DISCLAIMER: If I owned Harry and Draco, they would not appear in children's books.

Pretty When You Cry

Chapter One: The Jealousy of a Dragon

By Mizery

       

I don’t want to hate him, but I do.

I know it’s a terrible thing to say about the person that lays beside you at night... the person with whom you share the most intimate moments, but I cannot help but to hate him, in a way. Please do not misunderstand me. I love Harry Potter as much as I believe I am capable of loving anyone, but a part of me still despises him _ not the person he is, but the person he is made to be by the adoring fans of the Boy Who Lived. I hate his modesty towards the entire affair, I hate his demure acceptance of the praises others lay upon him, as if he honestly doesn’t see why being Harry Potter makes him so goddamned special. I hate him even more for the fact that the latter is entirely true _ he *doesn't* know, not at all, and he will never know how furious it makes me, either.

Of course, these are some of the very same things I love about him, but I have always been a system of paradoxes. I accept this fact; I do not try to dissect the whys and wherefores of my emotions. A Malfoy does not question himself. And yet sometimes... sometimes I am absolutely forced to do so. Sometimes that piece of me that hates him grows too strong, so much so that I fear both for his safety, and for my own.

Take, for instance, an incident which occurred only two weeks ago.

Gryffindor had defeated Ravenclaw by exactly 150 points, thanks (of course) to the famous Harry Potter, who captured the Golden Snitch upon its very first appearance on the field. Apparently the Snitch was feeling particularly malicious that day _ for nearly five hours, there was not a single sign of it. It was surely the most grueling Quidditch game I've seen in my five years at Hogwarts. And in the aftermath of vicarious celebrating and congratulating, everyone but *everyone* wanted a piece of Harry.

I... would have been reveling in it, if I were him. In a family like mine, you have to fight for your personal glory. Its quite difficult to accomplish *anything* that hasn’t already been accomplished by your father or your grandfather and so on. For Harry, things couldn’t be more different. He has no footsteps to follow in, no family honor to uphold. He *is* his family honor. Not a soul in the wizarding world doesn’t know The Boy Who Lived, who doesn’t respect and revere the name Harry Potter. Oh yes, I would have been in my glory indeed, if I were in his shoes. But not Harry. He didn’t want any part of it. He never asked for a bit of the attention - indeed, he never even *knew* who he was until four years ago, and he certainly didn’t think he deserved it. His modesty drove me mad.

I didn’t attend the celebration feast that night. I didn’t think I could stand to watch him from across the Great Hall, surrounded by his friends and countless admirers, or listen to Dumbledore congratulate him for winning the House Cup for Gryffindor, and watch him stare down at his lap in embarrassment as they clapped him on the shoulders. No, the truth was - I couldn’t stand to share him.

That why, when he slipped through the door of my dormitory that evening, I hated myself for being so jealous. He was as silent as a mouse, as he crept inside... his footsteps so silent and his expression so honest and worried that I turned away from him. God, he was so devoted. Quite suddenly, I was struck with the overwhelming urge to hurt him like a slap in my face - it startled me... and when it sank in, I was appalled at myself, and yet it would not fade away completely.

"Why aren’t you downstairs?" His voice was soft and earnest behind me. I heard him come closer, the soft rustle of his robes against the stone floor.

"Why aren't *you*?" My voice was cold, but I didn’t care. I didn't turn around in the moments of silence that followed. I knew my sharpness had hurt him, and I couldn't bear to look at him and see this. Finally he slipped his arms around my shoulder from behind, and his breath was warm against my neck as he spoke close to my ear.

"I came to find you. I was worried." His lips brushed against the skin of my neck in a butterfly kiss, but I did not soften to it as I usually would have. "I tried to get to you after the match, but..." Harry trailed off awkwardly, and even though I could not see him I knew he was biting his lip.

"But you couldn't take time away from your fan club, is that it?" I snapped. I could feel him flinch as if my words had struck him a physical blow, and though he continued as if I hadn't said a word there was a tightness to his voice that hadn't been there to begin with, as if it would crack any moment.

"...and when I didn't see you in the Great Hall tonight, I came looking for you." Harry nuzzled against my shoulder, his arms tightening a bit around me. I couldn’t escape the scent of him now _ shampoo and fresh air and the unmistakable essence that was uniquely Harry, fresh and clean and sweeter than honey. I closed my eyes against it. His hair was so soft against my cheek, his body heat so warm against my skin, and I hated myself for hating him... yet somehow, the fact that he made me feel guilty made me seethe even more. The urge to hurt him swelled inside my chest again, pounding against my ribs, and although the idea of hurting Harry made my conscious mind sick to it's stomach, the little piece of me that hated him for being The Boy Who Lived would not give in this time.

Almost before I realized it myself, I had twisted around and grabbed him forcefully by the jaw, pulling his face to mine in a rough and possessive kiss. *I'll show you just what you're devoted to.* Harry made a small, startled sound in the back of his throat, but in a moment he had relaxed into both my hand and my lips. God, but he was trusting. God, how I loved him... how I hated him...

God, how I wanted him.

