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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
“That’s it my Dràkon, my clever little boy. Now, one more time for Mummy?”
His body trembled, hands clenched in a futile attempt to control the storm of emotions threatening to seize his body.

“What’s wrong, darling?”
“Nothing, Mother.”
“Are you sure, Draco? I know your Father can be a little harsh. Would a story make my big six year old feel better? It’s about a very special wizard.”

A tear escaped, breaching the rim of his eye before slowly tracking down his pale cheek.

“You mustn't worry, my darling Dràkon. You are very important to me, and I know you are going to be very important to someone else in the future. It doesn't matter if that person is a male or a female. Eleven is no age to be thinking about these things.”
“Do you mean that, Mother?”
“With all my heart.”

A choked sob ripped forth from his tightly clamped lips, body lurching with the movement.

“You don’t need to do this, Draco.”
“Mother, I have to. You do not say no to the Dark Lord. It’s a privilege. An honour.”
“You do not have to do anything. Listen to me. I will support you with whatever you choose. I love you, my Dràkon. Never forget that.”

A wretched wail pierced the oppressive silence, the noise echoing through the still house. Instantly, there were hands on him, calming, soothing, reassuring. But they were the wrong hands, callused and masculine, not the soft smooth touch he craved, the ones that had held him night after night, cleaned his wounds, comforted his mind and body. He let out another sob, and suddenly he was crying in earnest, his body rocking and shaking and heaving in a way it hadn't since he was a child, nose running and tears streaming down reddening cheeks, letting the futility, his worthlessness, enclose him.

“Draco, please. I don’t know what to do for you.”

The hands on him moved, one rubbing soft circles on his back, the other cupping his knee.

“Let me help you. Please. Let me take the pain away.”

“You can't. No one can.” The first words Draco had spoken since Harry had pulled his broken body down the Manor path, apparating them back to Grimmauld Place.

Harry moved, and abruptly Draco was pulled into a soft lap, Harry’s arms winding around him to hold him tight against his chest. Draco stiffened briefly before yielding to the embrace, his head coming to nestle in the warm crook of Harry’s shoulder while he was rocked as one might an upset baby. He breathed in the now-familiar scent of Harry, letting the heat which permeated the worn cotton of Potter’s shirt soothe him and dry his tears.

“Narcissa was right, Draco, when she said you weren't alone. I promise, we will do something about her situation. We just need some time.” Harry’s voice was gentle, muffled against his hair.

“He has a hold on her. He won’t let her go.”

“We will make him.”

Draco let out a strangled laugh. “You think I can beat my father? With no wand? He’s ruthless, Harry. He doesn't give a shit, and doesn't play by anyone's rules.”

“I won’t let you confront him alone.”

“It’s not your battle to fight. He’s not your problem.”
Harry’s tone turned dark. “He is. I didn’t fight a fucking war just to let people like him get away with what he’s doing.”

“You said it yourself. Death Eaters still roam free. He’s not the only one, far from it. Nothing will ever change, Harry. As long as there’s good, there will be bad in the world.”

“There isn't anyone good left. That’s what the war achieved; the destruction of anyone pure. They shouldn't have died in vain.”

Draco pulled his head away from Harry’s shoulder, leaning back so he could study his face. “Isn't this why you left? What you ran from?”

Harry’s gaze flicked down to his wrists. “It is. But I’d go back. For you.” Draco said nothing, shifting awkwardly in Potter’s lap. “How many are there?”

“Of what?” Draco asked, confused.

“Death Eaters. How many are still free?”

“Oh.” Draco paused, debating whether or not he should answer truthfully. “A fair few.”

“How do you know?” It was Draco’s eyes that gave him away, instinctively moving to rest on his covered arm, only momentarily, before looking away. Yet Harry saw the movement, and Draco watched comprehension dawn on his face. “Your mark.” It wasn't a question.

Draco’s voice was quiet. “Yes.”

“What did they do?” Gritted out, between clenched teeth.

