Work Text:
Harry thought Draco could be considered beautiful in much the same way that a controversial, blasphemous, shit-smeared Christ painting could be considered art. He wasn't talking about that milky white skin or those stormy gray eyes that, with the right lighting, clothing, or mood, could become the clearest of blue. He wasn't talking about that oh-so-soft hair that you had to have touched to have truly lived.
Like that paining, Draco was ugly. Along with it, he screamed sacrilege.
One can't say the desecration ruins the art, even when, behind the wall of filth, true talent can be seen. Nor, could it be said, that Draco's darkness, his ability to ruin with his words, was his curse. Rather, it was what made him. It was a part of him, and he wouldn't be Draco without it. The contamination, as obscene as it is, provides contrast, which is the artist's original intent.
That's why, when there's a snide remark made about inbreeding, followed up with a retort about a certain red head's own heritage, Harry doesn't get involved. Not even when it comes to blows. Harry just watches Draco, sees the beauty that lies beneath, and resists the urge to clean him off. He's afraid he might scratch the paint in the process.
.end