For @drarrymicrofic prompt: “History” wc 446
Harry reads Draco like a history book.
He knows every inch of him.
Tracing his fingers over Draco’s pale skin, Harry knows every hill and valley of his ribs. He knows the exact way his hands fit around Draco’s hips, as though they were moulded specifically for his palms. He knows the freckle behind Draco’s ear, discovered one night early in their relationship when Draco had been beneath him like this, hair spilt across the pillows, throat tipped back in invitation.
Harry had pressed his mouth there and felt Draco shiver hard enough to make the bed creak.
He knows all of Draco’s sensitive places, too.
The tops of his V-lines, where goosebumps flicker across his skin when Harry drags his thumbs across them and presses him down. The hollow of his collarbone, where Harry licks across pale skin and earns a low, broken groan. The sharp dip of his waist. The soft give of his thighs. The way Draco’s entire body seems to tense, then melt, when Harry touches him exactly right.
Then there are the scars.
Jagged lines from groin to neck. A criss-cross of anger, fear, and sixth-year stupidity. A history Harry wishes he could rewrite with his bare hands.
But Draco is beneath him now, arching and gasping, his mouth open around Harry’s name, and the scars catch the low light with every movement.
Silvered, raised and alive
Harry reads them.
With his hands. His mouth. The slow roll of his hips.
He reads an apology into every kiss. Devotion into every touch. Love into every place he once left pain.
Draco trembles beneath him, beautiful and undone, and Harry presses his lips to the worst of the scars.
Then he turns to the faded scar of the Dark Mark on Draco’s arm.
Gone, but not forgotten.
Harry kisses over it anyway. Slow. Deliberate. Reverent.
Draco’s fingers twist in his hair, his breath catching as if the tenderness hurts more than anything else. As if he still cannot quite believe he is allowed to be touched there with love.
How can you love me? How can you see past that? I am nothing compared to you.
Harry is devoted to showing Draco how much he is actually worth.
He does it every morning. Every night. Every second that Draco allows.
He does it not with ink or parchment, but with patience. With his mouth. With the thrust of his hips. With the careful press of his hands against every place Draco once used to flinch.
He does it by paying attention.
History may have made a battlefield of Draco’s body, but Harry will spend the rest of his life making it sacred.
