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She’s staring.
She shouldn’t, but she does.
And she knows others are, too.
At least from the corner of their eyes, where they don’t think he’ll notice their looks. But she can tell he does from the way his brow twitches and his gaze flickers as if he wants to catch them staring, but is too scared of what he’ll find in their eyes.
It’s the same way she feels when she bares the Mudblood on her arm in a short-sleeve tee or an accidental roll of her sleeves. She knows they’re staring. It’s like every pore in her body is absorbing their judgement. It tingles her arm, it burns her throat. Because there’s so many questions in those looks.
How and why and who and when and does it hurt and can I touch. Sometimes she wished they’d just say something rather than curl their mouth to the side or grimace in pity.
But when he looks, there’s no questions.
He knows how and he knows why and he knows when and he knows that it hurts if the shower is too hot or if the bottom of the curved s that still hasn’t healed snags on her jumper. He knows because he has them too.
His are bigger, broader. Like him. They’re thick lines of stretched skin that curve around the planes of his chest and curl and twist in patterns down the soft flesh of his stomach. They look like shiny pink, almost silver vines. They’re a violent reminder to Harry, who always excuses himself from the pond when he sees him with his shirt off. The only time he had used his magic for evil.
She can tell he bares them on purpose. No one would even think to question him if he wore a swim shirt. She knows he’s counting how long he’s lasted so far before breaking and wrapping a towel around himself. She does it too. On exceptionally hot days she’ll spend hours in front of the mirror in her short-sleeved regulation uniform telling herself that these scars are a part of her now and it shouldn’t matter how many people twitch their lips or grimace when they see her. So far she’s made it all the way to after lunch before tugging on a cardigan. Small successes. She hopes to make it to dinner by the end of the month.
While she does it to prove something to herself, it seems he does it to prove something to other people. Perhaps he thinks if he shows how truly mutilated his torso is, others will consider that his penance. Perhaps he thinks it’s his penance.
Of course, they’re not the only ones with scars. Harry has one on his forehead, for one. Ron has one that runs around his ankle from the chess game in first year. Even Ginny has a small cut that splits through one eyebrow. But his scars? They’re the biggest. The ugliest.
But not to Hermione.
His are beautiful to her. Even when Harry leaves, Hermione stays behind. She watches as he floats belly up in the lake with his friends, letting the sun lick the jagged lines on his torso. They’re so shiny they almost sparkle. Hermione’s scar doesn’t look like that, she knows. She spent so much time ignoring it, letting it scab and infect, then having Madam Pomfrey debride the tissue, only to ignore it all over again. Hers are an angry red, flat against her skin. Constantly inflamed, constantly itching.
She wants to know what his feel like under her fingers. For being so raised, they look smooth. Almost soft. She wants to close her eyes and let her hands trail over the skin like reading braille. She wants to kiss them. She wants to know if the skin will be hot under her lips. She wants to run her tongue around the outline of them.
In the water, girls are careful to not let their eyes wander to his chest. They mostly converse with Blaise and Theo who are not marred in any way, physically or emotionally, from the war. (Maybe that’s why she finds his scars so beautiful. Because he wears his emotional scars physically.) Before, he was never shy around girls. Now he crosses an arm over his chest to rub his other shoulder, shielding the wounds from their view.
It makes her angry. He shouldn’t have to cover them for anyone. They don’t deserve to see such beauty if they can’t appreciate it fully.
She’s staring so hard she can feel her brows furrowing. He looks up suddenly, catching her eye. Instead of looking away, she carefully peels the light jacket from her shoulders and lets her forearm dangle. It’s been so hot, her arms have a small layer of sweat from where they were covered, making her scar glisten even more. His arm falls from his shoulder, exposing them again. She tried to give him a small, encouraging smile, but he’s not looking at her face. He’s looking at her arm. And frowning.
She’s been picking at it again. She expects another trip to Pomfrey soon, but she’s been putting it off. She resists the urge to cover them until he finally glances away. She hurriedly packs up her things and goes to find Harry, hoping one day someone will see her scars just as beautiful as she saw his.
There’s very few people in Advanced Potions for 8th years. They’ve had to overlap classes dramatically to accommodate an entire extra year of students. Harry and Ron opted to attend Defense Against the Dark Arts in lieu of their decision to become aurors after graduation. Which leaves Hermione. And him.
There are a few other recognizable faces. Anthony Goldstein sleeps through each lecture but somehow passes his exams. Ritchie Coote is a diligent note taker but has yet to complete a potion without it exploding. The class is often silent and since the students are so sparse, they rarely work in pairs.
