Dirty

A/N: I've realized I haven't written Harry Potter stuff in a long time D:

And then I got this prompt ;D

(Or rather, I looked for it and made myself write, because, welp, I miss writing Drarry - sorta.)

So I hope you enjoy. :)

~Gaow

~

Draco feels dirty as he sits on the floor of the bathroom. He feels as dirty as he felt during his time in Azkaban, when he had been awaiting his trial.

Harry had taken him from Azkaban the moment he was allowed to leave, and had cleaned him.

His hair is no longer hanging below his shoulders, nor is it matted with blood, dirt, and mud. It was now as short as it had been during his years in Hogwarts, if not shorter. The bags were clearly visible underneath his eyes, but his skin no longer looked like a dirty rage. Instead, his skin is squeaky clean.

Yet he still felt dirty as he stared at his left arm.

The mark is disgusting, and his eyes watch it as is almost slithers around his arm.

His left arm is resting on his left knee, and his right hand is holding something sharp. His thumb runs over it almost affectionately, and he makes sure not to slice the skin. He’s never been good with pain, but this would have to be an exception.

Harry wouldn’t mind if he rid himself of such a disgusting curse – would he?

Of course not.

It wasn’t like he was cutting near any main pulse points, such as the one in his wrist and the one a little below his elbow. And he wouldn’t cut downward. He would cut across the river, to be safe.

Draco hesitantly brings the blade to his arm, and he pressed down, cutting across the mark in quick fashion.

He swallows down the bile that has risen in his throat, convincing himself this pain was nothing. It would be worth it in the end.

He only manages to cut himself three more times before he drops the blade.

He couldn’t do it.

He was sick.

The blood was dripping on the white tile, and he’s swaying slightly when the door to the bathroom opens. Hadn’t he locked the door? He furrows his brows as he sees Harry who rushes to him.

The boy-who-lived pulled the former Death Eater to his chest as the blonde cried.

He cried and he cried and he cried.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t know whether it was directed at himself or at Harry.

Harry just held him, petting his hair.

“I know.”