"Go 'way, Podder, I don' need you."

"Do you think I want to be taking care of you when I could be doing something else more important?"

Of all the days that Harry had to break his wrist, it would be the one where Draco was bed sick and Madame Pomfrey was on leave for the weekend; he had come rushing in just as she whisked by, barely stopping long enough to tell Harry to take care of Malfoy and to mutter a healing spell. Harry had been trying to force a purplish potion down his throat for the last 30 minutes.

"Just take it Malfoy! You could stop bitching about how your head hurts if you took the potion and GOT BETTER!"

Draco rose a brow, as if to say, 'I'm too good for medicine,', and slumped lower in the cot. They initiated a glaring contest, and Harry got an idea as he stared into the tired eyes. He lifted the spoon to his mouth and opened his lips, the purple fluid being poured in like syrup. He grimaced at the taste and swallowed around it; no wonder Malfoy didn't want to take this.

Harry lent over the blonde and grabbed harshly at the sides of his face, prying his jaw and mouth open, and connected their lips. Draco let out a cry of protest and tried scrambling back, but Harry's grip was firm, and the tongue was already transferring the potion into the other boys' mouth. When Harry finally pulled away, he had a smirk on his lips, and Draco was blushing with an uncomfortable look on his face.

"Better, Malfoy?"

…..

The Dark Mark was hideous. It was absolutely disgusting. He wish that he could scrub it off in the sink, and scrub off Harry's scar from his forehead, and scrub off every memory that he owned from the war.

But he compared his attitude about things now to his hair when he had to spend two months in Azkaban when his case was on trial. His hair had grown to lay around his face and shoulders like a blonde curtain, and it was dirty. If he couldn't wash it off, then he would cut it off. So when Harry had been the escort to pick him up from Azkaban, he had a butchered hair cut that was even more grimy from the jagged rock he used to cut it. The man from his past immediately took him to his own flat, plunged him in the bath, and when Draco came out, Harry had dinner ready and the pull out couch made with sheets and all.

So like his hair, if he couldn't wash the Mark, he'd cut it. So he found himself on the floor of the bathroom, a razor in his hand. He was brushing it idly up and down his forearm, just enough that it would tickle. He thought he might have Harry knocking at the door, but that didn't matter. Harry would understand, right? It wasn't like he was trying to kill himself. He would be cutting across the river, not down, and in the middle of his forearm as opposed to near the wrist or near the elbow.

The first cut didn't sting. Or, he told himself that. That the pain was an illusion, and that as long as it did its job and sliced through the skin that was covered by the body of the snake that it was OK. So he didn't feel the second one. Or the third. But the fourth one was terrible and retched and made him want to puke over the blood that was soaking into his trousers. So soon enough he was crying into his bleeding skin, sitting in his own sick and feeling like a cynical bastard. He felt Harry's arms wrap around him, and there was a cool washcloth on his arm and Harry was kissing his face and telling him that yes, it was ok, no, he didn't hate Draco for being a weak Death Eater. Told him that at the end of the day, between white sheets, whether they be happy or sad or lonesome or lustful, that all that mattered was each other.

Draco's apologies turned into I love yous, and Harry's consoling turned into I love you, toos.

…