Shattered Masks

Draco Malfoy had never been one to forgive a slight, least of all one that had nearly killed him. The curse Harry Potter had flung at him in the sixth-floor bathroom—Sectumsempra, the Dark Lord's own handiwork if the rumours were true—had left him sprawled in a pool of his own blood, sobbing like a child while Snape stitched him back together with incantations that burned worse than the cut. He had spent weeks in the hospital wing, then more weeks at the Manor under his mother's fretful care, all the while simmering with a cold, focused rage. Potter had not even been properly punished; Dumbledore had seen to that. The great Harry Potter, the Chosen One, could maim a fellow student and walk away with a few detentions. It was grotesque.

So yes, Draco wanted revenge. But he was not stupid. He knew the professors were watching him now, Snape with his knowing eyes, McGonagall with her feline suspicion. He could not hex Potter openly, nor arrange another cursed necklace. The infamy of that failure still stung. He needed something subtler, something that would strip Potter of his insufferable pride without leaving a mark, something that would make him flush and stammer in front of the whole school and leave Draco smirking from the shadows.

The idea came to him during a Charms lesson, when Flitwick was droning on about tickling charms. A memory surfaced from a long-ago summer: Pansy Parkinson shrieking with helpless laughter when Blaise had jabbed his fingers into her sides. Tickle torture was juvenile, beneath him, but the thought of Potter—stoic, heroic Potter—writhing and giggling like a fool in the middle of the Great Hall sent a thrill through him. It was perfect. Harmless, deniable, and deeply humiliating. He refined the plan: a subtle wandless tickling hex aimed at Potter's waist, a notoriously sensitive spot according to the wizarding anatomical texts he had skimmed in the library. The hex would only last a minute, but it would be enough. He would strike when the Gryffindor table was full, so everyone could witness the Boy Who Lived dissolving into undignified squeals.

He chose a Thursday. Dinner had just begun, the hall buzzing with chatter. Potter sat near the end of his table, flanked by Granger and Weasley, looking tired and hollow-eyed—he always looked tired these days, a fact Draco filed away with petty satisfaction. Draco took his place at the Slytherin table, angled so he could watch his target without direct line of sight. He waited until Potter took a sip of pumpkin juice, then, under cover of the table, he flicked his fingers and whispered the hex.

A shimmer of magic sped across the hall, invisible to all but Draco, and struck Potter in the left side of his waist.

What happened next was nothing like he expected.

Potter choked on his drink. His face, already pale, went deathly white. He didn't laugh. He didn't even smile. Instead, his whole body convulsed as if he'd been punched, and then a scream tore from his throat—raw, hoarse, the kind of sound you'd expect from a wounded animal. He clutched at his side, fingers digging into his robes, and to Draco's absolute horror, hot tears spilled down his cheeks. They weren't the reflexive tears of laughter; they were tears of pure, undiluted agony. He was sobbing, gasping, his mouth open in a silent shriek that couldn't find voice. His legs buckled, and he half-collapsed against the table, knocking over a goblet.

The hall fell silent. Granger was on her feet instantly, hands fluttering, shouting something. Weasley looked around murderously. Potter, meanwhile, was whimpering, a stream of broken words that Draco couldn't catch. And then, just before he wrenched away from Granger's grip and bolted out of the hall, his robes fell back from his waist, and Draco saw it—a dark, wet stain spreading on his white shirt, a stark red bloom that could only be blood.

Draco's stomach dropped. He sat frozen as the Gryffindors scrambled after Potter, as the whispers erupted around him. He had aimed a tickling hex. A simple, harmless hex. It should have made Potter giggle, not bleed and scream. What happened? He replayed the moment in his mind: the hex had struck Potter's waist, exactly where Draco had intended. But why would that...?

His earlier satisfaction curdled into something cold and sick. He hadn't wanted this. He'd wanted to humiliate Potter, not hurt him. And the blood—the blood was unmistakable. He saw it even now, staining his memory. He remembered the look on Potter's face: not just pain, but a terror so profound it had stripped away every mask. This wasn't about Draco's hex. Something was very, very wrong with Harry Potter.

He told himself it was none of his concern. Potter had enemies everywhere; perhaps a darker hex had been layered over Draco's own, some curse from a rival. Or perhaps the scar on his forehead was acting up again. Whatever it was, Potter would be fine. He always was.

But he couldn't stop thinking about it. The way Potter had ran, the way he'd clutched his side as if defending an old wound. The blood. The raw, hopeless sound of his weeping.

