Draco's Cracked Mask

**WARNING** Still anger, angst, and preslash. Yes, it leads up to the next chapter, which I have finished and will upload tomorrow.

Author's note--Hi all. You have ScorpioPhoenix to thank for this chapter. I had left off of writing this chapter a while ago. My emotional turmoil passed, and so I couldn't finish Chapter 4 to post until I was sad or angry again. That's not to say that I haven't gotten mad since then (I have) but not to the emotional, gutteral level that is needed to write in a venting manner.

Apologies, but here it is. Thank you, ScorpioPhoenix! I read Bitter (which is AMAZING and HOT and HEARTBREAKING at least to me) because the chapters that Draco loved Harry but didn't know if Harry would come back to him got me and left me needing to release back into this fic.

The good news is that it got me to finish Chapter 4 AND 5. I also want to thank Slytherine for weathering my mini-breakdown and sunset20, who I always think about whenever I'm feeling angsty.
**********



I’m still sitting at the breakfast table, right where you left me, except that I’m almost at the end of the paper now, instead of the beginning. I can still feel the kiss, full of promises and…something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but as my mind reaches full consciousness (the coffee REALLY helps with that) I realize that your smile didn’t quite meet your eyes today. I hear the Floo activate, and my forehead wrinkles. You’re not supposed to be back for another few hours, so I push back from my chair. I hear a familiar voice calling my name frantically, even if I can’t put my finger on who it belongs to. I push open the door to the study where the Floo is and stop short.

Remus Lupin is standing in front of my fireplace. He didn’t even bother to brush the dirt from his robes as he disturbed the peaceful silence of my house, calling for me. He and I are not enemies but nor are we friends. He is a werewolf, which makes me uneasy, but Harry counts him among his most trusted friends, which means I tolerate him for my black-haired lover’s sake. I would never admit this to Lupin, but I respect him. He always seems to know what to do, and while he may not have my suave, seductive charm, he commands in his way as I do in mine. I respect his ability to lead. He is also very protective of Harry, of which I approve, because so am I. I know my protective streak drives Harry nutters because of what we mean to each other. I envy that Lupin calls him his ‘cub’ and that he’s much more of a ‘father figure’ to Harry than my own father has ever been to me. Harry deserves that, though, and I am grateful to Lupin as well.

But right now, he looks worried sick. I’m guessing it’s about Harry, because Remus and I do not ‘chat’. I arch one eyebrow, keeping my mask in place even as my pulse quickens.

“Lupin? What do you want?” I try to keep my voice somewhere between bored and disdainful. If nothing else, my condescending tone might piss him off, and then he’ll leave. No such luck.

“Draco. Where is Harry?”

“He had an appointment at the Ministry. Why?” Suspicion creeps into my voice. I don’t volunteer any information. Remus sighed, inviting himself to sit down in my study, leaning forward and putting his head in his hands. “If you’re going to stay awhile, I can have a house-elf bring you some tea or coffee,” I offer. Unusual, perhaps, but I am a Malfoy, after all; I have not forgotten my etiquette training. I snap my fingers, and Dobby appears. Upon seeing Lupin, the little thing squeaked, rushing to hug the werewolf’s knees. He associates Lupin with Harry, and Dobby could be the president of my boyfriend’s fan club. Since Harry moved into the Manor with me right after my father was arrested, Dobby came with, very nervous about being back, but he trusted Harry. Everyone trusts Harry.

I order Dobby to bring Remus a tea tray, and he pops away with only a little bit of chatter, after I give him my best ‘Malfoy Dragon Glare’ that melts any recipient, except for my fire-proof, dragon-tamer boyfriend. (Okay, so he’s not a dragon-tamer by profession, but he tamed THIS dragon.) I turn my ‘Malfoy Dragon Glare’ on the werewolf, ordering him to tell me what the meaning of his intrusion into my home is.

“I hoped he wouldn’t do it,” Remus whispered. I am confused.

“What are you talking about?”

“He went to Azkaban,” the werewolf looks up at me. I am frowning at him. He sighs again. “He went to deal with your father.” Remus looked at me and then away, like he didn’t want to tell me. I can understand why; I’m not a very pleasant person when I get angry. But I wasn’t angry…yet.