Until today.
“Can anyone tell me what dittany-- yes, Miss. Granger?” Slughorn sighs when Hermione’s hand shoots into the air prematurely. There are many things even a war can’t change.
“According to One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, dittany is a powerful healing herb that when ingested can heal fresh wounds.”
“Yes, Miss. Granger, correct. However, the question I was going to ask was what dittany is used for in potion making. Please at least attempt to restrain yourself next time before I can finish, yes?”
Hermione blushed. Goldstein, who has for some reason forgone his nap today, snickers off to the side. Even Coote coughs into his hand to hide a laugh. Hermione dares a peek to her right to see if perhaps he has anything to say about it. A smirk or a roll of his eyes for her know-it-all antics. But instead, he’s scowling at the two boys with his own hand in the air.
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?”
“Dittany is used for Essence of Dittany. It’s a rare potion to acquire since it takes precision and constant attention, but if harnessed correctly can remove even the worst scars.”
His eyes flicker slightly to the left as if instinctually going to face her, but remembers himself at the last minute and keeps his gaze forward. Like the Essence of Dittany, hearing his voice is rare. Before, he was eccentric. The center of attention, always. Now, even in a group of friends, he was silent. But it was smooth and deep and sounded confident, even if he didn’t look it. The sound made her shiver and goosebumps to rise around the scar on her arm.
“Too right you are, Mr. Malfoy. 10 points to Slytherin. As you said, this potion is rare and requires exceptional attentiveness. Because of this, I’ll be pairing you into groups. Let’s see…”
Hermione’s heart leapt under her tongue. Maybe he would pair them together. Maybe she could use this as an opportunity to strike up a conversation with him about… something.
“Miss. Granger and Mr. Coote--”
Hermione’s heart joined the rest of her organs in the pit of her stomach. Not only was there now a lost chance of proximity, but her potion was hopeless with him as her partner.
He was eventually paired with Goldstein who was instructed by Draco to sit and twiddle his thumbs while he worked on the potion. Goldstein had no objections. Hermione, in the interest of fairness, asked Coote politely to finely chop the ginger root while she prepped the rest of the potion. But while she was in the cabinet grabbing an extra clove of moly, which is used to counteract any magic that could be imbedded in the wounds, he had added them to the mixture prematurely and Hermione was greeted by a thick, molasses-like sludge in their cauldron.
After a promise to Slughorn to scrub the cauldron clean and complete 60 inches of parchment on the magical properties of dittany to receive credit for the day, Hermione watched Malfoy work.
Goldstein, with his head rested on his fist, “read” a column in Play Wizards Daily while the cauldron smoke billowed around Draco’s face as he bent over to work, one hand stirring the mixture in careful clockwise motions and the other gently supporting the potions textbook. His face was pink and flushed with the heat of the potion and a small bead of sweat made his fine hair cling to his head near his ear. His left eye twitched when he was concentrating, she noticed. She wondered if it always did that.
This potion was important to him, she realized. He was trying to perfect it, not just for the grade, but what? Her breath caught. Was he trying to make it for himself? Was he trying to remove the scars on his chest? Her heart began to beat furiously thinking of a new Draco with a smooth torso. Laying out in the lake with flawless skin. Would it be selfish to knock the cauldron over when he wasn’t looking? Perhaps she could casually bump into his arm as he was stirring. Maybe she could--
“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Goldstein! Well done, my boys, well done!” Anthony preened under Slughorn’s praise and Hermione resisted the urge to alert the professor to the magazine carefully tucked into his textbook. But what stopped her, was his smile. His smile. Had he ever smiled before? It was gorgeous. Maybe more gorgeous than the scars on his chest.
Hermione watched Slughorn bottle the essence into small glass tubes and hand two to the students while the rest of the class gave small hums of congratulations. And he hadn’t stopped smiling, not once.
And Hermione realized that even if now she’d never get to touch his scars, at least she’d be able to see that smile.
The next morning was a Saturday and while the 8th years would usually meet down by the lake, it was much too rainey and cold to swim. Scottish weather was rather unforgiving.
As she piled scrambled eggs and jammed toast onto her plate she wondered if Draco was disappointed he wouldn’t be able to show off his new chest. She wondered if after class he immediately ran to his dorm to apply it. She knew it would take at least a few hours of soaking to heal the extent of his scarring.
