The Season of Mending

The summer heat pressed down on the English countryside, but inside Zabini Manor it was cool and still, smelling of old wood and expensive perfume. Draco sat on the edge of Blaise’s silk chaise, pressing a cold cloth to his cheek. The bruise had bloomed into a purple crescent under his left eye, and his father’s handprint still stung across his jaw.

“I can’t believe he did that,” Blaise said, voice low, handing him a glass of elf-made wine. “He’s never—I mean, Lucius always seemed so controlled.”

Draco took the glass, hand shaking. The wine tasted like nothing. “He’s not controlled. He’s terrified. The Dark Lord keeps asking where the prophecy is, and Father can’t find it. He takes it out on me.” He set the glass down before he dropped it. “I’m just… convenient.”

Blaise sat across from him, dark eyes sharp. “You can stay here as long as you need. Mother’s in France, and the house elves won’t talk.”

Draco nodded, but he wasn’t listening. He was thinking about the look in his father’s eyes—the split second before the slap, when Lucius had seemed almost sorry. Almost. But the blow had come anyway, and then the shouting, and then Draco had Apparated to the edge of the Zabini wards and run through the gates with his lungs burning.

He stayed at Zabini Manor for three weeks. Didn’t sleep well. Spent hours staring at his own reflection in the gilded mirrors of the guest suite, hating the pale, pointed face that stared back. The bruise faded to yellow, then green, then nothing. But the memory didn’t. Neither did the voice in his head, his father’s voice, telling him he was weak and worthless and a disappointment.

So Draco decided to become something else. Something that couldn’t be hurt.

He sent a letter to his Gringotts vault, and Blaise helped him charm a Portkey to Diagon Alley. He bought clothes—skirts so short they barely covered his thighs, sheer tops with plunging necklines, lace stockings, heels that made him tower over most boys his age. Glossy lipstick, dark eyeliner, perfume that smelled of roses and something sharper, like crushed stems. He stared at himself in the shop mirror and thought, This is what they want. This is what they’ll value.

And then, because he didn’t know what else to do with the hollow ache in his chest, he started letting them have it.

The first one was a sixth-year from Durmstrang staying with the Zabinis for a week. Tall, broad, looked at Draco with a hunger that felt like acceptance. Draco kissed him in the library after midnight, let the boy’s hands wander under his skirt, let himself be pushed against the shelves. It was over in minutes, and Draco felt nothing but a vague numbness. But the boy smiled and called him beautiful, and that was enough to make Draco come back for more.

There were others after that. A French wizard visiting Blaise’s mother. A groundskeeper’s son from the nearby village. A friend of a friend at a party in a Muggle town. Each encounter blurred into the next—a tangle of hands and mouths and fleeting praise. Draco learned to moan convincingly, to arch his back, to look eager. He learned what to say to make them want him, and he learned to feel nothing when they left.

His father wrote him five letters during those three weeks. Draco burned them all without reading. He told himself he didn’t care. But sometimes, late at night, he would hold the last unburned envelope with trembling fingers, tracing his father’s elegant script, and hate himself for still wanting to be loved.

The first of September came too soon. Draco returned to Hogwarts in a Muggle taxi that dropped him at Hogsmeade station, and from there he took the thestral-drawn carriages alone. He had told his father he would take the train, but the thought of sitting in a compartment with Pansy and Theodore, having to explain the new clothes and the brittle smile—unbearable.

He arrived as the sun was setting, casting the towers in amber light. A few students still milled about the Entrance Hall, and they turned to stare as he walked in. Draco didn’t meet their eyes. He walked with his chin lifted, heels clicking against the stone, skirt barely brushing his thighs. He heard a Ravenclaw girl whisper, “Is that Malfoy?” and a third-year boy yelp as his friend elbowed him.

Good. Let them look.

His first week back was a calculated performance. A different outfit every day—mini skirts, lace-trimmed blouses, thigh-high socks, makeup that made his grey eyes look enormous and bruised. He laughed louder than he used to, flirted openly with anyone who caught his fancy, let his hair fall in artfully messy waves. He didn’t answer questions about his summer. Didn’t mention his father. When Pansy asked about the bruises that sometimes appeared on his wrists, he said he’d been practicing a new vanishing spell and changed the subject.

The boys came quickly. A sixth-year Gryffindor who found him by the lake and kissed him breathless. A fifth-year Hufflepuff who sneaked him into the astronomy tower. A seventh-year Ravenclaw prefect who wrote him a poem and then tried to slide his hand up Draco’s skirt in an empty corridor. Draco let them. Let them touch him, call him beautiful, believe they were special. He felt like a ghost in his own body—watching from a distance as the blond boy with the perfect face performed desire.