For days, Draco watched him. Potter returned to classes after a two-day absence, looking more haggard than ever. He avoided everyone's eyes and kept his arms wrapped tightly around his middle. At mealtimes, he barely ate. He flinched when anyone touched him. Once, in the corridor, a fourth-year Hufflepuff bumped into him by accident, and Potter recoiled so violently he nearly fell over. The rumor mill churned with speculation—a new Dark threat, a breakdown from chosen-one pressure, a tiff with Granger and Weasley. But Draco, with a growing certainty he didn't want, knew it was something else entirely.

If Potter was hurt—truly hurt—why didn't he go to Madam Pomfrey? That was the question that gnawed at Draco. The great martyr would rather suffer in silence, would rather bleed through his classes, than admit weakness. It was infuriating. It was also, a tiny, unwelcome voice whispered, something Draco understood.

The answer came two weeks later, on a wet Tuesday evening. Draco had been wandering the castle after curfew, using the Marauder's Map (confiscated months ago and kept as a trophy) to track Potter's movements. He'd noticed a pattern: every few nights, long after midnight, Potter would slip out of Gryffindor Tower and sequester himself in the disused girls' bathroom on the second floor—the one haunted by that wretched ghost, Myrtle. It was a known haunt for Potter in previous years; Draco had heard rumors of potion-brewing and weeping. Tonight, the map showed Potter's dot moving slowly toward that bathroom. Draco followed, careful to stay invisible under his Disillusionment Charm.

The bathroom door was ajar, the air inside thick with moisture and the faint, rotten-egg scent of old pipes. Candlelight flickered from deep within. Draco edged closer, every instinct screaming at him to turn back. Then he heard the sobbing.

It was a sound he would never forget. It wasn't the theatrical crying of a temperamental schoolgirl or the frustrated tears of a lost match. This was a deep, ragged keening that seemed to be torn from the very core of a person. It rose and fell in waves, punctuated by gasping, desperate pleas: "Stop, stop, please stop..."

Draco peered around a stall door and felt the world tilt.

Harry Potter was on his knees on the cold tile floor, his robes in a heap beside him, his shirt rucked up to his chest. His face was a wreck; a shimmering, cosmetic charm had smeared under his eyes, leaving what looked like black mascara streaking his cheeks. His lips were swollen and bitten bloody, his hair a tangled mess as if he'd been pulling it. But it was his body that made Draco's breath catch.

Across his ribs and waist, vivid red lines crossed his skin like a map of agony. Some were old and silvery, others fresh and still oozing droplets of blood. The wounds were straight, deliberate, too uniform to be anything but self-inflicted. And in his hand, his wand was pointed at his own chest, trembling violently as a faint, guttural whisper escaped his lips.

"Crucio."

The word was barely a whisper, but the effect was instant. Potter's back arched, a choked scream caught in his throat, and his whole body shook as if he'd been struck by lightning. He convulsed, biting down on a strip of leather Draco hadn't noticed before—a makeshift gag to muffle the noise. After a horrifying handful of seconds, the curse released, and Potter collapsed forward, panting, fresh tears dripping onto the floor.

Draco's knees felt weak. He had seen the Cruciatus Curse performed—once, by his father on a disobedient house-elf, and later by the Dark Lord himself. But never... never like this. Never turned inward. Potter was torturing himself, using the darkest of Unforgivables on his own body. And the cuts on his waist—the very spot Draco's hex had struck—were clearly old wounds reopened, a canvas of pain he kept fresh.

He must have made a sound, because Potter's head snapped up. Those green eyes, wild with terror, found the spot where Draco stood. The expression that flooded Potter's face was pure, primal fear—the fear of being caught, of being seen. For one heart-stopping moment, Draco thought he saw something else there, too: the horrified expectation of someone else entirely.

Then Potter scrambled backward, his wand rising defensively despite his state, and his mouth opened to shout—probably for help, probably to hex Draco into oblivion.

Draco raised his own hands, canceling the Disillusionment Charm. "Potter, wait!" The words came out choked. "I'm not—I'm not going to—" He didn't know what to say. His mind was racing, piecing the image together. The wounds on Potter's waist, the terror at being touched there, the fresh cuts, the self-inflicted Cruciatus. And the way Potter had looked just now, as if expecting an attacker. The dots connected with sickening clarity.

Someone had hurt Potter. Hurt him in that exact spot. Hurt him so badly that he kept hurting himself, as if trying to reclaim ownership of the pain. Someone had...

"You've been doing this to yourself," Draco said slowly, his voice steadier than he felt. "For a while, I think. But the other... the screaming, the blood when I tickled you... that wasn't just you, was it?"

