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Covered in the colours, pulled apart at the seams

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Scars are a funny thing, Harry thinks.

They can be so very insignificant to anyone but the person who bears them on their body, like the tiny white nick Harry has on his heel, after Ron accidentally kicked a rock back towards him during an impromptu game of Quidditch at the Burrow. Though perhaps that doesn’t count as one only he’s aware of, as Draco always runs his fingers down it when Harry throws his feet into his lap after a long day at work, just to tick him off. It doesn’t really work, Harry thinks, because Draco’s fingers always end up gently sliding over the bones of his heel, pressing softly over that tiny white line, like he’s always known it was there.

Scars can sometimes even go unnoticed by the very person who should notice them, like the small red line on the back of Harry’s neck that he has no idea how he got. Perhaps it was from Auror training, or messing around with Teddy in the backyard, before he decided that he liked sitting on the bench and reading Muggle comic books better. Perhaps it was from even farther back, from one of the many inadvisably dangerous situations Harry had found himself involved in during his Hogwarts days. Perhaps it wasn’t even there at all, and Draco had simply made the story up so that Harry wouldn’t say anything about him running the tips of his fingers or the point of his nose over that spot right in the centre, just below Harry’s hair line.

Once, Harry asked Draco why he seemed to like these parts of him so much, these blemishes on an otherwise relatively untainted canvas of skin.

“You like putting marks on me sometimes, don’t you?” Draco had replied, as if that answered anything. He was right, in a way. Harry liked the way the little red lines down Draco’s back looked after a lazy Sunday morning in bed, the skin of his back and arse flushed pink. He liked the occasional little purpled spot Draco would let him suck onto his collarbone, before dragging his head upwards, and he liked the small bruises that would crop up on Draco’s forearms after they abandoned all pretence of play fighting over the TV remote, and Harry held Draco down by the wrists to dig his fingers into his ribs until the forced frown left Draco’s brow smooth, giving way to high peals of laughter and rocking hips.

“But you didn’t put any of these on me,” Harry had replied, frowning slightly.

“No,” Draco agreed, nipping lightly at Harry’s bottom lip. “I didn’t.”

Harry’s reply gave way to long sounds of pleasure as Draco moved downwards, and he gave up asking.

Perhaps he doesn’t need to know, Harry thinks. Draco certainly has more than enough quirks, so one more shouldn’t really be noteworthy. Sometimes people just like what they like, Harry thinks, as Draco presses a thumb into the side of his thigh as they both read their books on the couch, Harry resting back against Draco’s chest. The touch is so gentle that Harry barely notices it, until it’s like a brand against his skin, searing hot and setting his blood alight.

Sometimes scars can define your entire life, as Harry well knows. He’s quite possibly the most qualified person in Britain to be able to make that claim, for obvious reasons. Perhaps most oddly, the most important scar is the one that Draco doesn’t touch often, doesn’t run his fingers absentmindedly across as they listen to the wireless in the mornings, doesn’t rub his thumb over when Harry pretends to be asleep so that he can rest his head on Draco’s chest without Draco pretending that Harry’s being a nuisance, because they both know that Draco doesn’t actually mind. Draco always presses a kiss to one particular side of Harry’s forehead, always the same, no matter what direction he comes in from, avoiding the lightning bolt that stamps Harry’s history across his forehead like a brand.

Draco had said once that Harry’s scar didn’t have to define him. They’d both been drunk at a bar, still not sure if they were even actually together yet, because that was more than a little scary at the time. Harry had laughed, raising his eyebrows at Draco in disbelief at the sheer ridiculousness of the statement.

“The stupid thing’s defined me for most of my life,” Harry had said, leaning back and cocking his head slightly. “It’s what defined me for you, way back when.”

“I was eleven and stupid,” Draco had said, pushing Harry’s glass to the side and replacing the space with his hand, their fingers not quite touching. “But it doesn’t anymore.”

“Doesn’t what?” Harry had asked, far more preoccupied with the sudden closeness of Draco’s face than what he was saying.

“It doesn’t define what I think of you,” Draco had replied, before pressing his mouth to Harry’s.

Harry had very quickly forgotten that line of thought, with the need to touch Draco, to run his fingers over every part of him, becoming overwhelming. But surely Draco had to have been wrong, given their history.

Now, the more Harry thinks about it, the more sure he becomes.

One day, years later, Harry asks why Draco seems to ignore his most prominent scar, whilst doling out affection to the others.