“It doesn't matter” Draco hurried, placating.

“It fucking does. Tell me, Draco.”

“I already fucking have!” He shouted, pulling himself off and away from Harry, moving to stare out a grimy window. “I already have.”

“Acid” Harry stated, and Draco was surprised he remembered that conversation, considering the events that had followed. The cutting.

It felt like a lifetime ago.

“What's done is done. I can't change the past; I haven't got a time-turner. And anyway, most would say I deserved it, what I got. They certainly did.”

“What happened?” Traces of the burning man were back.

“What if I don't want to tell you, Harry?” All of a sudden Draco was tired, his body weighted down as if tied to rocks, and all he wished to do was sink under the water to oblivion. “What if I don't want to relive the past? You can't compensate for me; repent for me with your blood. I'm not one of your lives to pay for.”

Harry simply sat there, those eyes of his piercing even in the low light, a hypnotic force willing Draco to obey.

“It was after Father had cast me out. I was moving from shelter to shelter in muggle London” Draco relented with a sigh. “I had pissed off the wrong sorts - the muggle gangs that ran the streets - so I couldn't stay in the same place for long. The night they came, I had just found a new shelter.” A sad smile crossed his face. “They had soup to eat, and I remember thinking I hadn't eaten anything that delicious, ever. Hunger will do that to you.”

“I know the feeling” Harry commented blandly, before waiting for Draco to continue.

“It was sudden. One minute, I was in the bathroom, then a hand grabbed me, and I was gone.” He shuddered, the memory of that night fresh in his mind as if it had just happened. He remembered the smells, the aroma of food mixed with the slight stink of unwashed bodies, and how it had suddenly changed, replaced with the earthy odour of wet ground, the musty decay of rotting wood. How he had frozen when he had spied the human outlines hidden in deep shadows, and the all-consuming fear when their identities were revealed. “They weren't very happy with me. Abandoning the cause, and all that.”

“I need names.”

“You don't. Dolohov, Rookwood, Mulciber Jr, and Rabastan Lestrange” he amended, seeing Harry about to argue. “It doesn't matter. Four angry men with twisted ideologies and no leader to follow. I was the easiest person to blame. Dolohov took appropriate delight in defiling the Dark Lord’s sex toy. I assure you, it was quite the honour.” Draco screwed his face up, fighting the instinctual bile which wanted to rise in his throat. “They harped on and on about how I wasn't ‘deserving’ of the Dark Lord, or his mark, how I was a ‘turn coat’, a ‘spineless traitor’. But honestly, I think they were just bored.” He worked to keep his face natural, his tone even, despite the abhorrence seething through him.

He sensed, rather than saw, Harry stand. A hand was placed cautiously on his arm, but he shrugged it off. If it had stayed, he would have broken.

Harry didn't need to see the pain.

“Long story short, they decided that I wasn't entitled to the mark. Their solution was acid. Humorous, really, that muggle haters would stoop to something so muggle. Perhaps it was an analogy for what I had become.” He paused. “Have you ever seen human flesh disintegrate? Smelled the astringent stench that emerges as you’re forced to watch skin and fat, muscle, sinew, be devoured by such a formidable foe? Have you ever fucking had to suppress your screams, even as your flesh liquefies before your eyes, because to scream would be to lose, and would give the sadistic fucks too much pleasure!” The outrage had crept up on him slowly, but now it burned bright and hot, a force which ran parallel with his hatred. Hatred at Harry, for making him relive the pain. Hatred that the man he had fought to hate since a child, was now the man his body longed to touch. Hatred that, even now, he felt helpless.

His voice broke. “And then, to feel so desperate, so alone, so sickened by your own mutilated arm, which, despite their best efforts, still bears the mark, that you douse it with gas and light it on fire. You embrace the pain, the sweet stink of burning, because it means that it's doing something, rebelling against the brands that mark you, that which defines you.

Harry looked like he might be sick, his face pale, his normally vibrant eyes dulled. Long moments passed, the stillness only punctured by the sound of a dripping tap off in the distance. Finally, Harry spoke.