Potter's wand hand trembled violently. His face crumpled, but he didn't lower his wand. "What do you know about it, Malfoy?" His voice was hoarse, shredded. "Come to finish the job? Come to laugh?"

"I didn't know," Draco said. "I didn't know about any of this. I just wanted to embarrass you. I didn't..." He trailed off, feeling foolish and cruel. "Potter, why aren't you in the hospital wing?"

"Because I can't," Potter spat. The mascara—or rather, the charm—ran further as fresh tears welled. "Because if anyone finds out, if the papers get wind of it, if the Dark Lo- if Voldemort's people find out the Chosen One can be broken so easily... do you think they'd stop? Do you think anyone would let me fight? They'd lock me up. They'd say I'm a liability. And I am. I am, Malfoy, I'm a bloody wreck, I'm..." He sobbed, cutting himself off, and the wand dipped slightly.

Draco took a cautious step forward. "Who was it?"

The question hung in the air. Potter flinched as if Draco had thrown a hex. "It doesn't matter," he whispered. "It's over. It happened. And now it's just me and this." He gestured weakly at his ravaged body.

But Draco knew. Or he could guess. The look on Potter's face when he'd first seen Draco—that wasn't just fear of discovery. That was the terror of a victim recognizing a face associated with the crime. Draco's mind worked feverishly. Who in this castle had the means, the motive, and the kind of darkness to do such a thing? A Death Eater sympathizer, perhaps? A monster lurking in the shadows? The list was not short, and it included people Draco had known his whole life. The thought sickened him.

"You can't keep doing this," Draco said quietly. "Look at yourself."

Potter laughed, a shattered, ugly sound. "What do you care, Malfoy? You tried to kill me last year. You called me names for six years. Now you see me on the floor and suddenly you're a saint?"

"I'm not a saint," Draco snapped. "But I'm not... I didn't..." He struggled. "That hex I cast—it was meant to tickle you. To make you laugh in front of everyone. It wasn't meant to hurt. And it only hurt because you're already..." He couldn't say the word "broken." "Because someone else hurt you first. So don't you dare put that on me."

Silence stretched between them. Potter's wand finally dropped to the floor with a clatter. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs he tried to stifle.

Draco found himself moving forward, crouching down a few feet away—close enough to be heard, far enough not to spook him. "I could... I could get you to Pomfrey without anyone knowing. I know the secret passages. You could say it was an accident."

Potter shook his head violently. "No. No, I can't. I won't—"

"Then let me help you here," Draco said, surprising himself. "Those cuts need cleaning, at least. And you can't keep Crucio-ing yourself; you'll end up in St. Mungo's permanently. It's a miracle you haven't already."

Green eyes lifted to his, flooded with confusion and a fragile, desperate hope. "Why? Why would you help me?"

Draco's mouth opened, then closed. The truth was, he didn't fully know. Part of it was guilt—his stupid hex had uncovered this horror, and walking away felt monstrous. Part of it was a grudging, long-suppressed acknowledgment that Potter was not the arrogant celebrity Draco had always pretended he was. This boy on the floor, self-destructing in secret, was the furthest thing from a hero basking in glory. He was just a boy, beaten down by a world that expected him to save it.

"Because," Draco said finally, "maybe we're not as different as I thought." He paused, the weight of his own secrets pressing on him. "I know what it's like to have everyone watching, expecting something you can't give. To feel like you're drowning and the only way to stay afloat is to hurt something. Or someone."

Potter stared at him. The silence stretched, heavy and fragile.

Then, with a shuddering exhale, Potter nodded—a tiny, almost imperceptible dip of his chin. It was permission. It was surrender.

Draco rose, conjured a clean cloth with a flick of his wand, and began the delicate work of cleaning the wounds. Neither of them spoke. The only sounds were Potter's occasional hisses of pain and the drip of water from a leaky faucet. Myrtle, mercifully, was absent.

When the fresh cuts were dressed with a healing salve Draco always carried (a Malfoy habit, born of long practice), Draco sat back on his heels. Potter's shirt was a ruin, so he transfigured it into a new one, plain and soft. Potter pulled it on with trembling hands, not meeting Draco's eyes.

"You're good at healing charms," Potter mumbled.

"My aunt taught me," Draco said flatly. "She had a particular interest in causing wounds and then dressing them, so her husband wouldn't notice." He didn't elaborate, but the darkness in his tone spoke volumes.

Potter looked at him then, really looked, and something shifted in the air between them. "Malfoy... what you said before, about drowning..."

