Less Like Them, More Like Me

Less Like Them, More Like Me

A D/H darkfic

"I hit you and you hit me back

We fall to the floor

The rest of the day stands still

Fine line between this and that

When things go wrong

I pretend that the past isn't real

I'm trapped in this memory

And I'm left in the wake of the mistake

Slow to react

So even though you're close to me

You're still so distant

And I can't bring you back."

~With You, Linkin Park

Chapter 4:

My God. He does have tear ducts.

***

Ignore him. Don't listen to the harsh breathing. Don't think about the bruises that will spread across his chest, perhaps filtering down to his stomach. Don't think about his long-fingered hands that look as delicate as girls' hands. Looks can be deceiving.

He is nothing to you. Are you listening to me? He's nothing; he doesn't deserve any spare thought you might have. He deserves the pain he feels; he should feel your pain because he deserves that, too.

Don't think about him, dammit, don't give him a single fleeting thought.

Fuck you.

***

"Mr. Malfoy? Oh, dear, drink this," Madam Pomfrey said worriedly. "It'll help with the pain while I fix your ribs." Draco fairly ripped the flask from her outstretched hand and gulped down the liquid. It was unpleasant in taste, smell, and colour, but the sharp pain in his chest quickly dropped to a dull throb.

"Better?" Pomfrey asked, slightly amused. Draco nodded. "Alright, then, take off your robes and shirt." Draco froze.

"What?"

"Take off your robes and shirt."

"Why?"

Well, how do you expect me to mend a broken rib if I don't even know which one it is?"

Draco considered this, and with a pained expression on his face, he shrugged out of his robes and paused. Pomfrey, irksome hag that she was, twirled her hands in a 'hurry up' gesture. Slowly, Draco began to unbutton the black shirt he wore.

Inch by inch his smooth pale skin was revealed. His collarbones, one with a small, curious knob on it that suggested it had once been broken and improperly healed. His bony shoulders. His lean back, laced with long interwoven scars. His chest, mottled with severe bruises - fresh purple and blue over a light, fading yellow-green. A blot of dark red, inflamed skin.

Draco winced as he slid the shirt off his shoulders.

And he felt eyes on him. Green eyes studying him. He flushed a pale pink.

***

What's the matter, dear Draco? Surely you aren't embarrassed of your body.

***

I will not look at him. I will not watch as he takes his shirt off. I won't study the scars and the bruises and the remnants of injuries he sustains.

I won't look at the lean muscle under the taunt skin of his stomach. I won't see the bruises on his chest and feel guilty. I won't think about how that smooth skin might feel against my own.

Bugger. Already did.

***

Harry snapped his eyes closed and whipped his head in the opposite direction. His neck cracked and he winced, rolling his shoulders to try and relieve the momentary pain. He tried to calm his rapid, shallow breathing and found it more difficult than he would have ever imagined.

"Well, then, we'll just clear this up," he heard Pomfrey say. She whispered something intelligible and Harry heard Draco breath in sharply.

"That hurt," he said accusingly.

"Well, did you expect it to tickle?"

"Yes," Draco stated, his voice strong and defiant. Harry snickered, unable to control himself.

"Well, I'm sorry if it wasn't satisfactory, Mr. Malfoy. You may dress and go now," Pomfrey said in a huff. Harry heard her footsteps approach the side of his bed. "And what needs healing on you?" she asked. Harry looked at her from looming black eyes and another drop of blood inched slowly from his left nostril to his lips.

"Ah, yes, well..." Pomfrey waved her wand and instantly the swelling and pain on his face subsided, although, Harry noticed, she had left the dried blood on his upper lip. Probably as a bit of punishment.

"Anything else?"

Harry held out his hand with the bitten finger on it. It had stopped bleeding but was now a nasty shade of purple-blue and sort of looked infected.

Well, it was a Slytherin that bit you.

Promfrey healed his finger also and dismissed him, striding away to deal with other patients. Harry slid off the bed and wiped away some of the blood under his nose with a corner of his robe. He left the hospital wing, walked to Gryffindor tower and climbed up to the boys' dorms and promptly collapsed onto his bed.

Fuck classes, he thought, and fell asleep.

***

Draco sat in Potions class, lost in his thoughts. He stared into space, apparently not listening to the lecture Professor Snape was giving them. He didn't smirk when Snape took points from Gryffindor. He stared at an empty seat directly to the right of Weasley and thought...

***

Where is he? Where did he go after you left? Did you do something involving lasting damage? You know, you probably did. You are, after all, a bloody Slytherin.

Shut up. Just shut up.

I won't. Bloody Slytherin, pure-blooded back-stabbing bloody fucking SLYTHERIN, that's what you are. Who else would bite in a fight? Except perhaps a girl, and we could say you are partly that, but I think it's just the fact that you're a Slytherin. It makes sense, doesn't it?

Bugger off.

Touchy, touchy. You liked biting him, didn't you? Admit it. You want to bite him all over, hard enough to hurt and bruise, though perhaps not hard enough to draw blood, yes? You want to mark him with your teeth and your nails, all down his stomach and back and neck. I am right, you know. You're thinking of the images right now.

The way his face will look. The way he'll thrash under you. The sound of his moans and whimpers. The look in his eyes. The feel of his skin, slick with sweat, sliding against yours.

You fucking fairy.

***

They say hindsight is always 20-20.

I look back and I see pain.

Pain. Real, honest-to-goodness pain. The kind that makes you want to roll over and die, no matter the consequences, but you can't even roll over because the pain binds you and you can't move.

No one should have to feel this pain, the madly burning coal smoldering and festering like an unclean and infected wound. Not even a prat like Malfoy.

Draco...

He does feel it, I can see it. He feels the pain like I feel the pain - constant, bubbling, merciless PAIN. Yet our pain is different.

He is like acid. That is how he cries out.

I don't cry out...I just hide.

Mix an acid and a base and they neutralize each other.

Mix pain and pleasure and maybe...

Yeah...maybe...