A/N: Chapter warnings for; explicit language, self-harm (explicit), self-loathing, violence,
They are nearly there! Thanks a bunch to our Beta~ you are a saint!
Next Update: September the 10th
Chapter Forty; You know I am still here
…
I'm not good at reading minds
'Cause I think that mine is lost
I'm not good at reading signs
I just roll right through the stop
I just need a word so I know
You know I am still here
I'm not good at reading minds
So just tell me what we've got
Just Say, by Nine One One
...
Harry can hear Draco saying something outside, but it's muffled and Harry isn't paying attention.
He just doesn't reply. He's sitting on the closed toilet lid, his twisted hands on his lap, useless, unmoving, and it's dark. And he feels empty. The bathroom smells mouldy and the porcelain sink is cracked. It reminds him a little of his cupboard.
His fingers can't move.
This time Draco's voice is followed by a knock. The rap of Draco's knuckles against the door, "At least come and eat something."
Harry doesn't have the energy to tell him to piss off anymore. He's in stasis, he likes to think. And if he stays still enough, long enough, then he can pretend to obtain at least the minimum amount of dignity.
But what is truly dignified about any of this?
He tries to force his fingers open, to straighten them from their bent, grotesque position. He pulls and gasps as pain shoots up his wrist. He pauses, panting in unexpected pain, and then resumes pulling them apart with renewed vigor, gritting his teeth.
It hurts. It really does. Harry tips his head back and swallows a whimper, and breathes through it. He deserves this.
He doesn't know why. But he always deserves it. It always finds its way back to him, the pain. It doesn't last. It'll have to end, one way or another. But it always comes back.
He pulls at them, viciously twisting and bending them as tears of pain and frustration stream down his chin. His nails dig in the flesh, draw faint smears of blood and it's not enough. The stiffened fingers stay, unmoving and Harry's other fingers cramp as he yanks at them.
He glares at the mirror, feeling the pent up pile of frustration swell up in his chest, progressively, steadily rising, as his breaths grow quicker and the ache in his hands more prominent.
The air around him, and Draco's voice blur into the background, and Harry concentrates all the loathing and pain and misery into the mirror and the reflection that stares back at him.
Fuck you. He tells the reflection, with the deepest hatred he can conjure.
He doesn't expect the damned thing to break. But it does, with a loud, terrifying shriek, the mirror shatters in place, startling him back and out of his stupor as tiny shards rain down on the ground.
"Harry? Harry?!"
Harry stares at the shards, unsure, or perhaps uncaring of whether accidental magic was at play. Did he fuck up? Does he even care?
"I'm breaking it down. I'm not even fucking kidding. There's a wrench here."
Harry blinks down at his hands, ignores the damp patches of blood on his knuckles and the seizing cramp that shoots through his fingers once he tries moving them.
Draco doesn't need to see this.
There's shuffling behind the door, something scratching against the doorknob and Harry huffs.
"Stop," he faintly calls, setting his jaw as he pushes down on his twisted fingers, "Just fucking stop."
He doesn't know who he's asking. Himself or Draco.
"You're in pain. This isn't how this works. Stay away from the shit that broke."
Harry closes his eyes, and wishes more than ever that he had no hands to begin with. Things would have been much easier. He opens his eyes, glares down at them, his lips pulled in a sneer, his fingers stained red.
He glances at the suffocating walls, the fucking curtain, the cracked faucet, the mirror, now nothing but little pieces of glass on the floor, reflecting his horrid appearance a thousand times over.
"How what works?" He raises his arms, and wipes his face with the sleeve of his coat, he knows how blotchy his face is going to get and that door definitely wouldn't hold Draco for long.
He wipes the blood off, breathes, and bends his head down. His hands, fingers still stiff as a twig, card through his hair, and grip the many knots that a brush can't smoothen. He huffs a laugh, they don't even have a brush.
He claws at it, just to make himself feel something. An edge. More pain. Something to drown out the constant screaming in his head. Something that makes him forget about his hands.
"Us. How we work. We don't hide. Open the door, Harry, last warning."
Harry tries bending his fingers one last time and groans. He leans his face into them, curled claws. Grotesque, twisted dried twigs that they are.
Freak.
The thumping gets louder, and Harry startles for a second time as the door is slammed open and Draco stumbles in, cursing loudly.
