I can’t hold it in anymore. I drop to my knees. The pressure builds and builds, like a rapidly expanding well of water, thrashing and fighting to escape. It feels like my ribcage is cracking. I want to scream, I want to tear into my chest and let the water out, I want to rip myself apart with my bare hands. My nails rake into my dress shirt, desperately trying to claw through the fabric and scrape my skin off. I don’t have the strength to put this emotion back where it should be, safe and sound in its cage, so it runs rampant through my body like fire. I’m going to suffocate. My nails rip at my neck. It stings dully, but not nearly enough. I curl my hands into fists and hit and hit and hit and hit, everywhere on my body, as hard as I can. A scream wells up in my throat, but I choke it down into a pained groan.
After a minute, the anger subsides into fear and hopelessness. My fists cease the barrage and wrap around my battered body. I hold myself tight, as tight as I can, and rock and rock, trying to soothe the scared child inside me. A low wail escapes my mouth. I feel weak. Tears continue to stream down my cheek. Silent sobs rack through me.
The sound of footsteps at the entrance to the bathroom reach me. I shift, turning to sit against the wall in an attempt to pull myself together. Of course I meant to sit on the floor, despite the centimetre of water pervasive to this bathroom. My hands fumble to my pocket and pull out my carton of cigarettes.
I look up, and of course, the person I least wanted to see right now is in front of me. No doubt he had been following me, the nosy bastard.
His emerald-green eyes scan the scene, flipping from suspicion to confusion to concern. His jet-black hair is messy, as usual. He’s holding his wand in his hand.
“Fancy a fag, Potter?” I ask, lifting the pack in offering. I meant to sound cool and distant, but my voice betrays me.
He doesn’t respond, standing there dumbly.
“Suit yourself,” I say, voice once again trembling. As if my disheveled appearance wasn’t enough. I lift the cigarette to my mouth shakily and light it with a wordless incendio. I take a long drag, closing my eyes, and hold it for a minute before slowly letting it go. Potter continues to stand there like an idiot. I gesture to the floor next to me in invitation.
He continues to stand there, looking conflicted.
“Jesus, Potter, make up your mind,” I say.
After another long moment’s deliberation, he finally steps over and kneels down, almost reaching out as if to examine my injuries. He decides against it and moves to my side, back against the wall, a little closer than he should.
I take another long drag, trying to steady my hands.
Finally, he speaks. “What happened to you?”
I cough out a laugh. I put the fag back to my lips and inhale, unsure how to answer that question.
When it becomes apparent that I can’t answer, he speaks again. “Your neck is bleeding, by the way.”
I put my fingers up to the self-inflicted scratches on my neck and find that they’re wet. I examine the blood on my fingers. There’s also blood under my fingernails.
“It seems you’re right”
A beat. “Did you… Did you do that to yourself?”
I look over to him. His brow is knitted in concern, genuine and pitying. Oh, spare me.
I sigh. “Yeah”
Another long moment passes. “Why?”
I take another puff before answering. “Couldn’t keep it in”
I glance at him again. Worry shines in his eyes. I sigh again.
“I’ve been having a bad year. Lotta shit happened last summer. Lot of pressure. I try to keep it all contained, but sometimes it gets out. Truth is, I really hate myself, and I think I kind of always have. I’ve never been good enough, never strong enough, never smart enough. And everyone hates me, and they should, because I’m a dick. And with my dad gone and my mom a blubbering mess I’m all alone. And I’ve always been alone at this school, really my whole life, because everyone is either awful or wants nothing to do with me. You’ve always been the worst part, though, before last summer”
I take another drag of the cigarette. My hands have steadied now.
I look over at him.
“I’m the worst part? What have I ever done to you?” a glimmer of anger shines in his eyes.
I sigh again. “Oh, Harry, what haven’t you done to me,” I say, resigned, “You’re everything I want to be. Likable, popular, powerful, not to mention much better than me at quidditch. You’ve got friends, real ones, who would follow you anywhere, who you can share anything with. You don’t have to hide anything. Every father figure you have beams with pride after everything you do. It’s sickening. And worst of all, you rejected me. First year, when I asked to be friends. You practically spat in my face.”
I steal another glance. He’s looking forward, brow furrowed, trying to process this information. Probably wondering why I’m opening up to him instead of hexing him. Heck, I should have hexed him when he walked in, but I didn’t have it in me anymore. It’s been so long since I confided in anyone, and in my post-breakdown state, I would have talked to anyone. But I’m glad it’s him.
“You called me Harry”
Oh, shit. I let it slip. My eyes widen, my body freezing in horror. He knows.
“Didn’t know we were on first-name terms now,” he says. I can hear the smirk in his voice.