“Why?” I have a very good idea of why, and it scares me. Harry is dearer to me than anything in this world, and my father has an uncanny way of tearing my happiness apart for his own amusement. As long as Harry was here, with me, and my father was THERE, I know nothing bad could happen to my lover. But now…the thought of that bastard being anywhere near my wonderful boyfriend makes me sick.

“He has…unfinished business with Lucius,” Remus dodged. I could tell it was an attempt to tell me something without telling me anything. Dobby came back just then, and at the mention of my father, the house-elf began trembling and rattled the tray so badly that Remus reached out quickly and took it from him. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a house-elf leave faster. My father really did a number on Dobby.

“Remus, don’t try to be a Slytherin,” I spit out. “It’s unbecoming, and you are oh-so-very NOT Slytherin. What’s going on?” Remus Lupin is not an Auror, but he’s the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. Considering he’s a werewolf, they couldn’t have picked a better man; not that I ever would’ve admitted that to his face, of course. His wife, my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, IS an Auror, though—and a senior one at that—so he stays well informed about all Ministry operations.

“Tonks heard from Shacklebolt that Harry asked for one hour with your father as payment or reward or whatever for being the Savior of the Wizarding World,” Remus broke down. “I don’t even want to think about what he’s doing or why he’s there.”

And then I knew. I’m not stupid or blind. I see his face whenever I wake up from a nightmare, screaming and soaked in sweat. I can practically feel his anger if I don’t want him to touch me because the memories are too strong. I hate my father for everything he’s done to me, and yet…I don’t hate him because I just want him to love me. But he’s not capable of love, apparently. He’s proven THAT enough times over the years. You’d think I’d learn after awhile. But I guess I never truly stopped hoping. Until the Dark Mark…well, after that, I never saw him again, since they put him in Azkaban.

My father deserves to die. I know this. And yet, I’m suddenly terrified for him. And for Harry too, but I guess I’m more afraid for my father, since I know Harry’s capable of taking care of himself. He’s younger, stronger, still has a wand…he’s fucking Harry Potter. He’s like…a god. Invincible. And just when I think that, my subconscious deals me another blow, and I realize that he’s human, just like the rest of us. He could die at any time, and I guess it’s just sheer dumb luck that he hasn’t. My father might very well kill him; he has a knack for that sort of thing.

I jump to my feet and announce that I’m going to go get dressed. I request that Lupin wait, and on my way up to my bedroom, I passed Dobby, who was hovering in the doorway, still shaking. It struck me as ironic, actually. My father terrorized the house-elf, and Dobby has the sense to be afraid of him and not want anything to do with him. My father did worse things to me, and all I can think about is the fact that my boyfriend is probably going to seriously maim or kill him. Does that mean I don’t want it to happen? I don’t really have a desire to see my father again, but do I really want him dead?

I grabbed a pair of pants and then turn to look for a shirt. Damn, we must have forgotten to do the laundry again. I reach into the press and pull out the bottom one. As I unfold it, I realize that it’s unwearable. It’s one of the shirts that I couldn’t get off fast enough before my father brought the whip up. It hurts worse when there is cloth sticking to your bleeding and torn flesh, but if I couldn’t get my shirt off in time, then he would make me leave it on until my back was dry. Sometimes, if he were feeling merciful, he would rip it off all at once, opening my back up again, smiling as I screamed with fresh pain. If he was feeling particularly cruel—or if I had done something extra horrendous—then he might peel it off slowly, dragging the pain out over a period of time. Of course, my mother repaired the shirt. But my father made her leave the blood stains to remind me. I thought I had gotten rid of all of the reminders, but I guess not.

Against my will, perversely, I slip it on. Of course, the front is completely clean. I look at myself in the mirror; sharp black pants, neatly tucked white button-down shirt, black belt, black shoes, perfectly arranged blonde hair. And then I turn around, and all of the angry red stripes and blotches stare back at me. I can almost hear my screaming; all the while, my father is yelling at me to ‘be a man’ and to ‘wear the mask’. It’s fucking irony, you know. He tells me that he doesn’t want me to react, and then he hurts me until I do. I can’t win with him. I’m glad he’s dead.