But he never let them stay the night. Never let them see him without his armor. And never, ever let himself feel anything.

The party was held in the Slytherin common room on a rainy Saturday in late September. Someone had smuggled in firewhisky, and Blaise had charmed the ceiling to show the storm outside. The room was packed with students from all houses, air thick with smoke and sweat and the bass of a wireless turned low. Draco wore a black velvet crop top and a skirt so short it was practically a belt, and he had let a fifth-year Ravenclaw girl paint his lips a dark, bruised red.

He was on his third drink when a Hufflepuff boy named Adrian cornered him by the windows. Adrian was good-looking in a bland way—broad shoulders, sandy hair, a smile that seemed friendly but didn’t reach his eyes. They’d traded flirty glances all week, and Draco knew the script. He let himself be pulled into an alcove behind a tapestry, let Adrian push him against the cold stone wall, let the kiss start hot and hungry.

Adrian’s hands were rough, sliding under the crop top, fingers digging into his ribs. Draco let out a practiced moan and tilted his head back, staring at the chipped stone above them. The storm rumbled outside, muffling the noise from the party.

“You’re so gorgeous,” Adrian murmured against his throat. “Everyone wants you.”

Draco said the expected words. “Then have me.”

But when Adrian’s hand moved lower, pressing between his legs, Draco felt a flicker of something wrong. He shifted, trying to create space. “Wait,” he said. “Not here.”

Adrian didn’t stop. His grip tightened on Draco’s hip, and his mouth slammed back onto Draco’s, silencing him.

“I said wait.” Draco’s voice came out sharper, but Adrian’s weight was against him, pinning him to the stone. The kiss turned brutal, teeth scraping his lip, and Draco twisted his head away. “Stop.”

Adrian’s hand went to Draco’s throat, squeezing just enough to make his vision swim. “You’ve been giving it away all week,” he hissed. “What, I’m not good enough for you?”

Draco tried to push him off, but his limbs felt heavy with firewhisky and sudden, paralyzing fear. The skirt was being pushed up, the lace of his underwear yanked aside, and Draco couldn’t breathe. He heard himself make a sound—a small, strangled whimper—and then there was pain, sharp and tearing, and he stared at the tapestry’s faded thread as the world went gray at the edges.

Adrian finished quickly. He pulled away, adjusted his trousers, and gave Draco’s bruised cheek a pat that was almost friendly. “Don’t act like you didn’t want it,” he said, and then he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

Draco slid down the wall, legs giving out. He sat on the cold stone floor, skirt bunched around his waist, underwear torn, body throbbing with a pain he couldn’t name. The music from the party was a dull roar. No one came looking for him. No one found him.

After an eternity, he stood up. Fixed his skirt with numb fingers, wiped the blood from his lip, and walked out of the common room. The corridors were empty, lit by flickering torches that cast long shadows. He didn’t know where he was going. He just needed to not be there, not be in that alcove, not be in his skin.

He ended up in a disused corridor on the fourth floor, near a broken suit of armor. The windows were dark, rain streaming down the glass, and the stone felt ancient and uncaring. Draco sat down with his back against the wall, drew his knees up to his chest, and pressed his forehead into his arms. He didn’t cry. He couldn’t. The tears felt locked somewhere deep inside, behind a door he had bolted shut weeks ago.

He sat there for a long time. Time lost meaning. The torches lowered themselves as the night deepened, and the rain continued its steady drumming. He was cold. He was sore. He was nothing.

And then there were footsteps.

Draco looked up, eyes adjusting to the dim light, and saw a figure rounding the corner. Dark hair, round glasses, a Gryffindor scarf slung over one shoulder. Harry Potter stopped when he saw him, green eyes widening behind his spectacles.

“Malfoy?”

Draco’s first instinct was to sneer, to snap something cutting, to rebuild the armor in an instant. But his lips wouldn’t move. His body wouldn’t obey. He could only stare at Harry, aware of his disheveled appearance, the torn lace visible at the edge of his skirt, the dried blood on his mouth.

Harry took a step closer. “What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Draco whispered. The word came out broken, useless.

Harry’s gaze traveled over him—the bruise forming on his collarbone, the way he was hugging his knees, the glazed look in his eyes. Something shifted in Harry’s face, a hardening of his features, a flicker of anger that Draco had never seen directed at him before.

“Who did this to you?” Harry’s voice was low and dangerous.

“I’m fine.” The lie was automatic, a mantra. “I’m fine, just go away, Potter.”