He looks at Harry, a bit bewildered and haggard. A crude beam of light follows him into the darkened bathroom, framing him, like a halo.
His eyes methodically run over Harry, starting with his eyes, and then very gradually down his chest, and to his hands. He comes closer, and slowly takes Harry's wrist in his hand, pulling them away from each other to stop him from twisting and worsening them.
He slowly soothes him, stroking the pulse point at Harry's left wrist with his thumb, and after a few moments, Harry's heart stops thudding quite so loudly.
"Okay," Draco mutters. "Come here."
He opens his arms and Harry melts.
"Can you move them at all?" Draco asks, holding Harry's hand in his own. Three of the fingers in Harry's right hand, and two in his left, are bent at an awkward, painful-looking angle. Harry can't move them. The sight makes Draco uneasy.
"No," Harry repeats. Draco knows Harry's getting frustrated with his questions, but this has never happened before. He also knows that irritating a person who's just performed volatile accidental magic at fifteen fucking years old is not a good idea.
But he's kind of freaking out. And the amount of effort that he's putting into not showing the fact that he's freaking out is staggering. That'll just result in freaking Harry out too. And then they'll both be panicking and useless.
Draco doesn't know if it's the nerve damage or the curse. If it's the damage, then fuck. If it's the curse, then fuck that times ten.
What he can't bear, are his straying thoughts, escalating the image before him into a beast. Because, what if it's some fucked up version of rigor mortis from the curse? What if Harry dies anyways no matter how hard Draco tries to prevent it?
There's a ball of ice in his stomach as he fruitlessly tries to tug the fingers back into position. Harry yanks his hand away from Draco.
"Does it hurt?" Draco looks up at Harry's pinched face. He looks exhausted. Exactly as awful as he himself feels. And if Harry looks that way…
He shakes his head, "Not a lot. It's just stuck. I can't move it. It's… this has never happened, has it?"
Draco rubs the back of his neck. Composing his face into a neutral expression.
"I don't think so," he slowly says. He doesn't have to ask why Harry would ask him such a thing, and he sees, literally sees, how conflicted Harry's thoughts become, muddled behind his eyes, a typhoon. Draco's learned to catch the signs, and somehow knows that the thoughts are what prevent Harry from shooting off some witty comeback.
There's so much of them, he can't ramble them out in the usual fashion he does all the time.
Draco slowly lowers his hand from his neck, and grasps Harry's wrist again, causing his eyes to flick up to hold Draco's, as he pointedly repeats the motion, the moment, the glance they shared in the bathroom.
His thumb rests on Harry's pulse, and he can feel his and Harry's pulse, beating in tandem, and Harry's shoulders slowly deflating from their tensed, hunched position.
It's fine. That's what Draco says, what his thumb says really, I'm right here, and it's fine.
"You're here?" He asks Harry, his voice so low he's sure that only Harry would hear it.
Harry can't die. It's not happening. If Draco has to literally beat him back to life in order for it to happen, he'll do it. Harry is the Boy Who Fucking Lived and, fallen from grace or not, Draco's still a Malfoy.
Harry nods, slowly, "I'm here," he mutters back.
They're so close. They're only a town over. And Draco, now more than ever, is riddled with the possibilities. Because he is trusting a man he has not seen in a decade. A man who might not even know him.
And above that, he is trusting the word of a woman who kills for the Dark Lord for a living in order to save his boyfriend's life. His boyfriend, who happens to be the fucking Boy Who Lived. When did his life become so goddamn complicated? He wishes he were still seven and in the throes of his bee obsession. Everything was so simple back then, and his parents and Severus could protect him from the biggest meanest bads in the whole world.
While Harry had been with those horrid Muggle relatives of his. Draco shakes his head.
His eyes run over Harry's hands again, his brows furrowed.
Maybe it's just the nerve damage. Draco doesn't know. People he's seen tortured never lived long enough for him to see these side effects manifest.
The thought of his mother's elegance being tainted by… it makes him want to throw up. She'd have hated it. She'd have rather died. And then he feels awful.
Harry doesn't deserve this, no more than his mother did. And Harry shouldn't be paying the price for staying alive.
He doesn't have a shred of medical knowledge, his knowledge, all he knows actually, either comes from Severus or Mother. They've never gotten this far.
It could be the nerve damage, he forces his thoughts back to Harry. They walked for days in the biting cold, it had snowed, rained. Every weather element was against them.
