Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

Unnatural Openness

A/N: 

Happy Sunday, my folks! I know that my post is a little tiny bit late, BUT!!! It was for good reason. Due to the brevity of this chapter, I am publishing TWO chapters Today. This is the first of the two chapters.

I also made minor edits to the previous chapter, though nothing bad. The meat and potatoes of it hasn't changed, so you aren't really missing out.

To be clear, chapters 29-33 all occur over the course of the same singular day. Currently, you are at Chapter 31.

Please, let me know what y'all think, and, as always...

Enjoy!!

Warning: graphic depictions/discussion of self-harm, scarring, and poor body image.

Every evening in the shower, Draco looks at them. He feels them, too. He doesn't like how they tingle when he pays attention to them, but when he runs them under hot water, when he puts pressure on them with his hands, it helps him remember that everything is still real. It's grounding. They are ugly. They are scars that remind him of everything constantly. They remind him of war. Of torture and pain, of loss, of near-death and regrets.

Draco doesn't quite know how to describe or explain it to himself, but sometimes, he needs the sensation of almost-pain on the largest scar- across his stomach- for no reason other than to stop it from spontaneously itching. At least, he supposes it would nearly hurt, if it weren't for the fact that a bit of his scar tissue holds no sensation. Any attempt at making his stomach feel like his stomach again only resulted in a dull and deep ache accompanied by a disconnect somewhere deep inside of him, as though his nerves were straining to function and mostly failing.

And then there're the two long scars along his left forearm. They aren't nearly as deep. They only appear as pale-pink indents, distorting his sickly faded dark mark minorly where the thin lines pass over it. Part of him was surprised that the killer hadn't tried reopening his older wound. Part of him was glad for it, if it meant marring the dark mark more.

He wishes he could remember attaining the biggest of his scars, but he doesn't. No matter how hard he tries, all he can remember between lengthy periods of blacking out and blinding pain was milder injuries accompanied by intense questioning and preaching of the morals he lacked. He remembers his body feeling so awfully, grotesquely wrong...

He wonders if, perhaps, his dark mark was the reason for it all. No- he knows it is.

He wishes it were gone.

He wishes he didn't have to think about it, but he does, no matter how hard he tries to distract himself by cleaning or baking or reading...

Every time he goes to get dressed or bathe, he sees them. When he eats, his stomach becomes unsettled. When he cleans, Muggle chemicals sting his fingertips more than the rest of his hand. When he bakes or uses his wand, his hands tremble. When he showers, the hot water hits everything, making itself known in his mind. Sometimes, his brain will randomly just remind him of them, as if it were some amusing game to do so.

Draco hates his scars. He wants to cut them out. He doesn't like the way they feel or look. He doesn't want them. He wants, more than most things, for them to be gone.

But no magic can fix what has been done to him. Otherwise, St. Mungo's would have already taken care of it. And cutting out the scars will only create more. The only ones he appreciates are the ones on his left arm. Those are the only ones that fill him to the brim with an odd mix of sickness and palliation every time he thinks of them.