I relax a little. “Can it, Potter”
“You’re a mess, you know”
“Yeah,” I say, “I know.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. The fag in my hands burns to the filter. I douse it in the floor-water. Harry picks at his cuticles. The skin around his nails is bitten raw and bleeding in some spots, his nails chewed to stubs.
Breaking the silence, he speaks. “Why are you being like this?”
I quirk my eyebrow in question.
“Like, you know, nice. You don’t seem anything like yourself. You haven’t only not insulted me, you’re telling me personal stuff. You have always been an insufferable prick, and now you’re suddenly… not an ass”
I look over at him, and my breath catches in my throat. His beautiful, obnoxiously green eyes lock onto mine, brow still furrowed, astonishingly intense. I don’t believe he’s ever looked at me like that, seeing me so harshly. His head is slightly cocked, and his teeth are absentmindedly chewing at his inner lip. I don’t think I’ve ever been more obsessed with him. I break the stare, as if he can see it in my eyes, how I feel about him. My gaze glues to my knees. I’m suddenly self-conscious and tense. My veins run cold, seized with anxiety. It squeezes my chest like a python.
I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out. I don’t know what I would say. I could confess, tell him that this is the real me, and that asshole was just covering so nobody could tell that I’m in love with you. I could say that I’m so relieved to be talking to you, that this was what I’d been wishing for for years, that I want you to wrap your arms around me and heal the scratches on my neck and tell me everything would be all right.
But no, there’s no way I’m going to tell him that.
“Are you…” he starts, tentatively.
I glance back at him, wearing my emotions on my sleeve, face painted with pain and hope and longing, efforts at secrecy forgotten. My words, my actions, everything I’m doing seems to scream that I’m in love with him. Fear that he’s found out is eclipsed by a swell of hope that maybe he feels the same way. My heart hammers in my chest. My breath has almost stopped. My heart is fit to burst.
“Are you okay?”
It feels like a stab to the heart. I fall back to earth, that stupid, delusional hope squashed. I quickly shove everything down, all the feelings that had overflowed, putting everything behind a thick wall deep inside of me. The rational part of my brain regained control, and I reshaped my face into a cool mask of neutrality.
“Just fine, Potter,” I spit. Perhaps a little overkill, but I need to get out of this before I do more damage. I stand, wincing slightly at the ache all over, evidence of my little outburst.
I take a few steps, then turn back towards Harry. “I need to get back to my dorm. If you speak of this to anyone, I swear to Merlin I’ll crucio you.”
I turn towards the door and stride towards the exit.
“Wait, Malfoy”
I pause. When I turn back, he’s standing. He takes a step towards me. His awfully green eyes bore into mine once again. Exhausted, I let the pain show on my face. His features dawn with realization. He’s figured it out. He must have. Panic seizing my gut, I turn back towards the exit, trying to escape before he says it, before I have to face it.
“Malfoy!” he shouts behind me, water splashing as he catches up with me.
Fuck. Fuck. I ignore him and walk faster to get away from this, his pity, his rejection, his disgust, I’m sure. I can’t handle this right now.
He grabs my wrist, stopping me. “Malfoy”
I don’t face him. “Please, H- Potter, just stop.” My voice breaks a little at the end.
“Turn around,” he orders, softly. He’s never spoken to me in that tone. It must be pity, I think, as I spin to face him. I don’t make eye contact.
He reaches his hand out to lift my chin. I give in and lift my gaze to meet his. I can’t decipher the emotion behind his eyes. My face betrays my devastating, heart-wrenching, hopeless love for him.
He tilts my chin up. His fingers skim my neck and the bloody scratches there, catching for a second on my throat. I shudder. He inspects the collar of my dress shirt, speckled with blood. I lower my chin and look back at him, searching for the reason he’s doing this. Still undecipherable, he raises his hand to my face and caresses my cheek, lightly, cautiously.
I can’t help myself. I close my eyes and lean ever so slightly into his palm, almost sobbing at the relief his touch brings.
He pushes his palm into my cheek, and I hear a slight splash as he steps closer.
My eyes fly open. His face wears a look of determination. He steps a little closer, his other hand grasps the collar of my shirt, and he presses his lips to mine.
My arms stay limp at my sides in shock. His lips stay pressed to mine for a moment, then he steps away. He looks slightly panicked.
“Shit, sorry, I think I misinterpreted-”
I cut him off by stepping closer and grabbing his face, smashing my lips onto his. His hands snake around my waist and pull me tighter to him. I run my fingers through his hair, and oh I’ve wanted to do this for so long. I’m buzzing with electricity. My stomach is doing flips. My heart is hammering in my chest, and I can feel his heartbeat too, through his sweater. I can taste the orange juice he had at dinner and oh merlin we are full-on frenching in the boy’s bathroom. He pushes me up against the wall, hand darting up my shirt. His hand explores my waist, leaving me with goosebumps and tightening pants.