And Harry hasn't been taking the nerve soothers he should have been. Since there is no more left to take.
Still, Draco clears his throat and bends over the chair housing their bag. He uselessly rummages through the content, "We're out of the soothers, aren't we," he mutters uselessly, just to have said something, "I think I might be able to coax them with warmth or-"
"It's fine," Harry says, cradling his hand against his chest, "Stop panicking."
Draco looks up from the bag, "Your fingers are stuck in a flip-off, we should be panicking," he insists. His voice eerily reminds him of a train's whistle. High and shrill with fright.
Just one town. One more fucking town. It's still one town too many.
Harry shrugs. And Draco knows, with an insight that hits him out of nowhere, that is all an act. Harry wants to present a facade, the one where he doesn't even seem to care, and Draco admits, albeit reluctantly, that Harry thinking that he had to hide this from Draco in the first place is partly the reason why he's so panicked.
If it had been Draco's hands, Draco's fingers, all twisted like that, he would have sobbed on for hours from the terror alone. He wouldn't have had enough of himself to even act put together.
It's not that Harry doesn't care, it's just the difference between not caring and not caring enough. Harry thinks himself too dispensable. Being worth less. It's about the space in between worth and less. That's where he thinks he belongs, not quite worthy, but not quite worthless either.
The space between. Limbo.
Well, Draco huffs, too fucking bad. Because Draco can care enough for the both of them until they can get this whole thing over with.
"Harry, let's try the warm…"
"I'm going to lie down," Harry rolls his shoulders and flings off his shoes with the tips of his toes.
Draco doesn't try to grab Harry again, he knows it's a lost cause now. "You're not even going to try the-"
"I'm going to lie down," Harry says, and then he's curled up around his stomach on the thin motel mattress.
Draco numbly pushes the satchel off the chair, hearing it drop to the carpeted floor with a plop, and settles in. Watching Harry's hunched back.
He's surrounded by darkness, except that's not it.
It's not the darkness of a pitch-black room, it's not the darkness of closed lids. It's not darkness at all. It's a disturbing lack of either light or dark.
There's nothing here.
The silence isn't ringing, it's not deafening, it isn't there. He can't hear his own breathing, he can't feel his heart beating. It's like someone turned off the entire world.
Power off.
Harry can't move his fingers, or legs, or arms, or turn his face. He can't feel them either, and panic swallows him whole. He tries to close his eyes, back to the familiar pitch blackness, and tries to imagine himself somewhere. His rooftop, the forest, the aquarium, the fucking cupboard, but he draws a blank.
He can't recall the eyes of the fishes, he can't recall the colours of the tree leaves, he can't remember the sound of the rushing creek, the quiet of the rooftop. His mind has been wiped clean of every image he ever cherished.
He knows them, conceptually. He knows the words to describe them all, because he's done it thousands of times before. It's just that he can't picture them. There's nothing there. He's blind. Or perhaps, the world is blind around him.
Every nook and cranny in his mind is like an empty vast corner. He hasn't felt like this his entire life, not during starvation, never when curled up and cuddling Puppy in his cupboard. Not when Draco smiled at him.
Uneasiness claws up at him, a foreign guest. An intruder, and he has no walls of defence. He can't see or hear or smell.
What he can do then is feel. He does feel something. Like bugs crawling all over him, or someone running a cube of ice down his spine.
It's not a friendly feeling.
And then he realises he's not alone. He still can't see or hear anyone, but he knows, just as well as he knows Draco, or his Sirius, or the shaking of his hands, that he is not alone.
Not being alone in his head, is the single most horrifying thing one can think of. He isn't alone. Something lurks in the corners, something that drips, like bits of damp from the dungeon ceiling. Something rotten, like an animal carcass on scorching asphalt. Something that knows him and his thoughts, can touch him but has no fingers.
This terrifies him more than the vast nothingness, this void. The presence is worse, because he's always been alone. That had been a fact proven true by the way he conjured up his imaginary parade of friends. It's a fact inseparable from his entire sense of self.
He can't see it, but he knows it can see him.
And it is angry. Very, very angry.
Draco prods at the scab on his shoulder, irritatingly catching on the fabric of his shirt. It's been bothering him for ages, really, but he'd been so worried trying not to die, that the itchiness came secondary to the blisters on his feet and his lurching, empty stomach.
