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It was Harry's secret release. He knew it was wrong, and it bothered him, really. But it didn't deter him, in the end.
And it wasn't like he got off on the pain. No, it went deeper than that. Harry got off on the fact that he had left scars, a private marking only he knew about.
Every night, Harry Potter found his palms sweaty and his groin heated over one, sickening thing: the red lines he had left on Draco Malfoy's chest. He couldn't help it. The knowledge that he had branded Malfoy for life made is head swim like nothing else. It was a high he couldn't bring himself to understand.
But like with every high, he always came down. Most nights he just cried himself to sleep. Sometimes he vomited. But it was worth it, always. Because he owned Malfoy, could do with him as he pleased, crush him like a bug if he so desired-!
Those were the thoughts that terrified Harry. This need, this desire, for power. He feared that perhaps there was still a part of Voldemort inside him, but the doctors had all assured him that intrusive thoughts were a common symptom of PTSD. It was nothing to worry about, he was told.
But Harry knew better. Sometimes he could hear it. Not in words, but in feelings, sensations. Something within him was plotting for revenge and dominance. It urged him to seek out darkness, to regain his former glory.
Harry didn't know what glory he was meant to regain. All he knew was something deep within him was curdling and taking form, whispering secrets too terrible to put into words. Giving orders he dare not follow. If he could restrict it to this one, twisted indulgence, then perhaps everything would be alright.
Wouldn't it?