That brings me back to the present. I grab a matching suit jacket, and no one knows any differently. I head back downstairs, where Lupin is on his second cup of tea. I tell him that I want to go to Azkaban. Lupin gets this look on his face, and I know that I’ll have to do some fast talking in order to make it happen. I’m not Harry Potter, after all.

“Remus, don’t look at me like that,” I say. “I don’t care about seeing my father. I just…I need to know what’s happening. Please?”

And then I know that he’ll do it. He nods, but he warns me that he’s not happy about this. And of course, Shacklebolt won’t be too pleased either. I tell him not to worry too much about Shacklebolt. It’s nothing that a few thousand Galleons can’t take care of, after all. And it’s not like we’re poor, Harry and I. I’m a Malfoy, for fuck’s sake, and he has the combined fortunes of Black and Potter. We’re set for a few lifetimes.

We Floo to the Ministry, and that’s when I realized that I took more time getting dressed than I meant to. It takes Lupin about twenty minutes to pull some strings with my quirky cousin, but Shacklebolt is heading back to Azkaban anyway…to pick Harry up. It’s almost over. My insides knot up as we proceed to the secure departure point. I missed it. Whatever’s happening there right now, I can’t stop it or change it. All I can do is pray that the right man walks out of the room alive.

We get to the room, and Shacklebolt points to the door, informing me that Harry is on the other side of it with my father. Well, duh, Kingsley. Thank you very much. This is a room with two doors, and we just came through one. Maybe I’ll only give him a few hundred Galleons, just for being obvious. And then he announces in a tense voice that Harry should be coming out any minute. And then the time limit is up, and Harry doesn’t open the door. Shacklebolt starts to get angry, Remus looks grimmer and grimmer, and me…I’m so tense, I would probably snap if one of them popped their knuckles too loudly. Of course, we can’t hear anything of what’s going on in the other room. It’s just the agonizing wait.

I start to wonder that maybe Harry won’t come out. Maybe he’s lying in there, in a pool of blood, while I’m standing out here with Kingsley, who is mad at him. I’m about to work myself into a fairly good panic when the door opens. My heart freezes. I freeze. I can’t think; I can’t move. But it’s him. It’s Harry. Not my father. Harry. Harry is okay. I said the first thing that popped into my mind.

“What did you do?” It came out in a low voice, because to speak any louder would be sacrilegious. He looks terrified, and then I finally notice the condition he’s in. His jeans are torn at the knee; they weren’t torn when he left this morning. His clothes have blood stains on them. Fresh blood stains. And then he goes to his knees, tears cutting paths down his cheeks as he stares up at me. I’ve never seen him look this terrified. He faced fucking Voldemort without flinching. I’m sure he faced my father without backing down. But now, as he looks at me, he’s more scared than ever, and I don’t know why.

“I’m…I’m sorry. Please forgive me…I did it for you…I love you…” he says, gasping for breaths between the words. More than anything, I just want him to stop looking like that. He’s my hero, and I terrify him.

“There’s nothing to forgive, Harry,” I say, falling to my knees and pulling him into my arms. He breaks into relieved sobs on my shoulder. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You were protecting me. I love you too.” Neither Shacklebolt nor Lupin dare to move. Of course they wouldn’t. Harry pulls back, looking at me sadly.

“I wasn’t going to,” he admits. “I wanted to, but then I couldn’t. But he was saying the most awful things”

“About me,” I finish for him. He nods. I shrug nonchalantly; wearing the mask, while inside, something hurts. That was my father for you. God, would he ever laugh to realize how much of a weakling I really am. That he could do anything and everything in the world to me—abuse me, degrade me, insult me, and throw me away—and even now, I still hoped he might have something good to say about me.

“You are worth loving, Draco,” Harry takes me by the shoulders, forcing me to look into his eyes. “I love you, and there is nothing you can do to change that. There is nothing anyone can do.” That’s when I realized what my father’s last words to Harry must have been; that I’m worthless and pathetic and unworthy. Figures.