While his fingers run over the scab, through his shirt, prompting a wince every once in a while, Draco stares at Harry's back, hunched under the flimsy blanket, his knees curled up.
Draco can't look anywhere else, it's almost instinct at this point, and one would think that constantly staring and watching somebody sleep would get boring rather quickly. It really doesn't.
Draco has watched over Harry for two weeks, every single night, and every single night he relishes, in the way he sees his face relax, and Harry's chest move up and down. It's calming, the repetitive motions. The exhaustion is nothing compared to the contentment.
So Draco watches, and doesn't bother with the time. At one point, instead of the chair, he gets up, stretches as much as his injury allows, and pads over to Harry.
He checks the pulse, not because he has to, but because as much as it is calming for Harry, it also has the same effect for him. Telling him he's alive with every beat, a steady rhythm of reassurances. He gingerly bends down and kisses Harry's fingers, and then lies down, burying his face into the back of Harry's neck, draping his arm over Harry's.
A simple-minded moron would call it spooning, but Draco much much prefers to give it no name. He doesn't like tarnishing it with words. The intimacy.
He feels it in Harry's shoulders first, when he wakes up. They tense abruptly under his arm, and Draco shifts, giving Harry space to wake up properly.
Except that Harry doesn't move. His eyes open, and he frowns, but he doesn't shift an inch.
"Harry?"
Harry blinks, and slowly looks up at Draco and closes his eyes. As if trying something. Draco stares with his breath held in his chest.
Harry's eyes open, and he turns, sitting up. He closes his eyes again, screwing them shut really, so tightly that Draco wonders whether they hurt.
"Harry, is everything-"
"Shh!" Harry hisses, and sits up. His hands, still stuck into claws, move to hook around his neck. "Come on, please."
Draco watches, with confusion more than anything else and then almost screams when Harry's eyes spring open and he jumps out of bed, jostling Draco to fall back on the mattress as he races for the bathroom.
"Harry, what the fuck…"
Harry shakes his head, ignores the broken door and tries to turn the faucet tap open, but of course, his hands don't really accommodate the twisting motions. Draco leans over and twists it for him and there's a cringe, before water lazily drips down.
Harry thrusts both hands under the rush and splashes his face, "It's gone. I can't…"
"What's gone?"
Harry shakes his head, tips his head back and closes his eyes again, this time he opens them with a devastated groan, "I can't. It's gone. Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Draco puts one hand on Harry's arm and turns him away from the faucet, and there in his eyes again, he sees the typhoon, and the deluge of words that Harry wants so desperately to speak but can't.
"What's gone?"
Harry purses his lips, he looks away from Draco, his chin slightly trembling and his eyes glazing, "All of it. I can't... there's nothing there. I tried, and it's-"
He trails off, looks down at their conjoined hands.
"It's gone," Harry whispers.
"What's gone."
"Everything" Harry cries, and Draco blinks.
"Every- Harry, what?" Any and all peace he might have found watching Harry sleep disappears like smoke. They sink down, on the bathroom mat, dangerously close to the shattered mirror Draco hadn't bothered cleaning up.
"Draco, it's gone." Distress is rolling off Harry in waves, which in turn makes Draco stress out. He doesn't know what Harry's talking about. He can't bear to see him like this. Harry's sweating and shivering, the tremors worse than ever. His eyes are frantic. "And there's this… this thing there, it made me blind, it was everywhere and I couldn't-"
"Just slow down, and explain," Draco takes Harry's hands in his own and gently starts stroking that exact point again, feeling his rabbit-fast heartbeat thrum under his thumb. He's freezing. His face is red and blotchy, tear stained. Harry barely slows down.
They look at each other, for a few long seconds.
Harry takes a deep breath, it sounds too much like a groan of pain and Draco's heart clenches.
He's rarely ever seen Harry in such a state. Physically worse, yes, but he'd always been so… strong, emotionally, mentally. "I had a forest in my head, and a creek, and a rooftop- It sounds bad, like I'm crazy or something...but I swear it was… I loved it so much. It's gone, and something is there."
Draco swallows, staring at Harry's haggard face.
It must be the curse. It was messing with Harry's mind. On its way to demolish. Draco swallows his heart, imitating the lump in his throat.
First his memories, and now his…. his safe spaces. They haven't talked about it much. Not at all.