She was excited for him, she really was. It’s not like she was emotionally attached to his scars or anything, she just thought they were beautiful. And it wasn’t her body, after all. Though she couldn’t help the slight disappointment that tickled her throat. She wanted to touch them. Just once.
The hall windows cracked open to allow the mail owls to fly through, dropping packages and letters to their assigned students. Harry’s new owl, Tybalt, snuck a nibble of her toast crust before Hermione shooed him away. Pig left Ron a package of sweets from this mother with an order to share with Ginny, which everyone knew would fall on deaf ears. Hermione was accustomed to having no mail. If Mrs. Weasley wanted to send anything, she would do it through Ron or Ginny. Her parents were still in Australia until Hermione could graduate and dedicate time to restoring their memories. Beyond that, no one was sending her correspondence.
But a small package fell into her mountain of eggs. It was beautifully wrapped, almost like a present one would bestow upon the queen of England. A silk bow perfectly tied to encase it.
Hermione brushed the remnants of her breakfast off the package before carefully untying the bow. When she lifted the top of the box, her heart stopped. Quite literally, in her chest, ceased to beat.
A vial with a creamy white liquid laid in a bed of cotton to protect it. There was no note, but it didn’t need one. She had overheard Goldstein mention to Slughorn he would be sending his vial to his mother who had suffered a nasty leg injury in the battle.
Her eyes flickered up and down the Slytherin table until she met eyes with him. And for the first time, he was looking at her first. And he was smiling. The same smile he had in class just yesterday. And it burned right through her.
She clutched the vial in her hand until her knuckles were white. She could tell her cheeks were flaming by how hot her face felt. And slowly the smile fell from his face, replaced with confusion.
Vial in hand, she sprinted from the hall.
It was rude, that’s what it was.
Who said she wanted to get rid of her scar?
Did it bother him to see it so much he slaved away at a potion so that he wouldn’t have to look at it again?
Was it really that disgusting?
“Granger!”
He had been following her since she barged out of the hall, calling her name as he tried to catch up to her. She ignored him. She was going to dump the stupid fucking vial into the lake and he could watch all of his hardwork go with it if he wanted to.
“Granger!”
What an absolute twat, that’s what he was.
How could she ever think he’d change? He was just as obsessed with looks as always. First it was her hair, then her teeth, now it was an ugly scar on her arm.
She let her feet carry her faster through the halls, the sound of her footsteps echoing with his.
“Granger, please stop.”
She scoffed, the sound of him asking anything nicely sounding forgeign to her and her steps faulted only for a moment. “Fuck you, Malf--”
But that was enough for him to catch up to her and tug her into a vacant alcove.
He was panting from the exertion of keeping up, his chest heaving and his cheeks rosy. It was absolutely annoying how good he looked.
“What is your problem?” He narrowed his eyes at her and Hermione was acutely aware of how big his hands were as they encircled her shoulders.
“ I don’t have a problem.”
This time, it was him that scoffed. “Obviously you do. You ran out of the hall like I sent you a horcrux or something--”
“No, because see, that would actually be a helpful gift--”
His hands tightened around her upper arm. “I was trying to be nice--”
“Nice?”
“Yes! I worked really bloody hard on that potion, Granger. For you--”
“Well, did you ever consider I didn’t want it?”
She didn’t want her lower lip to tremble, but it did. She didn’t want her eyes to burn, but they did. His own lips parted as he blinked down at her. If it was any other time, she would be distracted by how tall and broad he was this close to her. Or the warmth that radiated off his body.
“Huh?”
She snorted, pushing his chest lightly to give her arm enough room to come up and wipe her eyes.
“I know my scar-- I know it’s ugly, okay? I know. I pick at it and I won’t let it heal properly and… but it’s me. It’s still me.”
She sniffled loudly and Draco’s grip softened on her arm. “I didn’t-- that’s not why I--”
“I know. It’s awful to look at. I know no one wants to see it. Gods, some days I don’t either. But I… I didn’t think you’d hate them that much. I thought you’d understand.”
His head was shaking rapidly now, completely caught off guard by the sobbing girl beneath him. “I don’t-- I don’t--”
“Just let me go, Malfoy. You can have your potion back.” Hermione gently tugged his hands off her arm until they fell limply at his side. His eyes were wild and flickering back and forth between hers, his mouth opening and closing as if trying to find the right words. Hermione lifted her chin on one last sniffle. “Just because mine don’t look like yours doesn't mean I’m not proud of them. I am. I survived Bellatrix. Not Harry, not Ron, not anyone. Me. I survived the curse and I survived the knife. And I’m not going to get rid of the reminder, no matter how ugly it is to anyone. Especially you.”
