#and trying to post with html on ao3 from a phone was not my favourite experience

[drarrypotterrenaissance]

A Walking Heroic History

"Besides,” Harry said, “It seems pretty simple to me. You were a git, and I hated you. Now you’re not a git, and I love you. Easy as that.” For @harryjamespotterweek 2023, Day 3 (Scars, Enemies to Lovers) Rated T, 1.2k words. Read on ao3 here

“What about this one?” Draco’s fingers, tacky with sea salt, caught on Harry’s skin, just above his hip.

“Third year. The Whomping Willow got me, I think, or maybe it was when I fell by the lake with the Dementors after that.”

Draco bent to place a gentle kiss on the scar, then his fingers continued their exploration up Harry’s side.

“This one?” he asked, pressing a small kiss to it preemptively, smirking when Harry twitched away, huffing out a laugh.

“That tickles.”

Draco did it again, just to make him squirm.

“Fell out of a tree when I was eight. I bounced when I hit the ground, but a branch caught me first.”

One last, tickling kiss, and Draco moved on again.

Over Harry’s shoulder - “I genuinely have no clue, I just noticed it one day in fifth year,” - down Harry’s arm - “Wormtail, in the cemetery, fourth year,” - all the way to his hand.

“Umbridge and her evil quill in fifth year.”

Draco linked their fingers and lay back, pulling Harry’s hand up to his mouth for another kiss, gritty with the sand stuck to his skin.

“We all wondered about that, you know,” Draco said, idly tracing the letters. “In Slytherin. We all knew you had cuts on the back of your hands Blaise even set up a betting pool on it.”

“Who won?”

“Daphne Greengrass. She asked a Gryffindor boy who had seen you in the common room and he told her. To hear her tell it, she seduced it out of him, but I suspect he didn’t see any reason not to answer her when she asked.”

Harry gave another small laugh, sun-warm and content, and after a moment, Draco continued.

“I am sorry, about all of that. I don’t think I mentioned that when I said- before. But I am sorry for the Inquisitorial Squad, and what she did to you.”

Harry gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “You don’t have to keep apologizing. I know.” In an even softer voice, he added, “I still remember what you said that first time. Besides,” Harry said, continuing on at his normal volume, “It seems pretty simple to me. You were a git, and I hated you. Now you’re not a git, and I love you. Easy as that.”

Draco squeezed his hand back, and Harry kissed his fingertips.

“Second year,” said Draco, and Harry hummed a question in response. “On my ring finger, on the side, near where you kissed, there’s a scar from second year.”

Harry sought it out, found it between Draco’s second and third knuckles, pointing to the place where Harry suspected he would put a ring someday in the near future. It was still too soon to be proposing, but Harry kissed the shiny silver scar, and then kissed the bottom of Draco’s finger too, as a placeholder for now.

“What happened?” Harry asked, “Did the Basilisk get you too?”

Draco elbowed him hard in the ribs.

“No. You did, actually.”

“What? When did I hurt you in second year?” Harry was sure he would have remembered attacking Draco in second year, not least of all because Draco would have thrown such a fit that everyone in Hogwarts would have surely remembered it.

“During the Dueling Club,” Draco said, his smug smile evident even in his voice.

“I did not!” Harry protested, sitting up so fast he flung sand into Draco’s face.

Draco tossed his head to flick the errant sand away, then opened his eyes looking incredibly pleased with himself.

“You did. You sent me flying back, and I scraped my finger on the ground.”

Harry couldn’t see his own face, but he was sure it looked as unimpressed as he felt.

“That’s hardly anything! How on earth did it scar? Why didn’t you have someone heal you? It can’t have been that bad, or else someone would have noticed the blood.”

“Well, it wasn’t that bad at first, Potter,” Draco drawled, so horribly self-satisfied Harry almost choked on it. “But you see, I hated you then, because you had refused my offer of friendship, and everyone thought you were the Heir of Slytherin, and I just couldn’t let any of that go. So, I didn’t let it heal, and kept making it worse, because you were my sworn enemy, and I wanted the burden of being marked by your cruel villainy for the rest of my life.”

Harry blinked down at him for a second, then said, “You’re insane.”

“I was twelve, everyone’s like that when they’re twelve,” Draco responded placidly, so sure of himself that Harry wanted to contradict him, wanted to tell him no, not everyone is like that when they’re twelve. But then, he remembered that he, Ron, and Hermione had spent the first half of that year brewing Polyjuice Potion because they were convinced Draco was the Heir of Slytherin, and the sheer hypocrisy of saying that made him pause.

Finally, he just kissed Draco’s petty little scar and let their hands fall back to the beach.

“Whatever you say, Draco.”

A few more moments passed in silence, both of them listening to the crash of the waves before Draco spoke again.

“I like them, you know. Your scars.”

Harry had known this for a while; Draco’s hands often sought them out as though they were there to mark the places Harry was meant to be held, pieced back together under a loving and careful touch.

“I don’t like that you had to suffer to get them, of course,” Draco continued, thumb stroking over the back of Harry’s hand as if to read the words carved there through touch alone. “I truly am sorry about that, even about the hurts I didn’t cause. But I like history, I always have, and growing up I liked stories about heroes best of all. And you, you’re a walking heroic history, and I like seeing that. Of course, it also reminds me that you’re a reckless, self-sacrificing moron on occasion too, but I feel that’s just a reminder that you need to keep me around so at least one of us is looking out for you.”

And then, never one to want attention paid to him after being too nice, Draco put his head on Harry’s shoulder and indicated with every fibre of his being that their conversation was now over, and he was going to relax for the rest of the afternoon.

Harry intended to do the same, letting the sound of the waves, the steady rise and fall of Draco’s breath, and the rhythmic carding of his fingers through Draco’s hair soothe him. But, at the same time, he found he couldn’t help but turn over Draco’s words in his mind.

Harry had never really thought much about his body before - it had always done what he had needed it to do, and it hadn’t hindered him, parts/he had never had cause to contemplate himself in the way Draco clearly had. Harry supposed, if pressed, he would say that he liked how much he resembled his parents, the first people ever to love him, and the first people he lost, living on a bit through him. But hearing how Draco thought about him, what he liked about the scar on Harry that had just seemed like collateral damage in a much bigger fight, that made Harry re-evaluate his own blind neutrality.

He pulled Draco’s hand to his mouth to kiss his precious little scar again, and Draco, napping lightly beside him, moved his hand to cover the scar on Harry’s chest, and smiled in his sleep.