Draco stood abruptly, striding to the sink to wash his hands solely to create distance. "Don't read into it, Potter. I'm not here to swap sob stories."

But when he turned back, Potter was on his feet, unsteady but upright. "I'm not asking you to. I'm just... thank you. For not... for not being a git about this."

A snipe rose to Draco's lips—a reflexive insult about Gryffindor sentimentality—but it died there. Instead, he said, "You need to stop hurting yourself."

Potter flinched. "It's not that simple."

"I know," Draco admitted. "But if you do it again, I'll know. And I'll... I'll tell someone. I will, Potter, I'll go to Snape or McGonagall. I don't care if you hate me for it."

Potter's laugh was bitter but not unkind. "You'd do that? You'd blow your own cover just to save me from myself?"

"Merlin help me, yes." Draco's voice was fierce, surprising even himself.

Something passed between them—a fragile thread of understanding. Neither dared name it, but it shimmered in the candlelight.

---

The weeks that followed were strange and secretive. Draco and Potter began a quiet, unspoken pact. They would meet in the Room of Requirement, a neutral ground where no one would disturb them. At first, it was just for Draco to check on Potter's injuries, to make sure the cuts were healing and that he hadn't performed the Cruciatus again. Potter was prickly and defensive, but he allowed it, and slowly, the physical wounds began to heal.

But the deeper wounds didn't close so easily. Potter had nightmares nearly every night. Draco knew because often, when he found Potter in their meeting place, he was hollow-eyed and shaking. One night, Potter told him the truth—the reason for the self-harm, the reason for the agony at his waist. It had been a Death Eater, one who had infiltrated Hogwarts with the express purpose of breaking the Chosen One before the war could truly begin. The attack had been brutal, precise, and anonymous. No one else knew. Potter believed that revealing it would make him a target for worse, that it would show weakness the Dark Lord could exploit. So he had hidden it, and the pain had turned inward.

Draco listened, his face a mask of neutrality while his insides roiled with fury. He had no right to be angry on Potter's behalf, but he was. And when Potter, voice cracking, asked if Draco thought he was broken beyond repair, Draco answered without thinking: "No. You're infuriatingly stubborn. You'll survive. You always do."

Potter had looked at him with a strange, tear-bright smile, and for the first time, Draco felt something other than rivalry.

They began to talk about other things. Potter asked Draco why he was so tense, why he was disappearing all the time, why he'd been given that cursed task. And Draco, in a moment of vulnerability, confessed: the Dark Mark, the impossible mission, the threat to his family. He expected scorn; instead, Potter said, "You're trapped, just like I was. But you can still choose, Malfoy. It's not too late."

That was the turning point. They started to meet not just for healing checks, but for simple company. They would sit in silence, reading, or they would argue about Quidditch, or they would tentatively share stories from their childhoods. Draco learned that Potter had never been celebrated at home; he'd been locked in a cupboard and starved. The revelation made him sick, and it also made him furious at himself for the years of mocking. In turn, Potter learned about the cold, loveless pressure of the Malfoy household, and he didn't pity Draco—he understood.

One evening, as a winter storm rattled the windows of the Room of Requirement (which had provided a cozy, firelit sitting room), Potter turned to Draco with an unreadable expression. "You know," he said, "I used to hate you. I thought you were just a bigoted git. But you're not. You're... more."

Draco's heart stuttered. "Careful, Potter, that almost sounded like a compliment."

"It was." Potter's voice was soft. He moved closer, and Draco found he couldn't move away. "You've seen me at my worst. You've seen the things I'm most ashamed of. And you're still here."

"I'm not here out of pity," Draco said, his voice dropping. "I'm here because... because you're the only person in this castle who understands what it's like to carry a burden that could crush you. And because, against all reason, I've started to care what happens to you."

The fire crackled. Potter's hand reached out, tentative, and brushed against Draco's. Draco felt a jolt like a static shock. "Harry," Draco whispered, using the name for the first time without scorn. It tasted like hope.

"Draco," Potter replied, just as quietly. And then, very slowly, giving Draco plenty of time to pull away, he leaned in and pressed his lips to Draco's.

The kiss was gentle, terrifying, and achingly tender. It tasted of salt and firewhisky (where had that come from?) and the ghost of old pain. When they parted, Draco's eyes were wet, and he didn't bother to hide it.

"I'm still a mess," Harry whispered against his mouth. "I'm not fixed."

"Neither am I," Draco said. "But maybe we can be a mess together."

And there, in the hidden heart of the castle, the savior of the wizarding world and the boy with the Dark Mark held on to each other, and began to heal.