The Slytherin common room was silent, save for the soft crackle of the green-tinted flames in the hearth. The fire burned low, casting long, shifting shapes across the stone floor and the velvet upholstery of the chairs. Draconia sat on the edge of the rug, her back against the base of a sofa, feeling the warmth of the hearth seep into her skin. The air felt still, lacking the frantic energy of the previous night. Harry sat near her, his presence a constant, heavy weight that she had grown accustomed to over the last few months. He did not move to touch her, but he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body.
He reached out, his fingers hovering just above the edge of her silk shirt. The fabric was white, a sharp contrast to the dark emerald of the room, and it hung open where she had unbuttoned it to breathe more easily. Harry’s hand was steady as he traced the line of her collarbone, his thumb brushing against the skin. He did not go further, not yet. He watched the way her breathing hitched when his skin met hers. He was not looking at her face, but at the jagged, silvered lines that marred her torso. The scars from the previous year were uneven, lumpy, and stark against her pale skin.
"Does it still ache?" Harry asked, his voice barely a murmur in the quiet room.
Draconia tilted her head back, closing her eyes to shut out the sight of the dying fire. "It is not an ache, Potter. It is a dullness. It is a memory of a sensation."
"It looks like it still hurts when you move," he said. He moved his hand downward, his palm flat against her stomach, just below the ribcage. His touch was warm and solid, a grounded reality in a world that felt increasingly fragile.
"You are being sentimental," she replied, though there is no bite in her tone. "It is a tiresome habit of yours."
Harry did not pull away; instead, he began to move his hand in a slow, rhythmic circle. He was using a warming charm, a soft, golden glow emanating from his fingertips as he pressed them against the broken skin. The magic was gentle, a subtle pulse of heat that seemed to sink deep into her muscles. The spell worked on the surface of her skin, smoothing the tension of the scars. He was not trying to heal the marks themselves, but the way they pulled at her. He was tending to the way they made her stiffen.
"It is not sentimental to notice when you are hurting," Harry said. He moved his hand higher, his fingers grazing the underside of her breast. "You spend so much time pretending you are made of marble, but you are just skin and bone."
Draconia opened her eyes to look at him. The firelight caught the gold in his glasses, and his expression was one of intense, quiet focus. He was looking at her scars as if they were a map he was trying to memorize. He did not look at her with pity, which was the one thing she could have truly loathed. He looked at her with a terrifying kind of recognition. He saw the way the skin puckered where the blade had gone too deep, and he did not turn his gaze away when the scars became prominent.
"You see too much," she whispered. Her voice felt thin in the vastness of the common room. "It is a dangerous thing to see too much of a person."
"I am not looking at the scars, Dra," he said, using her name with a familiarity that made her stomach flip. "I am looking at you. The scars are just part of the landscape."
He moved his hand once more, his palm sliding up to the curve of her chest. The warmth of his hand was intoxicating, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. She felt the urge to pull him closer, to wrap herself in the heat of his body, but she remained still. She was a creature of control, and to lose that control now would be to admit that he had already won. She watched as his thumb traced the edge of a particularly long scar that ran from her hip toward her waist, a remnant of a spell that had nearly torn her in two.
"You think you are being brave by staying," she said, her eyes fixed on the way his knuckles moved against her skin. "But you are just stubborn."
"Maybe," Harry conceded. He leaned in closer, his chest nearly brushing her shoulder. "But the stubbornness is why I am still here. And why you haven't pushed me out of the room yet."
He shifted his weight, moving his hand to the very top of her shirt, his fingers disappearing into the shadows of her cleavage. The touch was light, almost tentative, but it felt heavy with everything they had not said. The silence of the room was not a void, but a vessel, holding the weight of her unspoken truths. She felt the familiar prickle of heat in her throat, the sensation of a secret wanting to be told.
"The scars do not go away, do they?" he asked softly. He was looking directly into her eyes now, his gaze unwavering. "Even if you heal the skin, the memory stays in the muscle."
"That is how it works," she said. She reached up, her hand finding his wrist, her fingers wrapping around the bone. She did not pull him away; she held him there. "The skin remembers the trauma long after the blood has dried."
"Then let me be the one who helps you carry it," Harry said. His voice was low, a low vibration that she felt in her chest. "Not the pain, but the memory. Let me be a part of the way you heal."
Draconia felt the breath leave her lungs. The honesty of his words was a physical blow, more potent than any hex she had ever endured. She looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the man he had become in the heat of the war. He was no longer the boy who had stumbled through his first year; he was a man who stood in the center of the storm and refused to move. She felt the jagged edges of her pride softening under the warmth of his hand.
"I have spent my entire life perfecting the art of being untouchable," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "And here you are, making a mess of it."
"I am not making a mess," he countered, a small, lopsided smile touching his lips. "I am just trying to find the way in."
"There is no way in, Harry," she insisted, though her grip on his wrist tightened. "There is only the surface and the depth, and the depth is a very dark place to go."
"I am not afraid of the dark," he said. He moved his hand to her cheek, his thumb brushing the skin just below her eye. "I have spent enough time in it to know the way back out."
She looked at him, the firelight reflecting in her eyes, and for a moment, the mask of the Slytherin princess crumbled. The vulnerability was a sharp, stinging thing, more painful than the scars on her abdomen. She realized then that he was not just watching her heal; he was watching her break. She reached out, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, her touch a silent plea for him to stay.
"You are an idiot," she said, the words falling into the quiet space between them.
"I know," he replied, leaning forward until their foreheads touched.
She felt the weight of the truth settling in her chest, a heavy, golden thing that she could no longer pretend did not exist. The sentence was short and it cost her more than the wound did.