco’s forehead.

“I'm not leaving you here with that bastard!”

Narcissa placed her hands on Draco’s shoulders, leaning forward to rest her forehead against his. “Unfortunately, that’s the way it must be, Draco. I’m not prepared to put you in any more danger.”

“What’s so bad that you can't leave, Mother? What hold does he have on you?” Draco was shaking, fear for his mother, as well as his grief of leaving her so soon mixed deadly in his gut, heaving bile up his throat and making his hands shake.

“Nothing that you need to worry about, Draco. Now. Go.”

“I can't Mother.” Tears spilled from Draco, and he clutched her hand. “I can't do it again without you. I accept everything that I've done, I’ve payed for my wrongs, time and time again. Look, Mother!” He yanked up his tattered shirt sleeve, revealing his ruined Dark Mark, and Narcissa let out a quiet sob. “I've been burnt. Used. Voldemort's play toy, and a whore for Muggles. I’ve starved, and froze, and wished for death. I can't do it any more, Mother. I can't be alone.”

Narcissa looked at Harry, her own demeanor held together by a single thread. “You’re not alone, Draco. Not anymore.”

Harry had been silent for their exchange, but now he met Narcissa’s gaze. “We will be back” he said, and there was promise in his voice, fire and hatred for a man who had ruined so many, burning in his eyes. “Draco won't be alone.” he looked at Draco, who was slowly falling apart in the entrance hall. “You won't be alone again.”

“Thank you. For looking after my boy.” Narcissa’s voice was soft, choked, laden with unshed grief.

Harry gave her a small smile before grabbing Draco's hand and forcibly dragging him towards the door. He opened it, and pushed a zombie-like Draco through. “I think you would find, Mrs Malfoy, that it's Draco who looks after me” he said quietly, before turning and shutting the door, leaving Narcissa standing there, mourning for a boy she once had, and the broken man he had become.
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Make Me Bleed