“I love you too,” my mouth whispers automatically. I pull away from him and stand, and I can only imagine the stricken look on his face. I turn my back on him and let the jacket fall from my shoulders, revealing the bloody back of my shirt. He jumps to his feet.

“Bloody fuck, Draco! What happened?” He hisses, grabbing a corner of the shirt before he realizes that it’s dried blood, not fresh. I look at him over my shoulder, and he stares back at me in confusion, waiting for me to explain myself.

“Father had a limit as to how long he would wait before he would start whipping me,” I say, and I see his mouth tighten in anger. “Sometimes my fingers couldn’t work the buttons fast enough, and then he’d make me leave the shirt on and whip me through it. Mother would have them repaired, of course, but he made her leave the blood stains. It was the last clean shirt. We need to do laundry, Harry.” I turned around, tossing my jacket over one shoulder while I fingered his collar. Then I ran my hand down the front of his shirt, and my fingers picked up a couple of blood droplets. My father’s blood. My blood. My father’s blood is fresh, and my blood is dry. Because he hurt me in the past, but no longer. He was the one who hurt the most recently, though, and now, the only way he can hurt me is if I let him.

Harry blinked, and I could see the anger mounting on his face until my last sentence. It was so oddly out of place that he couldn’t help but laugh. It was like we were normal. Laundry is normal. But washing blood stains out of your clothes should never be normal, and it will never be normal for us. We will never be normal, because of who we were born to be.

“You killed him, right?” I blurt out suddenly. His laugh cuts off abruptly, and he nods, getting that ashamed look in his eye again. Sometimes he’s too Gryffindor for his own good. I reached out and grabbed him by the back of his neck, pulling his lips to mine in a crushing, powerful, not-gentle kiss. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “He deserved to die, and I can’t believe you love me enough to kill him.” We have a fucked up kind of love, I guess, because THAT can’t be normal. But you know what? I don’t care because it’s our love. If you don’t understand it, that’s okay because we do.

“I do love you, Draco,” he whispers back. “I love you so much.” I smiled and nodded, stepping away from him and putting my jacket back on.

“We’re ready to go,” I say to Shacklebolt and Lupin. Remus is standing there, shaking, with his eyes closed. I furrowed my brow, but he refused to look at anyone as we filed out. We got back to the Ministry, and Remus escorted us back to the Floo so that we could go home. He was silent, staring at the floor, never at us. He turned to leave when Harry grabbed his arm.

“Remus?” His voice was slightly above a whisper, and he sounded like a scared eleven year old again. I guess he was afraid that his ‘father figure’ was mad at him.

“Harry, you know I don’t want you to kill,” Lupin says, sounding older than I ever thought he could. “But right now, it’s more about the blood than anything else. We can talk about it when you’re not covered in blood, okay?” And then he pulls out of Harry’s grip and is gone. Oh yeah. Werewolf. They don’t do well with blood.

We Floo back home. Harry doesn’t seem too upset over Remus, just quiet. We both walk up to our bedroom to change. He kicks off his sneakers, unbuttons his shirt, pulls it off, and crumples it up, inside out. He stuffs it in the waste bin that’s beside the bed. He peels off his jeans, wincing as the fabric sticks to his cut knee. I didn’t see that he was hurt. He stuffs those in the bin too, and that’s when I make him sit on the bed in nothing but underwear and socks. There are small flecks of blood on his socks, even. I kneel in front of him with my wand out, and I cast a couple of Healing Charms, watching his flesh close up and smooth over. I peel both of his socks off, adding to the rubbish pile. His boxers don’t have any blood on them, though; those can stay.

I look up at him and smile tenderly. He smiles back, brushing one hand across my cheek. I notice a couple of red smudges on the side of his neck, and I make him turn his head so I can see better. Ah, my father’s blood, smeared there by my own fingertips when I pulled him in to kiss me. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by an intense hatred for my father. How dare his blood even THINK of marring my lover’s perfect skin. I push Harry’s knees apart, standing in between them as he sits on the edge of the bed. I forget that I just healed one, handling him roughly, but it doesn’t open up or anything. I reach up with one hand and take hold of his hair, pulling his head to his shoulder, exposing his neck to me. I attack those red smudges with a vengeance. My father is going to leave NO traces on Harry. That is MY job. I’m sure that my tongue scrubs the blood away in seconds, but I’m angry now.