But Draco knows. The places Harry takes refuge, and Draco knows how it was vital for him. The assurances. The places he created, because the world around him wasn't good enough.
It wasn't safe.
He can not imagine it. He's always prided himself in being smart, logical and rational, but he can't picture how it must feel, to have your world taken from under your feet like a rug.
He doesn't understand how Harry can go through all of that and still remain so… so good.
"Harry…" he shakes his head, "how can something be there when everything is…"
"The something isn't mine. It's not mine."
Yes, it should sound crazy. But it doesn't. It sounds terrifyingly explainable. That something is the curse and it doesn't belong in Harry. It never did. And now Harry can sense it, and it's blotting out everything good and light in him.
"Maybe we should go back to sleep," Draco says, swallowing down nausea. "Try again when you wake up-"
"No!" the vehemence in Harry's voice startles Draco, "I can't sleep. No. No."
"Fine, alright," he says hastily, grabbing hold of Harry before he could fling himself at the wall, "Let's just get off the bathroom floor."
"It's gone. My fish, and my… my forest it's gone. I can't."
Draco has no idea what Harry is talking about, except that it's bad. Very bad. "It'll come back, you can build them again," he says, even though he doesn't know that. He just wants it to be true.
"No. You don't understand," there are tears streaming down Harry's face and Draco's own eyes sting, "I'm not in charge. I'm not. It's everywhere, and everything in its place is gone. It ate all that was mine."
Draco blinks back his own tears and grabs hold of Harry's hand, twisting wildly in his lap again. "Look at me. Are you here?"
Harry pauses, "I'm here," he sniffs.
"And are you holding my hand?"
"Yes."
"Then you can feel this," he kisses Harry on the cheek, slowly, "and this," his thumb rests on Harry's wrist, "yes?"
"Yes," Harry breathes. His pulse hasn't slowed down the slightest bit, but he seems to be breathing easier now.
"It can't hurt you." Although he doesn't know that, it's all empty promises. He says them anyway because Harry needs it.
These fucking white lies.
"Okay?" He kisses Harry on the forehead, "I'm right here, we're both here, and the something isn't. We're real," Draco catches his error as soon as he says it, but Harry is already pulling away, face twisting with indignation.
"It's real-"
"I know," Draco lifts his arms up, as if trying to placate a wild, frightened animal, "I know it's real, but so are we. So we'll do what you want to do."
"What do I do?" Harry's voice wobbles.
"I don't know," Draco lowers his hands and scoots closer to Harry until they're pressed together, "We're sitting. That's doing something."
"It's my fault," Harry says abruptly. And Draco is blind sided by the sudden change in topic.
"What?" He asks, "What's your fault?"
"Everything… Just, everything. It's my fault we're stuck in this mess, it's my fault my forest, and rooftop, and- and the aquarium is gone. Sirius is gone. I made him leave."
"Harry-" Draco starts, he doesn't know what to do, mainly because the things Harry is telling him are things he's never explained before.
The only Sirius Draco knows is eons away from them. Harry couldn't have possibly made him leave.
They all sound like some sort of inside jokes. Except they're not jokes. They're worth tons.
"He'll come back?"
"No! You don't understand, if I hadn't antagonised Umbridge, I'd never have been injured, and if I had never accepted your help, she'd never have tried to hurt you, and- and if I'd never run away, we'd not have been here."
Draco's heart sinks, "Harry, we talked about this, it's no one's fault but Rosier, and the Dark Lord, and Umbridge. Blame them."
Harry ignores him, "And my head, it's not like someone else is doing something to me. It's all me. I am going insane, Snape was right. I'm snapping like a twig."
"No!" he says vehemently, this is spiralling out of control. And then Draco wants to laugh, because when has it ever been in control? Still, he forges on, trying to stop a tipping dominos, "We both agreed that he'd overreacted. Please, Harry."
Harry doesn't even pause, "And if you hadn't come to get me, if you hadn't found me, Draco, I don't know what I'd have done. I don't even remember what happened to Rosier," there's this awful pause, "He died. Please tell me that he died."
"He did," Draco reassures quickly. Hell, he'd have said Rosier died even if he hadn't.
Harry clenches his eyes shut, "I don't… I don't remember anything," he bites out, "I know what happened before. That beautiful dinner, and I ran away, and I know what happened after, we kissed and it was amazing but there's this blank spot. I know it's missing. He... Oh god, what if you hadn't found me?"