His mouth parts from mine and trails down my jaw, carefully kissing down my neck. I let out a soft whimper as his teeth nip my collarbone. I’m content to stay here kissing forever, but a shiver rips through my body, and I realize that I’m quite cold. He pulls back.
His face is painted with concern. “Are you alright? Is this alright? You seemed to enjoy it so I kinda… but if you didn’t want to-”
“Harry,” I say, cutting him off. “I definitely… you don’t know how much I wanted that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just cold”
“Ah. Yeah, me too. Let’s kiss somewhere warmer next time.”
Next time? My heart soars.
“Wanna go back to my dorm? Everyone else is home for Christmas.”
I blanch.
“Or not,” he says, rushing to get past the awkwardness, “Too soon, right?”
“No, I-” I start, “I’d love that.”
He smiles, and oh, merlin my knees go weak. He grabs my wrist and pulls me along.
I’m in Harry Potter’s dorm. This is definitely not how I thought my evening would go. This late, and on the holiday break, there was nobody in the common room, thank merlin. I stand awkwardly in front of the door as he rifles through his dresser.
Without a second thought, he throws off his sweater and unbuttons his trousers. He steps out of his wet trousers, then turns around, in only his wet boxers, as if just remembering I was there. His cheeks flush.
My cheeks burn. I turn around and face the door. I really hope he doesn’t notice my boner, because seriously. I am so hopelessly attracted to him. His arms are beautifully toned after years of quidditch. His thighs are just amazing, strong from broomstick riding, and his stomach has a little bit of chub. He is utterly mouth watering.
He clears his throat behind me. “I’m, uh, decent”
I turn around. He’s wearing red gryffindor sweats and a thin white tee. In his hand is a bundle of clothes.
“Here,” he says, offering them to me, “you can borrow these”
I thank him and move to unbutton my shirt. He stares.
“Uhm, Potter?”
“Oh shit, sorry,” he says hurriedly. He sets the clothes on the floor and spins around, busying himself with throwing his old clothes in the hamper.
And now I’m undressing in Harry Potter’s dorm, I think to myself as I step out of my soaked clothes. He gave me blue checkered pajama pants, a black tee, and gray boxer briefs. Oh, my.
And now I’m wearing Harry Potter’s underwear. The thought sends a shudder down my spine.
“Okay” I say quietly.
He turns around. A teasing smile dances on his lips.
“Ugh. What is it, Potter?”
He clears his throat. “Nothing, it’s just… I’ve never seen you in pajamas before”
I roll my eyes and mutter under my breath.
“What did you say?” he asks in mock suspicion.
“Oh nothing, nothing,” I say, quietly muttering again.
He steps towards me.
“Say that again,” he says jokingly.
“You’re an asshole, I said”
He steps closer, his breath mixing with mine. “Oh yeah?”
A rare smile touches my lips. “The worst”
He’s close now, mouth just inches from mine.
I wait, savoring the moment.
He leans in, grabbing my hair, and crashes his lips into mine. I grab his waist, something I’ve been yearning to do for oh so long. I slip a hand under his shirt and a soft groan escapes his lips. I pull him even closer. His hips hit mine, informing me that he is as turned on by this as I am. He hikes up my shirt and rests his hand on my chest, inadvertently right on one of the worst bruises I have. I wince. He ends the kiss abruptly, and looks at my chest for the first time.
The bruises are extensive. I had hit myself, hard, on my chest, hips, stomach, thighs, and upper arms. Harry’s eyes widen as he takes in the dark purple spots scattered across my chest and stomach. I avert my eyes.
“Malfoy” he says, incredulous.
I look up. The crease between his eyebrows is back.
“Did you do all this?”
A moment passes. “Yeah,” I say sheepishly.
He pauses to think. Then, he takes my hand and leads me to his bed. “Sit”
I sit criss-cross-apple-sauce at the foot of his bed, and he joins me.
“Take off your shirt,” he orders.
“No, why-”
“Just do it.”
I sigh, then pull my shirt over my head. The movement aches dully.
Harry grabs his wand from his bedside table, then starts healing me, bruise by bruise, with episky. He works his way from my neck, where he fixes the scratches on my neck, down each arm, then down my chest to my stomach. He handles me tenderly, softly, like I’ve needed to be touched for years. Silent tears stream down my cheeks.
When he’s finished with my upper body, I wordlessly pull off my sweats to show him the bruises on my thighs. His lips pinch, and he heals those, fixing the damage that I did to myself.
After all the bruises are gone, I pull my clothes back on and sit back down, cheeks still wet from tears. I still can’t meet his eyes. Carefully, he reaches over to my shoulder and pulls me into his lap, so my head is resting on his thighs. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep more tears from spilling.
Softly, like a whisper, his fingers skim across my temples. He brushes my hair back, combing his fingers through it. Then his fingers move across my face, tracing my features lovingly, as if to memorize how my face is shaped.