Harry/Draco: Deny thy father.
He sees Potter's hand outstretched in front of him and for a moment, he is taken back to when things were different, when it was Draco offering his hand. There had been no deaths then, life was simpler and things were black and white.
He doesn't know what to do. On the one hand, he has his parents, his family legacy, his duty to the Dark Lord. On the other hand, he has a promise of a normal life, and more shamefully, the chance to look into those green eyes and see something other than loathing.
The moment breaks like glass and Draco reaches for Potter's hand, his heart thumping wildly against his ribcage.
"I'll do it," Draco says quietly, and waits for the end of the world.
Harry/Draco: Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't
There's blood on his hands. It runs down over the curve of his wrist in pretty crimson rivulets. Sometimes it pools in the crook of his arm for a moment before spilling onto the floor. Whenever you look at it, he asks what you're doing, as if he doesn't know. As if he can't see it soaking into the carpet, filling the air all around them with its heavy, coppery scent. He stands there, looking perfectly innocent, his scar the only reminder of his blood-stained past.
Every time, he'll watch you for a while, then come over and touch you, but the blood never leaves his hands, oh no. It's his responsibility, his cross to bear. You will not have any of it. You can't feel the blood when he slides his hands up your back. You can't remember it when he whispers your name, when his mouth covers yours. You don't want to remember it when he fucks you, because he killed your father with those hands.
It's mad and reckless, but you can't breathe without this. It's only fair that you should possess him if you can't have the rest of the world.