Into the Midst

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Chapter Snippet:

She cleared her throat, caught out. "I just can't believe anyone would take a brand like that."

Draco continued his preparations. He sensed where this conversation would land, and wanted to steer away from the inevitable. But Granger didn't play by his rules.

"You'd prefer I was dead then," he said, hoping it caused her even a brief moment's hesitation. Though, he'd wished her dead plenty of times. Fairness entailed she did the same.

"Aren't you always prattling on about how important you are? He wouldn't have killed the son of his financier."

"Father was in Azkaban at the time," Draco said, running his thumb gently over the knife's edge to test the blade. "If he killed me, resources would have gone to Mother."

"I just think he wouldn't have killed you. He would've hurt you, certainly. But—"

"One scar and suddenly you're an expert in pain?"

Given her huff, that wasn't the proper response. A nagging little voice told him that he hadn't told Granger what all had been done to him, and that Harry wouldn't have either, but he easily buried that down. Bellatrix spent two minutes at most cutting Granger's arm.

Draco spent two years being tortured daily. She didn't know pain. She couldn't fathom it.

"Have a monopoly on suffering, do you?"

"Something to say?"

She cleared her throat, caught out. "I just can't believe anyone would take a brand like that."

Draco continued his preparations. He sensed where this conversation would land, and wanted to steer away from the inevitable. But Granger didn't play by his rules.

"You'd prefer I was dead then," he said, hoping it caused her even a brief moment's hesitation. He'd wished her dead plenty of times. Fairness entailed she did the same.

"Aren't you always prattling on about how important you are? He wouldn't have killed the son of his financier."

"Father was in Azkaban at the time," Draco said, running his thumb gently over the knife's edge to test the blade. "If he killed me, resources would have gone to Mother."

"I just think he wouldn't have killed you. He would've hurt you, certainly. But—"

"One scar and suddenly you're an expert in pain?"

Given her huff, that wasn't the proper response. A nagging little voice told him that he hadn't told Granger what all had been done to him, and that Harry wouldn't have either, but he easily buried that down. Bellatrix spent two minutes at most cutting Granger's arm.

Draco spent two years being tortured daily. She didn't know pain. She couldn't fathom it.

"Have a monopoly on suffering, do you?"

"No more than yours on self-righteousness."

The cauldron rattled against the table when Granger slammed her palms into it. "You wouldn't change a thing, You'd still take his mark. You'd still help him kill Dumbledore."

"There's no sense in you lecturing me while I'm working."

She abandoned the pretense of working, spinning to face him. Draco, however, continued to organize the workbench, refusing to surrender to her anger.

"Harry deserves better than you."

Draco considered this while checking on the quality of the Knotgrass. He held one up to check how the light refracted off of it.

Read here! "Mate," Weasley tried, "It's a good idea."

Harry shifted until his hip touched Draco's.

Then it was Granger's turn, only she stopped speaking to Harry, and faced Draco straight on. "Are you actually going to hide while Harry does your fighting?"

He still hadn't traced the conversation to this point, and fumbled for an answer. He didn't manage before Harry spoke for him. "You think I'll keep a level head if I know he's within his reach?"

Granger didn't back down. "You'll keep a level head breaking into Gringotts with Ron and me. I expect you to remember we're at war."

Harry stared at Draco, and something in his gaze sent prickles down Draco's back. It had been some time since he'd gotten that level of intense scrutiny from Harry.

"We'll need the cloak at Gringotts," Harry said at length.

"There are other invisibility cloaks."

"None like mine."

"You can't let him see," Draco said. "Don't put this on him."

The scars were Draco's doing, not Harry's. But Harry's infuriating goodness would take hold of the blame. Harry wouldn't be able to let go or forgive himself. Harry couldn't die knowing he'd left Draco marked like this, in some ways, worse than Voldemort's mark. 

Harry's expression crumbled the moment he entered the kitchen. He rushed to Draco, taking his face in his hands, horrified eyes flickering up and down the scars. 

"What is this?"

"What curse did you use on him?" Bill asked, too calm in light of Harry's panic. 

"You're saying I did this?" Harry caught on. "This wasn't him?"

"It's not—" Draco began, at the same time Bill said, "The silver is cosmetic, just bound to your curse."

When Harry moved to touch one of the scars, Draco grabbed his hand to pull it away. Harry didn't need this on him. It was an errant, silly thought; the curse wasn't contagious. But Harry was good and Draco was not, and this only revealed that divide. 

"Harry?" Bill prompted.

"Sectumsempra," Harry said, breathless, unable to look away from the damage he falsely believed he'd caused.