“Do you mind?” Draco replies, a smirk colouring his mouth, reminding Harry of their old schoolyard rivalry. “Is the Great Harry Potter in need of a reaffirmation of his saviourhood?”

His smirk dissolves into a chuckle when Harry hurls a fistful of flour at him, the white particles freezing in place when Draco waves his wand.

“Sod off,” Harry laughs, darting over towards Draco. He’s able to dab a tiny bit of white onto Draco’s nose before his hands are held out towards his sides, Draco’s fingers clamping down around his wrists.

“You’re getting slow in your old age,” Draco teases, rubbing his nose across Harry’s cheek, smearing the flour onto Harry’s skin.

“You’re just jealous because you’ve got more white in your hair than me,” Harry replies, cheekily.

“That’s always been my hair colour, you dolt,” Draco laughs, pressing Harry back into the countertop and caging him in with his body.

“Whatever you say,” Harry laughs, the sound turning breathy when Draco’s lips find his neck, his teeth running lightly over the faded red line that runs just under his ear, a souvenir from a raid a few months after Harry had finished Auror training.

“I don’t really know why,” Draco says, much later, when they’re in bed.

“Why what?” Harry asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows what Draco’s referring to.

“I suppose the other’s just need a bit of extra love sometimes,” Draco says, his fingers finding that spot on the outside of Harry’s thigh. “And maybe I like knowing about them.”

“Mm,” Harry hums, rolling over so that he’s half propped over Draco, Draco’s fingers rising from their previous position to press gently into his lower back.

“Everyone knows this is here,” Draco says, and his fingers come up to trace lightly over the scar on Harry’s forehead. “I barely see it, you know. Most of the time it’s like it’s not even there.”

“I know,” Harry says, and he does. He’s not sure why he ever had such a hard time believing it, that someone could see him as someone completely separate from the scar marring his forehead, but he knows that Draco does, that he has for a very long time.

“But these are all here,” Draco continues, his hands moving down Harry’s body, stopping to rest over each of the little blemishes on his skin. “And nobody else knows that they exist.”

“How do you even know that’s the right place?” Harry asks, pressing a soft kiss to Draco’s cheek as Draco’s hands stop, one resting over Harry’s hip, the other tracing over the top of his knee.

“I just do,” Draco replies, catching Harry’s mouth with his own. “I know your body better than I know my own.”

And he does, Harry thinks, as Draco’s fingers wander further.

“Some of them aren’t very pretty, though,” Harry gasps, rocking his hips back into Draco’s touch. “The scars, I mean.”

“It’s not about that,” Draco replies, his breathing becoming heavy. “It’s about every part of you being important, not just the mark on your forehead. Besides,” he says, flipping Harry onto his back with ease, “I like this one better, anyway.” He moves down to Harry’s arm, pressing a kiss to a small white scar in the shape of a crescent, from when Draco had accidentally pressed his thumb in too hard during sex a few months beforehand. “And this one,” Draco says, kissing Harry’s hip. “And this one.” He pushes Harry’s leg back to suck a mark over the scar on his outer thigh, nosing his way back between Harry’s legs.

Later Harry finds his fingers tracing one of the long white scars that cross over Draco’s chest that he had put there so very long ago, in what is almost a separate world from where they lie wrapped around each other in their darkened room, sweat cooling on their skin.

“Every part of you is important too,” Harry says quietly, Draco’s skin warm under his fingers.

“I know,” Draco says, letting out a bark of laughter when Harry swats at him.

“You’re not supposed to agree with me,” Harry says, running his fingers through Draco’s damp hair, mussing it up.

“Why not?” Draco replies, his eyes warm as they flick up to meet Harry’s. “You tell me often enough that I might have finally started to believe it.”

“I don’t tell you that much,” Harry says, his mouth curving up into a teasing smile.

“You don’t need to say it,” Draco says, pulling Harry’s arm tighter around him. “You show it.”

And perhaps he’s right, Harry thinks, that how you act towards another person tells you more than what they say to you. Draco has never been one for long gushing speeches, but he certainly shows Harry what he means to him.

“You’re a bit daft, you know that?” Draco says softly, squeezing Harry’s fingers tightly between his own.

“But you love me,” Harry says.

“But I love you,” Draco agrees, a smile in his tone.

And he does, Harry knows. Draco knows absolutely everything about him, right down to the very last scar. And he loves all of it.