Fic: Heal Thyself

[nursedarry]

Title: Heal Thyself
Rating: R
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco
Summary: Harry seeks absolution...in the showers.
Warnings: Dub-con, emo Harry
Word Count: 775
Disclaimer: Dammit, but they're not mine. They belong to JKR and WB and are also old enough to be doing what they're doing.
Author's Notes: Written for hp_kinkfest. Kink showcased in this is Scars/Tattoos — Harry being turned on by Draco's Dark Mark/Sectumsempra scar. Cheers to delphipsmith, literaryspell and noeon for the beta and encouragement. Also, for those of you want a story with a happier ending, *cough* cassie_black12 *cough*, I'll be posting my less-serious fic for this prompt in a fortnight.





He beat me today and won the game, so he's feeling relaxed, I guess, taking his time under the warm spray. I take mine too, admiring my handiwork, splayed across his chest like a spider's web.

Naturally, they‘re silver. But not like the silver of the Slytherin device — you’d never see this shade on a badge or a crest.

They're fluid, they move on their canvas — with their canvas — holding my eye and focusing my attention with their mutability.

They're beautiful.

I’m an artist.




Oh, of course they’re not beautiful; they’re horrible. This is my work, after all. Nothing I do ever comes out the way I intend it to.

I wasn’t even his first; another artist had had him before me.

Had had us both.

Bastard.




I bet he’s tried everything to get rid of them.

There won’t be a potion or balm he hasn’t experimented with or a Healer he hasn’t consulted with the intention of erasing my work. I might have saved him the effort — I could have told him there’s nothing in the medical arsenal that can wipe away a magically created mark.

Believe me, I know.




Would I take them back if I could? I might have two years ago.

Okay, actually, I’d forgotten about them — there were just so many other things to think about.

See? I can rationalise away someone else’s pain now. Dumbledore taught me many things.

Bastard.




I should have them back. My eyes fix on his scored chest.

He ignores me as I watch the soap slide over the silver and across the shadow of the past on his forearm. Is he rubbing or scrubbing? Hoping that the school-issue soap will have some magical property not found in any of the other would-be cures?




Has he tried saliva?

I have. It doesn’t work.

Anthony didn’t do it on purpose. I think he was aiming for my eyelid but I turned at the same moment and he kissed my forehead instead. It felt odd, but good — finally a gentle touch on abused nerves. I remember he was so upset, thinking he'd hurt or embarrassed me. I assured him that I was fine.

I was more than fine.

The next morning my scar looked the same, but I felt a lot better. The end of my fourth year is just a fuzzy memory now. I guess I can thank Anthony for that. Or the DA. Even Umbridge gave me something else to focus on.

I think he might need that now.




“Potter, what in Merlin’s —” He doesn’t have a chance to finish the sentence. My forearm pins him against the tiled wall; I know it won’t hold him long. I snake my hand between our slippery bodies and grab his testicles. That keeps him rooted, eyes widening in anger but then veiling against the water splashing off my back and spraying in our faces.

“Potter, get your hands off me,” he growls. How have I deigned to touch him, he’ll be thinking. Hasn’t he been humiliated enough at my hands?




That’s not my intention.

Squeezing him until he squeaks, I lower my head, pressing my face against his chest. I can feel them under my cheek, smooth skin interrupted by jagged creases — my rough signature etched into an even parchment.

“Have you lost your mind, Potter?” he spits, stopping his struggling to spare his genitals. “You’re crazy.”

“Probably right,” I say in agreement. I’m certainly headed there if I think this is a good idea.




I test his submissive posture and raise my head to look at his face while I withdraw my arm from his throat. He immediately tries to twist away and I slam him back against the wall. “Potter, what in the gods’ names is wrong with you?” His eyes dart around, searching for something. Escape? Or perhaps an audience. There is neither.

I replace my forearm, this time pressing more gently. My hand releases his balls to wrap around his flaccid cock.

“Potter!” he snarls and glares at me. I lean in to press my lips against his chest and my —

Mine.




Hands and mouth do some of my better work and he no longer struggles. But he looks stunned — just like the last time we stood together amidst the tiles and running water.

He finds his voice once more before the end.

“Why, Potter?” he pants. Then he closes his eyes.




There.

He’ll wear them forever, but I’ve done what I can to return those marks to my wand, to a page in a book.

My old self ebbs away like the trails of semen flowing down the drain beneath our feet.

Comments

[nursedarry.livejournal.com]

A little dark, but mmmm... they manage to get it together, eh? Thank you so much for reading!