Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

To All Those Who Have Suffered.

Happy Sunday, wonderful readers!!This chapter is a long one! And I hope very much that you like it.

Warning for: unsuitable living conditions, implied drug use, horrible coping mechanisms tied to OCD, and discussions of improper legal practice

Please let me know what you all think! And, as always...

Enjoy!

Draco stepped through the floo beside St. Jerome's church, vibrating in shock of what'd just occured. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted a woman making brief eye contact and steering her son away with a protective arm around his head. Draco was too stupefied to care much.

He and Harry had fought. Hard. Harry had blasted him into the wall. And now, Draco was about to step into the church and ask Father Swain if he'd be willing to take Draco home without asking why Draco couldn't do it himself.

Harry blasted me into the wall.

Even the mere thought of it felt foreign to Draco. He could remember it clearly. He had shoved Harry, because he was frustrated and overwhelmed and- Harry had just raised his arms to cover himself. And it burst out of him. Accidental magic borne of instinct. Fear.

Draco had scared him.

Draco could barely even articulate what their fight was entirely about... the book? Pathologising? The betrayal of being talked about? Or was Draco just... done? With everything? Tired of life and done dealing with it?

Draco glanced down at the belongings in his arms. Right atop his bible lay that book. He didn't even know why he took it. The stupid thing was probably useless, anyway.

He arrived at the church and found the pastor fairly quickly, asking him if he could take Draco home, provided he disclosed the address of his paltry, embarrassingly dilapidated Muggle flat block. The entire time, he thought about the fight with a sort of numb, foggy distance.

Maybe God let me hurt him as proof of my badness. He felt it a terrible thought to have when walking right alongside his church pastor, but he couldn't help the vile thoughts surfacing.

God knew what he was doing, when he sent that monster after you. Obviously. Now, he's just proving it to you.

"Here you are, my boy."

"Draco, you are not an abomination."

"Thank you, Father."

God's wrath is unavoidable. Inescapable. Just let it happen already-

-Protect yourself. Lock yourself in. Hurry, now! Before-

"No need to thank me. I am always happy to help!"

Draco entered his flat more quickly than was polite. Any thoughts that had been swirling around in his brain abruptly stopped.

Why is the Christmas tree turned off?

Why is it so cold?

Draco almost told himself that he'd simply gotten too used to being in a properly heated living space. But then he flipped on the lightswitch and-

It can't be... no. Impossible. Draco shivered. With a start, he tossed his things down on the dining table and raced out of his flat. He knocked on the next door down. An elderly woman with curly hair and hardly any nose pulled the door open, crashing into her doorway and looking up at Draco, clearly bothered. She had a cigarette hanging from her lips. Her head twitched.