She pushed past his shoulders and back into the hallway. She was only able to take one unsteady breath before she yelped as she was dragged back into the alcove.
“Malfoy--” she started to berate him, but was cut off by his firm tone.
“I don’t think your scar is ugly, first of all. I know how other people look at it because they look at mine the same way. But I don’t look at it like that. I was there. And it’s…” he sighed, letting his hands trail down her arms and cradle her elbows, his thumbs pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt where it covered her scar. He could definitely feel the new scabs through the material.
But then he met her eyes. Like the grey of the last of the ashes after a fire. “ Mine are ugly, Granger. Not just because they’re big and scary, but because of why they’re there. I deserve that reminder, you don’t. I’m sorry if you thought--If you think I sent you this because I think yours are ugly. I don’t, not at all.”
“You don’t?”
Draco shook his head, his eyes tightening at the edges. “No, I don’t. I think-- and don’t slap me-- but I think they’re beautiful, Granger. Really. It’s just another powerful thing about you. Like your wild hair,” he reached a hand to tug a curl that spilled over her shoulder. “Or your mouth,” he lifted his hand to swipe a thumb across her bottom lip, but then quickly pulled it away. “I sent you the potion-- I made you the potion so you’d have the choice to keep it or not. So you wouldn’t have to keep picking at it in class or going to Pomfrey to heal it again. I just…”
And Hermione understood at that moment. Maybe it was the tingling that his finger left on her bottom lip. Maybe it was the way his eyes begged her to understand or the way his thumb was still gently rubbing her wound. But she understood.
Because she had felt the same way when she thought he was using it on himself. He deserved the option to not have them, even if she thought they were wonderful.
“Show me.”
“Pardon?”
Hermione cleared her throat and straightened her shoulders. “Show me yours.”
For a moment he stood still, his brows furrowed as if processing her words. But then his face relaxed and a soft oh fell from his mouth and his hands released their hold on her arms.
“I…” if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, his cheeks were a touch more red than usual. “They’re worse up close… just to let you know.”
Hermione said nothing. Her heart was racing. She watched his fingers tremble just slightly as he popped the first three buttons of his shirt off before pausing.
“I won’t ask any questions,” she whispered, not able to take her eyes away from the few inches of skin that was now bare. “If that’s what you’re worried about. I won’t ask questions. I just want to see.”
Draco swallowed and nodded, continuing his undressing until his shirt was completely open in the front. He looked like a Roman statue, perfectly carved and contoured. She had spent so much time fixated on his scars she had overlooked the natural beauty of the lines of muscle that lay under them.
She didn’t ask to touch. Instead, she lifted a hand to the front of his shirt in a silent question and he nodded. The first touch of her palm to his chest caused his stomach to flex instinctively. It made the long scar that passed around his belly button tighten and Hermione couldn’t help but to run a thumb down to follow it. It felt everything like she imagined it would.
In the early stages of scaring, the skin is numb. The nerve endings are destroyed. As time passes, they begin to regenerate and the thinner flesh may be even more sensitive than the rest. Proven by hiss Draco emitted when she softly grazed a fingernail down the center of one think scar on his sternum.
She couldn’t stop touching, or looking. Until he gently caught her hands in his and brought them back down to her sides. Disappointment clawed at her, making her hands twitch desperately to find his chest again. She hadn’t yet memorized them.
When she thought he’d start to redress, she was surprised when he gently shrugged the shirt from his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Hermione couldn’t help but notice that he was letting an article of clothing that probably costs more than her entire wardrobe lay on the dirty floor of the alcove.
“Your turn.”
Hermione blinked up at him, trailing her eyes away from the now exposed broad shoulders and large forearms. “What?”
“I… I want to see you, too. I want to see it.”
Really, she could have just rolled up the sleeve of her shirt. Part of her knew that. But he was standing in front of her like some Greek God and she couldn’t help when her hands lifted the bottom of her own shirt over her head.
There was a moment of complete silence, in which Hermione had time to let all the feelings of shame and insecurity wash over her as she stood under his gaze. She hadn’t worn a bra, she didn’t need to. Her breasts were small and perky and now taunt with the cold of the hall. She could see the scar on her arm from the corner of her eye; red and swollen and ugly and--
“Beautiful,” she heard him breathe.
When she looked up at him, she noticed he wasn’t looking at just one spot. He was taking her all in. From the scar on her arm to the curve of her ribcage to the swell of her breasts to the curls that came over her shoulder to her lips to, finally, meet her eyes.