“It’s my fault.”

“How is it possibly your fault, Harry” Draco bit out. “Did you leave me wandless? Did you disinherit me? Oh, wait. Let me guess. You were Polyjuiced, and impersonating Dolohov. In that case, was the sex good?” Sarcasm dripped from his tone.

Harry shuffled awkwardly, his feet sweeping dust arches back and forth across the marred floor. “What happened to your wand?” he asked eventually.

Draco looked at him strangely. “Well, you stole it, when you decided to bust out of the Manor. Then, my father refused to get another, and once he had disinherited me, I didn't have the means to replace it.”

“I’m sorry.” Potter sounded earnest.

“I don't blame you, not any more.” Draco's voice dropped. “If you hadn't escaped. Well... I’m not sure what kind of place we would be living in now. You did what you had to do. Can you just tell me-” He pulled in a ragged sigh. “-You obviously don't have it now. What did you do with it? In the end?”

Harry stilled. “I can’t remember, Draco” he said, woodenly. “I guess it got lost in battle.”

“Okay. I just wanted to know.” His anger from before had faded, giving way to sadness.

Potter suddenly exploded. “I can't believe I let that happen!”

“My wand?” asked Draco, confused.

“Your fucking arm!”

“Seriously, Harry. What does it even have to do with you?” He was over the fighting.

“Everything. It's on me. I should have just thrown acid at you myself! If I had done what I was bloody meant to do, there wouldn't have been any Death Eaters left to torture you. I might as well start cutting for you, Draco. Yours is another life I should have been able to save.”

“Well I'm still fucking here! I survived, didn't I? Not everything is your fault. You don't need to pay for all these fucking wrong doings, because you didn't do them!” Why couldn't harry see? That he was good, honest, that he had fought enough. That he was so much better than Draco could ever be.

“Look at what that survival cost you. And I don't mean the whoring. You lost your wand, your life. Everything that you had even known has been stripped from you. Yet you're standing here telling me that I didn't do wrong?”

The words left his mouth unbidden. “I would rather be here with you, Harry, than living in a world you refuse to inhabit.”

Harry jolted, before turning to face him. “Draco?” he softly queried, taking a tentative step forward.

“I. I...” He hadn't meant to say that. But that didn't make it any less real.

“Draco.” Harry's voice had changed, the name coming out husky, warm. Needy. Lust now burned hot across his features, intertwined with something else, flanked by something equally primordial. “Draco” he said, and it was almost a purr. “Cut me.”

Draco flinched, looking away. Looking away, because he couldn't possibly look harry in the eye, couldn't stand to see what was burning behind the green.

“Draco” Harry took another calculated step toward him. “Cut me. Scar me. Bleed me. Make. Me. Bleed.” Each word was accentuated, words that had been spoken before now taking on a new meaning. It wasn't desperation this time that fuelled the need to cut. Or it was, but a different sort of desperation, a game to be played, the pain Draco gave taking on a sweet edge, the blood not a redemption, but a medium to explore.

A promise that it wouldn't just be Harry’s needs sated.

A promise that set Draco’s body alight.

A promise that Draco could never see fulfilled.

“Harry” Draco whispered, and it was meant as a warning. Yet his body betrayed him, and it came out as more of a moan.

“I know you want it” Harry stepped forward, bringing them close, too close. “I can see it, know you feel it. Don't you want to feel alive again? Just for one moment in time?”

“I can't.” Draco's voice trembled, and he felt like he was about to plummet. Standing on the edge of the void, his mind screamed to run, to turn, to pull back. But his body... all his body wanted to do was step off, and embrace the free fall.

“I’ve been falling for a long time, Draco” Harry murmured, an unintentional mimicry of his own personal dilemma. “But I think you can catch me.”

Harry paused. Leant forward. Green to grey; it had always been green to grey, even when it shouldn't have been. Breath hot, lips stilled millimetres from his.