But Harry didn’t go away. He crouched down, keeping a careful distance, his hands visible at his sides. “You’re not fine. Your lip is bleeding. You have bruises on your wrists.” He paused, and his voice softened. “I can take you to Madam Pomfrey. Or I can just sit with you. Whatever you need.”

Draco’s breath hitched. The words were so unexpected, so gentle, that they cracked something inside him. “Why?” he managed. “Why do you care?”

Harry’s expression was open, unguarded. “Because you’re a person, Draco. And you’re hurt.”

Those were the words that broke the dam.

A sob tore out of Draco’s throat, raw and ugly. He tried to stifle it, pressing his hand to his mouth, but more followed, shaking his frame. Harry didn’t move away. He sat down on the floor, cross-legged, facing Draco, and waited.

“I don’t know how to stop it,” Draco choked out between sobs. “I don’t know how to stop wanting them to want me. I don’t know how to feel like I’m worth something unless someone touches me.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, but his voice stayed steady. “You’re worth something without that. You always have been.”

“My father doesn’t think so.” The words came out bitter and small. “He slapped me. He told me I was a disappointment. I wanted to die, Harry. I wanted to disappear.”

Harry reached out slowly, giving Draco time to pull away, and placed his hand on Draco’s knee. The touch was light, warm, completely without demand. “You’re not a disappointment. Your father was wrong. He’s wrong.”

Draco looked down at that hand—calloused, scarred, belonging to the boy who had beaten him at every turn, who had everything Draco was supposed to hate. But he didn’t hate him. Not now. Not ever, really.

“I let him touch me,” Draco whispered, the shame thick in his throat. “The Hufflepuff boy. I let him. And then he didn’t stop.”

Harry’s hand tightened, just slightly. “That’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.”

Draco broke again, reaching for him without thinking. He collapsed forward, his forehead pressing into Harry’s shoulder, his fingers gripping the fabric of his robes. Harry didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around Draco, holding him securely, and they stayed like that on the cold floor while the rain fell and the torches guttered.

“I’ve got you,” Harry murmured into his hair. “I’ve got you.”

Draco didn’t know how long they sat there. But when the sobs finally quieted, when his breath evened out into shaky inhales, he felt something he hadn’t felt in weeks: safety. He pulled back, his cheeks wet, his eyes red, and met Harry’s gaze.

“What now?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Harry smiled, a soft, crooked thing that held no mockery. “Now, we go to the hospital wing. And then, if you want, we can talk. Or not talk. Or sit in the Common Room and ignore each other. Whatever you need.”

Draco let out a wet laugh. “You’re insufferable, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told.”

They stood up together. Draco’s legs were unsteady, and Harry offered his arm without a word. Draco took it.

As they walked through the dark corridors, Draco glanced at the boy beside him—the Boy Who Lived, the one who had every reason to hate him, who had chosen kindness instead. He didn’t know if he deserved it. He didn’t know if he could ever believe that he was worth more than what his body could offer. But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to try.

And that was a start.

In the weeks that followed, Draco slowly peeled away the layers of his armor. He stopped wearing the miniskirts. He let his hair fall into its natural sleekness. He stopped disappearing with boys after dark. The rumors still swirled—“Did you hear about Malfoy? What a slut.” —but they didn’t cut the way they used to, because Harry was there. Harry sat with him in the library, argued with him over Quidditch, and never—not once—tried to push for more than Draco was ready to give.

Lucius wrote again. This time, Draco read the letter. It was full of apologies, raw and shaking, and a plea to come home for Christmas. Draco wrote back a single sentence: “I’m not ready.” But he tucked the letter into his trunk, beside the photo of his mother, and he didn’t burn it.

Healing was slow. It came in small moments—Harry’s hand brushing his in the corridor, a shared joke at dinner, a night spent watching the stars from the Astronomy Tower without a single kiss. It came in the way Draco started to recognize his own worth, not as something to be given away, but as something that was his alone.

And one evening, as the first snow fell on the Hogwarts grounds, Draco turned to Harry in the quiet of an empty classroom and said, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Harry’s smile rivaled the sun. “I think I’ve been in love with you since third year.”

“That’s impossible. You hated me.”

“I didn’t hate you. I was terrified of you.” Harry leaned in, his forehead touching Draco’s. “Terrified because you were beautiful, and clever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.”

Draco closed his eyes. “Kiss me, Potter.”

And Harry did. Tender and soft, with no demand, no expectation—just the promise that this was only the beginning.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, blanketing the world in white. And inside, Draco Malfoy felt something he had long forgotten: hope.