I rose to my feet, pulling him with me my his chin, and pulled him against me roughly by his waist with my free hand, my tongue still entwined with his. Harry was pliant and willing in my embrace - he slid his arms around my neck gently, still expecting nothing but tenderness from me. He was quite accustomed to my possessive nature by now, and I am sure he attributed my forceful manner tonight to just that. It wasn’t until I’d backed him against the wall and taken a rough hold of his wrists that it seemed to dawn on him that I was not playing, as I pinned his hands to the wall above his head, holding his body prone against the stones with my own. His beautiful green eyes widened a bit as he looked up at me, his breathing shallow, and I could see in those eyes that he did not understand.

He took a breath to speak, but before he could I had clamped one hand viciously over his mouth, still holding both his wrists captive with my other. "Shut up." I hissed at him, and Harry whimpered softly, the heartbreaking sound muffled by my palm. Confusion and panic were welling up in his eyes, but nothing could stop me by then, even the desperate way he looked at me, pleading silently with me to let him go. His current vulnerability only added more fuel to the passionate fire burning inside my chest. *Damn you for being so beautiful. I’ll show you who you belong to.*

The string of events that followed are clouded in my mind, the memories captured with the dreamlike quality of a nightmare. I remember forcing him out of his robes and onto the bed, and the way he struggled against me valiantly for a few moments before finally going pliant with fear. I remember exploring his body with my hands and lips as I never have before. I have always been quite gentle and loving with Harry - his submissive nature responds most willingly to tenderness and patience, but I possessed neither of these qualities that night. I remember the way he turned his face away from me - eyes pressed shut to block out the moment, and I remember the way his delicate features contorted with pain when I finally took him, my fingernails digging into the front of his hipbones, my teeth cruel and hungry upon the delicate flesh of his neck. I remember the sound of his cries - no more than little whimpers of fear and confusion and pain, mingled with the occasional faint tinge of pleasure. And I remember the way he looked at me when it was over - lying prone and trembling upon my bed, gazing up at me with a mixture of confusion and desperation and an almost divine acceptance as he gasped to regain his breath.

I had expected hatred in those eyes, or at least accusatory bitterness, but I found neither. However I had hurt him, he seemed not to hold it against me. It was as if he knew why I had done this to him and had already forgiven me for it, and now he was looking to me to soothe my actions away again. Perhaps this was why he had not fought against me once as I raped him - he had expected comfort from me in the aftermath. I rose from the bed, leaving him there, and paced to the window with a sickening lead weight sinking to the pit of my stomach.

What had I done?

"....Draco?" His voice was as small and timid and innocent as a child’s behind me. Although I did not want to, something made me turn and look at him. Though he lay on his back still, his face was turned towards me. I hadn’t noticed until now that I’d left marks upon him - a sickening pattern scratches cris-crossed his chest and stomach in the wake of my nails, and from the way he was clutching one wrists to his chest with his free hand I was fairly sure I’d left bruises from the fierceness with which I’d pinned him to the bed. But what really broke my heart was the way he was looking at me. His eyes were so pleading and innocent that I could have killed myself for hurting him. All at once, I could no longer fathom what had brought me to my own actions. I knew only the terrible, sickening feeling of regret that pooled itself in my stomach.

Harry was shaking. In the silence his breath had grown quicker, as if he were close to tears, and I knew he would finally break down if I didn’t say anything, but the truth was I didn’t know what to say. No apologies in the world could make up for what I had just done to him, and yet Harry demanded no apology in the first place. In giving in to my own unfounded, jealous insecurities, I had hurt the one person with the power to relieve me of them. The little piece of me that had hated Harry died right then and there, the moment I realized that I had nothing to be jealous of. For all the people hopelessly in love with Harry Potter, Harry Potter was in love with only me.

And I had hurt him. Hurt him because of something he had no control over. Now I was going to have to make up for it.

He shuddered when I took him in my arms, as if he’d just come inside from a cold, rainy night, and melted against me almost immediately. Harry loved to be held normally, but in the face of emotional trauma, sometimes he positively needed it. I could feel his muscles slowly uncoiling, releasing the tension I’d imposed upon them. "I’m sorry, darling..." I whispered into his hair, cradling him against my chest. Already, his breathing had become more even, his shaking had begun to subside, and now he lifted his head from my shoulder just enough to look up at me with those honest green eyes.

"Don’t be sorry... I’m alright." He didn’t sound alright to me. But Harry had become very good at convincing himself to bite the bullet out of necessity by this point in his life. There was nothing I could say in response. *Don’t be sorry? How can I not be sorry?* But I could tell that he had meant what he said, as he nuzzled against my shoulder once again with a little sigh. "C’n I stay with you tonight?"came the muffled question after a few moments. I could almost feel him bracing himself for my answer if it happened to be no, and it almost brought tears to my eyes. *Here I go and do the unspeakable to you, treat you with the most unforgivable coldness, and all you ask of me in compensation is my company.* I wound my arms tighter around his slender frame, caressing the small of his back with three fingers, and this seemed to be all the answer he needed.

"Thank you." He whispered, settling deeper against me. Still at a loss for words, I pulled the blankets over us both and leaned back against the pillows behind me, with Harry already half asleep in my arms.

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