I run my fingers lightly over the raised welts that cover my sleeping lover’s back. They are red and ugly, and even though I know that they rarely cause him pain, I can’t force myself to do anything but touch them gently, so very gently. I lower my lips to them and press little, butterfly kisses along one of the biggest scars. It runs all the way from his left shoulder to his hip. I can’t imagine the agony it must have caused when first inflicted. His breathing deepens and then becomes normal, and I know that he is awake.

‘Do they bother you?’ he asks. His voice is quiet but deep with a hidden meaning. Then I realise that Draco is nervous.

‘No, I’m just curious. How did you get them?’ I inquire.

I know I’m being nosy but I reckon I deserve an answer. Draco and I have been going out for three months now. Which, sad to say, is my longest adult relationship. He hasn’t told me much about his time during the war. Much like religion or politics between ‘normal’ couples, the death of his parents, his joining of the Order and his capture by the Dark Lord have all been taboo subjects before now. But the night we spent together, our first time together, has changed that. I need to know.

I’ve never realised but, before last night, I had never seen Draco without his shirt on. Even on that really hot day when we were at the beach, he didn’t take his shirt off like so many of the young men on the beach. I didn’t think of it at the time, but now I realise that it may have had a deeper meaning than I had thought.

Draco rolls over to look at me. ‘Do you really want to know?’ He asks it innocently but what he is really asking is whether I want to know what happened during the war.

‘Of course. It matters. You matter.’

He nods as if filing the data away somewhere deep inside. ‘I got the first one when I was twelve,’ he begins. ‘Father felt that I was becoming weak. He had hit me before, of course, but it had always been for something I had done wrong. I had been rude or disobeyed him or Mother. They had been half-hearted slaps. Don’t do it again slaps. But this time it was different. He used a whip. Jesus, it hurt.’ He exhales the last statement on a breath and for the first time this morning I can see how much this is hurting him. His eyes are closed and it is almost as if he is seeing it as it happened.

‘He let Mother clean up my back, but not with magic. He said the scars would be good, make me into a man. My father was big on being a man.’

The resignation in his voice upsets me. He is telling me this as if it was normal, as if it was normal for a twelve year old boy to be whipped by their father. I hate it that he grew up in a world where it was. I reach behind him and slowly begin to stroke the scars covering his back. I can’t help it but my eyes slowly fill with tears and dribble over on to the pillow. Some sixth sense must make him aware of my tears, because he opens his eyes before leaning over and kissing my lips softly. It is nothing like the passionate kisses we shared the night before, but somehow it is filled with more love and understanding than all of those put together.

‘Please don’t cry. It makes it harder to tell you,’ he implores as he leans backwards to look properly at my face.

I reach my hands out and with the tips of my fingers shut his eyes. ‘Then don’t look,’ I whisper. ‘I need to cry for you.’

His eyes stay firmly closed but his mouth opens and I can tell he is thinking about what to say next. His face struggles briefly but honesty wins, and he opens his eyes and stares right at me. ‘Nobody ever has, cried for me that is.’ The shock of that statement rushes through me, and for some reason I find it more disturbing than the fact that his father beat him. I feel such immense pity for the child he was.

He closes his eyes again before continuing, ‘The largest one is from dear old Bellatrix. She came to our house one day and found Father going at me with his whip. She joined in several times after that. Unlike Father, she preferred magic. She used way more than that ‘sectumsempra’ thing Potter was so disgusted with himself about. They enjoyed it so damn much. Bellatrix was a master of torture. She could take you right to the edge of well, death, I suppose, and then she’d heal you and start all over again. Sadistic bitch. She’d orgasm, you know. Right after killing or torturing people, she’d just explode. I think near the end even Voldemort realised that she was too far off her rocker. She was worse than him in some ways. He tortured people, and by God did he enjoy it, but he never did it without reason. He was disgustingly sane at times. He was logical in a very cold way while she just enjoyed hurting people.’

I just nod. I can’t possibly comprehend what he is talking about. My childhood was ideal compared to his. Yes, I grew up during a war but it was simple; right or wrong, good or bad, life or death. I knew my parents loved me, and I knew that if I died, I would be mourned and remembered. There is a strange comfort in knowing that you matter.

‘Most of them are from Voldemort. If Bellatrix was the Master of Torture then he was the fucking God of it. It was when I was captured by the Death Eaters after joining the Order. They don’t really like traitors.’ He says it with a half laugh and I feel so angry with him for trying to minimise the pain he went through. I push my irrational feelings aside to concentrate on his voice.

‘He liked to play with his victims. He’d talked to me, trying to get a rise or just to taunt me. The entire time he was ‘crucioing’ me he’d talk about my parents, how it was such a shame they were gone and how they would have loved to join in on our little game. He always used to talk in the same voice. He never, ever got angry. He would just continue in this soft, normal tone. He could have been talking about the weather.’

Draco raises his arm and point to the soft underside. Inscribed into the flesh in tiny letters are the words, ‘Traitor to the Cause.’

‘He carved that there as a permanent reminder. Apparently, the ones on the rest of my body weren’t sufficient to jog my memory. He used to go inside my mind too. At first, I tried to stop him, but then I became too weak. He liked being inside his victim’s minds when he tortured them. He can feel their pain better, find their weaknesses easier.’

My arms are now fully wrapped around him and his head is resting on my breasts. He is breathing deeply and every now and again, these quick little shudders run through his body. He looks up at me. ‘I’ve never told anyone this stuff before. It hurts, reliving it. I’ve tried to forget, but it doesn’t work. I get nightmares of being with Him or Father and Bellatrix.’

‘I feel so useless,’ I murmur. ‘I didn’t know and worse, at the time I probably didn’t care. I want to go back and help you. No little boy should ever have to go through what you did. You were a child and my heart aches for you. I don’t know how you became what you are today because Draco, you are a good person. Against all the odds, you are a damn good person. I wish I could have helped you.’

He looks up at me, and for the first time this morning, he is smiling. ‘But you did help. I didn’t just have scars on my body. However clichéd it sounds, I had scars on my soul. You helped, Ginny. Any healer can make the physical scars go away. I keep them there to remind me of all the bad times so I never forget what evil is and so I never turn into my father. The ones inside though, I’ve carried through every conversation, every moment, every damn celebratory ‘Yay the war is over’ party. I hid them, but they were still there. These last three months with you, Ginny, have made me smile again. I’ve had fewer nightmares and fewer moments when I’m in the middle of a crowd, and suddenly I’m scared boneless. Last night was the first time I’ve had sex in four years. The time before was with this women I met in a pub. I had a dying need to lose my virginity. She had a dying need to get drunk and forget with someone. I had a panic attack in the middle of it. Let’s just say she wasn’t impressed. Ginny, I know we’ve only been going out for three months but I‘m in love with you. I’m not asking you to return it or anything. I just want you to know how I feel.’

I’m crying even more now, but Draco can tell they are happy tears. He wipes them away with his thumb. I smile and even though mine is kind of wobbly, he smiles back. ‘Draco, I love you too. I mean that. I’m not just saying it because you said it first. You’re the first man I’ve ever told that to, and I mean it with all my heart.’

He leans in to kiss me and then puts his head on my breasts. I wrap my arms around him and pull him in close while I continue to trace the scars on his back. Draco is mine, scars and all.