Draco Malfoy and the Sleep of Fleeting Death

Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, the Talk and the Breakdown

Draco took a moment to vehemently curse whoever had put up the anti-apparition wards around Grimmauld Place. He wouldn't escape this.

Potter looked at the portrait in disgust. He waved his wand and the blanket that had been covering it before flew up to conceal it once more.

He seemed to know that Draco couldn't escape, too. He started off towards the living room- where he had presumably stepped out of the fireplace- beckoning Draco to follow him.

Seeing he had no choice, Draco did.

In the living room, Potter had lit the fireplace, and was carelessly brushing away the ashes he must've brought in. Draco settled himself against the wall; stood, and close to the door, so he could escape if things got nasty. He suspected that they would; he was pretty sure, seeing the look on Potter's face, that he knew what they were going to talk about.

As Potter settled away from the fire on the floor next to a seat, he gestured for Draco to join him. Draco did, after a moment of deliberation; only he sat next to the fire and floo powder. Just in case. He realised, very quickly, how hot he would get in his robes, sat in such close proximity to the blazing fire; he shrugged off his robes, and, after a moment, his jumper. As he did this, his white school shirt (silk, obviously) slipped up; he knew this from Potter's gasp.

He'd seen the Sectumsempra scars.

Well, they'd been going to talk about this anyway. Still- the tension in the air was palpable. Potter was staring, mortified, at Draco's chest, where the rest of the scars lay hidden by his shirt.

"Oh Merlin," Potter breathed. Draco looked away.

The Potter stood.

Draco's head shot to him, his body tensing instantaneously, his hand already beginning to reach for the floo powder. He saw the look of hurt in Potter's eyes, the way his posture sagged and his movements halted entirely, and slowly let himself relax and look away again. He was safe. He was safe. He was safe.

"May I?" Potter said- whispered. This seemed too delicate to talk about normally. It had to be treated gently. Potter gestured to Draco's shirt. He wanted to see all the scars.

Draco's breath caught in his throat, but he slowly undid his buttons with shaking hands. He shrugged off the silk, letting it crumple in a pile on the floor. He still wasn't looking back at Potter. It was fine. He was safe.

Potter sank to his knees before him. "Oh," he breathed. "Oh, Merlin." Draco could practically feel his eyes roaming the scarred expanse of Draco's chest. The skin itself was smoothed; physically indistinguishable from any other part of him; the Dittany did that. But it wasn't quite strong enough to stop the visual scarring- or the emotional, or mental. Visually, there were cuts- thirty-seven on his front, to be precise- lacing his skin with imperfections. The worst was one that stretched from his right shoulder, down over the left side of his ribcage, and stretched halfway round his back. It was crisscrossed with many others.

"Turn around?" Potter asked.

His back wasn't quite as bad as his front, but he still heard Potter make a soft noise of wounded astonishment as he turned. There were an additional thirteen scars there (to make a total of fifty), mostly on his left side, where the curse had hit hardest. Draco had found it easiest to deal with the incident by analysing it analytically; he counted his scars, estimated their depth and how much blood he lost; estimated how long it would've taken to heal without magic, etcetera. He felt that it helped him distance himself from the incident.

Potter was examining him still. When he returned to Draco's front, he murmured, "I'm so sorry." Apologies wouldn't fix what you did, Draco thought. Potter knew this, though. He bowed his head, looking ashamed and sorrowful and remorseful. "I'm sorry," he said again. Then, after a moment, he said, "I'm so sorry. For everything." Oh. So this was happening now, then. Draco schooled his face into the indifferent Malfoy Mask he had perfected over the years. He feared what his face would show if he didn't. "I'm- I'm sorry for the insults, for the judgement, for never giving you a second chance, for the War, and for Voldemort; I'm sorry for never trying to help you, never trying to get you out, for abandoning you. I'm sorry for the jests and the fights and the curses and for judging you from the very first time we met, when I didn't even know about magic and wizards much at all. I'm sorry for everyone who died-" Draco's mask dropped, because this was completely absurd; how were any of the deaths Potter's fault? Except, well, Voldemort, and maybe, possibly- "I'm sorry for Crabbe, and all the other Slytherins. I'm sorry for what happened to you, I'm sorry for the scars, and for your parents- and- and- and for Dumbledore, and what you had to do, and for being me, and for not just- not just dying when I was supposed to-" Potter bowed his head, his back shaking, self-loathing evident in his voice- he was gasping for breath, and was that a- was he crying?

He was, Draco realised. What should he do? What could Draco do?

He could try and help.

"Harry," he said softly. He looked away, still silently sobbing. "Harry," Draco said again. "Harry, how long have you wanted to apologise for everything that isn't your fault?" Potter's arms curled around himself; self-comfort. He reminded Draco of himself in sixth year; when he had done that, his mother had pulled him close, sat him on her lap- though he had been far too big- and had just held him and listened as he cried. Potter never had a mother to do that for him, Draco realised.

And immediately, without his permission, his mouth opened, and he choked out two words, interrupting Harry's rant. "I'm sorry," he said. And just like that, a flow of words spilled out; everything he'd ever thought, ever wanted to say to Harry, to try and make things better. "I'm sorry for insulting you and your parents and the people who first showed you love and tried to help you and for hurting you and them just because I was such a self-righteous prat hung up on when you rejected me in first year- when I was being an absolute prick, too- I'm sorry for my prejudices and my pride, I'm sorry for the Vanishing Cupboard, and for the Fiendfyre, and for everyone who died, I'm sorry for Dumbledore-" Harry started crying harder, so, as he spoke, Draco moved slowly closer to him, ignoring the painful prickling just behind his nose that he always got just before he started breaking down, and reminding himself that he was safe, Harry wasn't going to hurt him- "I'm sorry for everything I put you and your friends in, and for everything you went through, and that you saved me, and that I tried to Crucio you, and for Malfoy Manor, and for Voldemort- and-" oh, there were Draco's tears. They ran down his face in silent streams, and his voice choked off.

Harry reached out and wrapped his arms around Draco suddenly, buried his head in Draco's shoulder, still bare, his gasping breaths and his dark skin as hot as the fire that still burned in the fireplace. Draco didn't even hesitate before wrapping his arms around Harry in return, burying his head in the mess of black hair- just as soft as Draco had expected it to be. He didn't hesitate in his decision to keep holding Harry, long after both of them had stopped crying. He didn't flinch when Harry's arms randomly tightened around him.

After all, he was safe.