Unnatural Openness
Every evening in the shower, Draco looks at them. He feels them, too. He doesn’t like how they tingle when he pays attention to them, but when he runs them under hot water, when he puts pressure on them with his hands, it helps him remember that everything is still real. It’s grounding. They are ugly. They are scars that remind him of everything constantly. They remind him of war. Of torture and pain, of loss, of near-death and regrets.
Draco doesn’t quite know how to describe or explain it to himself, but sometimes, he needs the sensation of almost-pain on the largest scar- across his stomach- for no reason other than to stop it from spontaneously itching. At least, he supposes it would nearly hurt, if it weren’t for the fact that a bit of his scar tissue holds no sensation. Any attempt at making his stomach feel like his stomach again only resulted in a dull and deep ache accompanied by a disconnect somewhere deep inside of him, as though his nerves were straining to function and mostly failing.
And then there’re the two long scars along his left forearm. They aren’t nearly as deep. They only appear as pale-pink indents, distorting his sickly faded dark mark minorly where the thin lines pass over it. Part of him was surprised that the killer hadn’t tried reopening his older wound. Part of him was glad for it, if it meant marring the dark mark more.
He wishes he could remember attaining the biggest of his scars, but he doesn't. No matter how hard he tries, all he can remember between lengthy periods of blacking out and blinding pain was milder injuries accompanied by intense questioning and preaching of the morals he lacked. He remembers his body feeling so awfully, grotesquely wrong...
He wonders if, perhaps, his dark mark was the reason for it all. No- he knows it is.
He wishes it were gone.
He wishes he didn’t have to think about it, but he does, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself by cleaning or baking or reading...
Every time he goes to get dressed or bathe, he sees them. When he eats, his stomach becomes unsettled. When he cleans, Muggle chemicals sting his fingertips more than the rest of his hand. When he bakes or uses his wand, his hands tremble. When he showers, the hot water hits everything, making itself known in his mind. Sometimes, his brain will randomly just remind him of them, as if it were some amusing game to do so.
Draco hates his scars. He wants to cut them out. He doesn't like the way they feel or look. He doesn't want them. He wants, more than most things, for them to be gone.
But no magic can fix what has been done to him. Otherwise, St. Mungo's would have already taken care of it. And cutting out the scars will only create more. The only ones he appreciates are the ones on his left arm. Those are the only ones that fill him to the brim with an odd mix of sickness and palliation every time he thinks of them.
Now, standing under the too-hot water, doing all he can to stop thinking about Blaise, to just forget about him, to distract from what happened, he thinks that, perhaps, it's worth trying to ruin the dark mark some more, pay for his mistakes, show that he wishes, more than anything, to remove that part of his life from him.
It took Draco another twenty minutes to work up the confidence to do it.
He’d gotten himself out of the shower and dressed himself, then began pacing his room. Of course, his aim is not to die. No, he'd already been close to that enough times to know he didn't want to. At least, not like that, not while he’s aware of what's happening. Eventually, he kneeled on the floor, taking deep breaths.
A carefully measured slicing charm and a steady hand were all he needed. A cut just deep enough to scar and ruin his mark. He'd done it once before, and he'd survived as much twice before. This wouldn't be difficult. All he needed to do was steady himself.
Deep breaths.
He held his wand up and watched as he trembled. Bloody nerves. All he needed to do was be steady for a moment. Only a moment.
He felt the sensation of unnaturally open again. He would never find comfort in that twisted feeling.
Blood beaded on his skin. I need to scar. He willed the spell to cut deeper. With a start, he realised the feeling of tightness in his chest. His head began to hurt, and his breathing became irregular as he tried to focus on the task at hand.
Deeper.
He let the spell continue longer, the cold pale light of his magic slowly ripping at his skin, just to make sure. But, as the blood flowed from him, dark, warm and viscous, he became lightheaded.
That’s enough.
He pulled his wand back, staring down at his, now very red and warm, forearm. He could barely see his mark, now. The whole situation was achingly familar.
It wasn't until he took note of his severe lack of awareness and the need to manually focus his eyes (which was taking more and more effort) that he realised he may have cut too deep. It seemed he hadn’t been able to remain steady enough.
Draco knew that somewhere, in the back of his head, he was very, very alarmed. His arm stung unpleasantly and the feeling of unnatual openness was perhaps much worse to experience all over again than he expected. That, coupled with the fact that there was now blood on the floor, and a deafening ringing in his ears, told him that he had made a grave mistake. The edges of his vision were going black and fuzzy. He seemed incapable of reacting. Distantly, Draco heard a thud.
He blinked.
He couldn't keep his eyes open, though. At least, that was what it felt like. The world was suddenly much darker. He began to get warmer. His whole body vibrated, static spreading everywhere. His arm began to sting more. He continued to blink, some corner of his brain begging for him to percieve his surroundings.
Then, he vomited.
All at once, his vision returned to him. A rush of feeling came through his body. His heart had been hammering wildly against his chest and his breathing was rapid. My body was fighting to keep me alive.
"-You hear?! Never again, you fucking arse- "
Harry?
Draco had not been prepared for his voice. Or the volume of it.
"H-Harry?" He asked weakly, vision focusing on the figure of his bright green eyes.
"What the fuck were you thinking, Draco? What- " Harry's eyes met his, and it was as though time froze.
Draco felt like he could cry, but his head still felt fuzzy around the edges.
"What have you done?"
Draco couldn't help but feel the tears coming on. He looked down. His arm was no longer open, or red. What blood had poured out was gone. He could see a bright, angry pink line swelling across his mark. The magic of the mark worked to make itself as visible as it could, though it was less apparent than it had been before Draco cut himself. He felt a hand on his cheek, compelling him to look back up.
"Why?" Harry's voice was softer, now.
Draco tried to speak, but his brain would not allow him to find words. His chest ached something awful as his breath trembled.
Instead of words, some infantile, warbled, strangled sound escaped him instead. Harry brought his arms around him, holding Draco's head to his chest. Draco felt himself shudder.
"It's okay. You're okay, now. Everything is okay."