“You think?”
His lips twitched, “I know.”
“Even this?” Hermione tilted her chin towards her arm and her heart stuttered as one large hand circled her wrist to bring it closer to his face. “Especially this.”
He kissed the scar gently, almost a ghost of a touch against the skin. But it burned through her arm and down into her core. She used the hand nearest to his face to grasp the back of his neck and pull him forward into a kiss.
Their chests were flush against one another. Hermione could feel the jagged curves of the scars around his stomach grazing against her pebbled nipples and she moaned, tugging his bottom lip into her mouth to suck gently on it.
She felt a hand skimming the bottom of her skirt and let her thighs open wider in permission. She felt his groan reverberating in her mouth through their kiss and he stroked the now completely soaked through front of her cotton panties. She whimpered and rolled her hips to push his hand closer to his hand and he detached his lips from hers with a laugh.
“Impatient witch.”
Hermione didn’t answer. Instead, she moved her lips to attach to a thick band of scarring over his pectoral muscle and sucked fiercely. Draco hissed and plunged a hand into her hair, pulling her head back.
“Sensitive.” he warned her, using the fist of her hair to guide her back to his mouth.
Hermione reached down to palm his length through his trousers and he moaned.
“Here, too?” she whispered.
Draco hummed against her lips. “More-so.”
The fingers under her skirt were doing wonderful, sinful movements around the hand of her underwear. Hermione was practically squirming against the wall, wiggling her lips violently to find some sort of friction against her aching core.
Impatient, she pushed his hands to the side and gripped his belt, unbuckling and pulling it from the waist of his slacks. She hurriedly unbuttoned and unzipped him before plunging a hand into the opening. Now he was the one who whimpered, unconsciously thrusting forward into her palm.
Hermione swiped a thumb over the tip to gather moisture. Once, then twice before he was practically fucking into her hand.
“Now who’s impatient?”
Draco narrowed his eyes, ripping her hand from his pants before pushing her back against the wall and thrusting his knee between her thighs until it made contact with her heat. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, her eyelashes fluttering as she rode against his knee.
He leaned forward, tucking an earlobe between his teeth. “Still you.”
They were panting harshly. Each intake of breath pushing their chests together. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”
The next kiss was soft. Almost tender. Their rutting paused for the moment of pure affection where they both trailed their hands against each other’s scars. Letting each other know they were bared to the other in more ways than one.
And then the moment was over, overtaken by hurried hands and breathless kisses as they each pulled apart the remainder of each other’s clothing. Draco hiked her leg around his waist and furrowed his brows at the small, white scar that winded around her knee.
“What happened here?”
Hermione licked her dry lips. “I feel off my bike when I was little. I have another one on my food.”
“You’re just a mess, aren’t you, Granger?”
And for some reason, that made warmth spread through her. Maybe it was the way he smiled when he said it. Maybe it was the softness in his eyes. Maybe it was the way he was stroking her knee. But it was the most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her.
“You’re one to talk,” she whispered, pressing her palm against the biggest of the scars on his chest.
“I guess we like each other messy.”
She laughed, opened her mouth to retort, but was cut off with a loud moan when suddenly his cock was plunging into her, throwing her back against the wall. He quickly covered her mouth with his hand, but his eyes twinkled. “We’re still in the halls, Granger. And breakfast is almost through. Can you stay quiet for me?”
Her eyes were closed tightly now, her cunt pulsing around the delightful intrusion, and she nodded under his hand. He pulled it away from her mouth and Hermione let out a small, whispered moan as he began to move inside her.
He was thick and strong all over, stretching her deliciously. He was merciless in his thrusts. She had to stand on the tops of her toes to reach him. He was babbling quietly in her ear. Soft sighs of so good, so beautiful, so fucking tight.
She wasn’t in any better of a state herself. One hand clawed around his neck and fisting the fine hairs while the other scratched against his chest, feeling the scars ripple and stretch under her fingers. It was overwhelming and wonderful and God if he did that again she was going to--
“ Draco--” she whimpered, biting down against his shoulder as her orgasm flooded through her. But he was relentless, pounding into her all the while, even as her inner muscles constricted to keep him in place.
He swore under his breath, took the lord’s name in vain, chanted her name like a prayer, until he finally followed her down, her name on his lips.
The sun was shining when they finally slipped out from the alcove. They could hear students chattering and making their way towards the lake. Draco and Hermione followed, hand in hand, a vial of dittany laying forgotten on the ground.