Until they weren't, and the gap was closed.

One beat. Two, three.

Fight or flight? He thought of Harry, of the lust in his eyes, and the other emotion, the one filled with promise, and trust, which Draco now understood as Harry’s own fucked up version of love.

Flight.

Harry pulled back, a smile on his face, and Draco ran.

Out the door and down the steps, stilling for only a second in the kitchen before lunging down the hall for the front door. He could hear his name being shouted, Harry’s yells as he followed him through the house. But Draco was faster; he knew how to flee.

Through the front door and up the path, down the road - any road - running, only running, tears falling unbidden as he wove his way through unfamiliar streets, the sound of Harry long lost behind him, now only his own fear and self-loathing and cowardliness sustaining his desertion.

Darkness was hot on his heels, not only the ending of the day, but the nothingness that Draco knew would overcome him as soon as he stopped.

He had failed the light, he had failed the dark. And now, he had failed Harry Potter.

There’s comfort in familiarity. It was this familiarly that called to him, when seconds or minutes or hours later, his home - his sanctuary - appeared before him. His hideaway under the overpass, blankets ratty, threadbare, grimy, but there. Slumping down, he curled his shaking form into a ball, arms wound tightly around his body, and shut his eyes.

One. Two, three.

Harry.

Before nothing.

*

You tasted like home. Comfort. Peace.

For a paramount moment, everything was right.

One. Two, three.

Before you were gone.

You ripped yourself away from me, denied my arms your embrace, lacerated the feeling. The feeling, that had grown between us, a ferocious need which I welcomed with potent relief. So used to the insidious humdrum my life had become, that I hadn't realised you were missing, until you were there.

And now you weren't.

To know, that it was me that pushed you away, with my obstinate need to be with you. On you. Under you. In you. And with you, in a way I had never been before. The physical longing insignificant compared to the complete perfectness my soul felt when you stood before me, courageous, and giving, and honest, and so quintessentially fundamental in my life, I didn't know how I had survived without you.

I wouldn't live through that again.

My fault. It was all my fault.

I'm in your room; on your bed, and it smells of you, wrapping me in an embrace which, if I close my eyes, lets me pretend you're here with me. A stolen, forbidden moment, that's all I got, when my lips met yours.

But I dream about more. You; your body. How your pale skin would blush, pink and warm, under my hands. What you would look like, spread under me, your knees drawn up and exposing every beautiful inch of you. The hypnotising sight of my cock, slowly easing into your tight heat. Since I saw you in the shower, you had been all I could think about.

You made me feel whole. So broken I was, scarred and marked, using liquor as a crutch to get me through the minutes till I could cut again. The satisfaction that control gave me was nothing compared to the intoxicating awareness you spawned. You pulled back the shutters; blew the dust off my decaying eyes. Now, that's gone.

It seems fitting to spend my final time in the space that you had hesitantly claimed as your own. I would have given you the world, moved stars, gone back, for you. Still would. But you've gone, and the dark that had receded temporarily in your presence is back, its ever demanding hunger even more irresistible, the compulsion to cut, to bleed, a seductive temptress.

A piece of glass on the bedside table catches my eye. It's the one you first cut me with, the shard of mirror. It's a sign.

Blankness settles, and although I know it's the last time I’ll be doing this, you're here with me in spirit, and it gives me strength.

Down, not across: a mantra.

Down, not across: an instruction.

Down, not across, and the skin tears easily under the sharp edge. The other wrist, and now the blood is flowing, running in free-form rivers down my palms, twisting between my fingers.

Lying here, in your bed, the place that you have been, it's a fitting end to our tumultuous tryst.

Draco.

The darkness is creeping, and this oblivion promises to taste the sweetest.

Draco.

I'm going now. All I wanted in the end was you.

Draco.

I’m sorry. Forgive me.

I love you.

Ring-a- ring o’ roses
A pocket full of posies
One slit
Two slit
We all fall down
- 8
- 9
- 10
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Make Me Bleed