Cicatrices- Marks That Remain

A Choice

Happy Sunday, everybody!

First of all, I am So, SO SORRY that I haven't posted since Christmas. I got a cold, then I got a bad infection from the cold, then School started, and then I got my wisdom teeth removed. That, AND our beloved alpha reader also got sick again. They are Now on slow and steady road to recovery. Overall, writing resources have been almost nonexistent, over here... BUT! I am here now, and I promise to try my best to make up for the weeks without chapters!

We are getting close to the end of this story and There is just So Much to plan and write. I promise, we will get our happy ending!

That being said, please let me know what y'all think, and, as always...Enjoy!

Draco remained carding fingers through Harry's soft, black curls, mulling over that letter from Harry's asinine cousin.

Honestly... Of course, Harry of all people would feel obliged to help those imbeciles.

Draco remembered when Harry had first read it, roughly a day or two after the showdown at the church. He had been staring at the bit of Muggle parchment with a haunted expression, hastily putting it away as soon as he'd noticed that Draco was looking. It almost hurt to know that Harry had kept it from him for nearly a week. Looking back at the state of Harry and knowing what his childhood was like, Draco began to think that the correspondence was, in no small part, a factor in this emotional collapse of his.

That's not to say that the state of Draco wasn't also a contributor to Harry's recent instability. In fact, to deny it would be egregiously dishonest of Draco, if not downright irresponsible, especially after the events of this morning. But Merlin... this morning... it had felt as though he had been unable to stop the urge to scrub his thoughts away.

Guilt stirred thick and heavy in Draco's gut when he thought back on the morning. He hadn't ever considered that his cleaning habits were part of the problem. On the contrary, he often turned to cleaning to stop himself from thinking of anything upsetting. Without the cleaning, the looming threat of damnation and danger all too easily reared its ugly head. Draco had to clean...he'd always had to. The moment he stopped, the noise in his head would kick up; the fear, the flashes of horrific memories, the sense of something closing in. Cleaning wasn't the problem; it was the fix. Except... except Harry's face that morning said otherwise.

If you feel as if you don't have a choice, it's OCD talking.

One line he'd read in Penzel's book that morning came to the forefront of his mind, leaving Draco with a sort of dull, defeated feeling in his chest.

A lot of what he read- the majority of the chapter about therapy- had left him feeling that way, as well as concerned for himself, if not overwhelmed, by the onslaught of information. He had begun to realise that his problem was much worse than he thought; he spent nearly all day, every day, chasing away these intrusive thoughts in one way or another. It hadn't clicked until he saw the blood he'd smeared across his cleaning surface and Harry's wrecked expression as he left the flat.

It was when he arrived at the portion that explained the concept of not labelling yourself as bad because of your intrusive thoughts (which he felt was oddly reminiscent of something Father Swain might say) that he decided he was overdue to owl Hermione for therapy contacts and sent her that letter. Well, that is, after he wrestled with himself over the prospect of shutting the book again right there and setting it aflame.

Then, the sirens blared, the commotion kicked up, and lo and behold, someone finally froze to death in this sorry excuse for a flat block. Harry came back, and Draco hadn't even had the chance to think to apologise, or reassure Harry that Draco was going to make a real effort, because Harry had been spiralling with the idea that Draco might have been that person who'd died.