Now, I suck his neck, pausing every so often to lick or bite just a little, but mostly I suck, hard, trying to break the blood vessels beneath the skin to mark him as mine. So that my father knows. So that everyone knows exactly who Harry Potter belongs to. He is MINE. He shivers as I take control. I can tell when he whimpers what feels good and what hurts too much. I try not to hurt him, but I know that I sucked a little too hard right before I let go. Nonetheless, I can sense his cock getting hard under his boxers. I push his head down, seeing another small smear of blood, but this time, I just lick it several times to make sure I get it all. I check the other side of his neck, but it’s clean. Now I tip his head back and kiss him full on the mouth, swiftly and harshly, promising raw, animalistic, angry sex.

His fingers find their way to the front of my shirt, and he starts at my collar, undoing the buttons as we kiss. He doesn’t stop at the bottom, though. Oh no. He unbuckles my belt and my pants; he unzips my fly, pushing my pants down. To my surprise, he pushes my underwear down with them so that my hard cock is bobbing against the hemline of my shirt. I delicately step out of my pants, pulling my socks off while I’m at it. So far, he hasn’t been particularly forceful; he was just letting me take the reins and be the dominant one. I put my hands on my hips and stare at him belligerently. He finally takes the hint and pushes my shirt off of my shoulders, tugging it down my arms. He sees the dried blood on the back, and his biceps clench. He’s holding my shirt in his lap, staring at it, his entire body rigid. He groups it into two handfuls, grits his teeth, and then there is a harsh tearing sound as he rips the fabric with pure strength.

“There,” he pants. “Now we won’t make that mistake again.” He wads it up and throws it in the bin with much more force than he threw his clothes. This is a catharsis. This is our final step towards healing. It’s not going to be pretty or easy; it’s going to be brutal and rough on both of us, but it’s necessary. He’s still breathing hard, and I can tell he’s afraid to touch me while he’s angry. He’s afraid he’ll hurt me. He’s afraid he’ll be like my father. I grab him by his hair and rip his head back, nearly giving him whiplash.

“I need you to do something that my father never would have dared to do,” I challenge him, and his green eyes flare.

“What?” He asks, his head tilted back.

“I need you to take me over your knee and spank me. Hard,” I tell him. “And then I want you to fuck me.” His eyes widened.

“I don’t want to hurt you—” he starts to say, but I cut him off with a glare.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” I snap, suddenly impatient. “But my father was fond of whips. He could stand back and inflict pain from a distance. The only time he got close was to beat me, but he never spanked me. Not over his knee. Make me scream for you. Make me beg for you. Then fucking pound me into the mattress like there’s no tomorrow. He would make me scream in pain; I want you to make me scream with pleasure. He always wanted me to be stoic, to wear the mask. I need you to break the mask, Harry. I need you to break me.”
**********

Author's note--Wow, what a time to write this, huh? Merry (fucking) Christmas to you! LOL Actually, I guess the next chapter would be a more appropriate Christmas/New Year's Eve present, since it has the actual sex in it. (Angry sex that leads to happiness...*sigh*)

Sorry it took so long, but responses to reviews! I haven't forgotten about you guys!

thrnbrooke--Thank you! True, but what he "should know" and what he does are two very different things. As you can see, it turned out well for him, but I do admit that I left it in a very angsty, uncertain place from the last chapter.

Snarry-lover--Welcome, and thank you for reviewing. Harry...in Azkaban? I couldn't do that to them!!! He's the Savior, after all. *sigh* It was one of those necessary evils that Kingsley is overlooking because he's Harry (and because it's Lucius and that bastard just needs to die!) Here is more, and I hope you come back for the good stuff in Chapter 5!

sunset20--Yes, I really do think of you every time I read an angsty fic or am upset. Thanks for your review! Alright, now that you've read the next chapter...*cringe* how different was it? It's a precursor to angry sex, but then it turns a bit happier at the end of the next chapter. I hope things are going well for you this Christmas!