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Everything was spiralling down. His father’s words burned inside him even through the parchment, and Draco couldn’t help it. He reached for the blade.
He’d quit. He really had. He knew the pain wouldn't fix anything, and that he'd regret it.
He pressed the blade to the head of the snake.
He shouldn't do it. He'd promised Harry he wouldn't. He'd convinced himself it would never happen again.
But there were so many scars on his wrists… what was one more anyway?
As the bead of blood grew on his skin, he thought of Harry. He’d be so upset when he found out, but he'd try to hide it to comfort Draco. He’d remind Draco his father wasn’t right—that he wasn't a monster, nor just his past mistakes. That he was worthy of love and forgiveness.
It was selfish, but Draco wanted to hear that so bad.
Too soon the pain subsided, and back came the pressure in his chest, along with the filthiness and shame.
It was an hour later that Harry found him, lying on their bed staring at his wrist. He lied down beside Draco, shoes and all, and he tenderly brushed Draco’s fringe away from his eyes.
“Draco.” The love in his voice made tears prickle in Draco's eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.” How could he fill Draco with such tranquillity? “I'm going to hug you now, okay?”
Draco simply nodded.