"Harry…"
Harry's face goes incredibly blank. A clean slate. There's a moment of silence, and realization. And he looks at him. Draco has a split second of trepidation before Harry speaks.
"How did you find me?"
Draco swallows, fuck. He knew this would happen eventually, "Harry, you should have something to drink first, or eat. You're shaking really badly, and I know you're in pain. Then we can talk, alright? When we're both a little calmer."
"Do not take that patronizing tone with me! What are you hiding? How did you find me?"
"I'm not-" but he is. Draco is hiding so much from Harry. His hands clench around the bedsheets, clammy and sweaty with panic. "Please, Harry."
"Tell me." Harry's eyes are remarkably dry now, although they remain red rimmed. They're blazing with familiar determination.
Draco lets out a slow breath, "There's… there's a, well, you remember that shell necklace I made you?"
Harry's hand darts towards the necklace, currently wrapped around his wrist.
"Yeah, that." His own hand darts to the thin cord around his neck. "I have a similar one, with only one shell." Draco pauses, unsure. He wants the floor to open up and swallow him whole. The shell seems to be searing hot against his chest.
"Go on."
Draco takes a deep breath, bracing for the blow out, "There's a tracking charm on yours."
Harry goes still, "You… you put a tracking charm on me?"
Draco winces, "I know how it sounds but-"
Harry laughs, suddenly, an ugly, twisted sound, hysterical and mad. It doesn't sound like Harry.
"Even you knew I was fucked up and going to do something, mess it all up," he laughs again, like it's all some big irony, his fingers curled.
"Oh man, I have missed this!" He exclaims.
Draco sits in silence, clueless as to how he could possibly justify this.
"You knew I was going to run away, is that why you took that precaution? That is it, isn't it?" Harry's hand clasps over his mouth, but Draco isn't sure whether it is to stop the laughter or the tears, "You can't give me all that bullshit about me not being crazy now," he nods, there's a wretched smile on his face, evident behind his white-knuckled fingers, "You knew."
Draco's mouth turns dry, he has to try three times before he can make his voice work, "No! Of course not, Harry, listen."
Harry does, smiling, patronizingly. Like he thinks Draco is full of shit.
"...just, I'd seen you wandering around, and the wards hadn't been marked clearly, I'd just been a little afraid for you, and instead of talking to you about it, I did that. Like a moron. I know. I didn't do it because I didn't trust you and I'd never think you're crazy-" He's babbling now. He can't make it stop.
"So…" Harry tilts his head to the side, considering, "you knew I'd pass the wards because I am careless?"
"Don't put words in my mouth, the only reason I did it is because I am paranoid and care about you."
Harry's nails draw blood, clenching into the flesh around his mouth, little droplets smearing on his skin and lips. Draco winces, wanting to pull Harry's hands away, grip them so he could feel his heartbeat and not let him hurt himself. But his touch would be unwelcome now. Probably do more harm than good.
"You thought I couldn't take care of myself," Harry glares at Draco, "Like a baby that needs minding, you-"
"I love you," he blurts out, and isn't this awful timing? "That's why. I fucking love you, and I can't stand the thought of you being hurt," his fingers twitch by his side, "I didn't want to seem like a creep so I-"
Harry has gone still again, and even though it's scary, it's a relief to see that he isn't clawing at himself anymore. "What?"
"I love you. I do. You're as important to me as every breath I take and I can't fathom anything ever happening to you. So that's why I hid it from you and why I'm hiding-" Draco snaps his mouth shut.
But it's enough. Harry's eyes sharpen at him, "Hiding what?"
When Draco doesn't say anything, Harry asks more insistently, his fingers resuming their digging, "You're hiding something else? What is it? Wasn't the tracking charm enough? Are you gonna tell me you're secretly on his side now?"
Draco startles, "What?! Harry, no! How could you think that?"
"Then why won't you tell me?" He scrubs his hands through his hair and down his face, pulling strands of it down with him. He doesn't even seem to notice.
"Harry," Draco moves closer, watching him like this is terrifying. "You don't understand-"
"You're right, I don't!" Harry jerks away from Draco, making him freeze, "Because you won't tell me! Because you're hiding things from me. The one person I trust more than I do even Ron and Hermione, the one I trust so much that I made Sirius leave."
"I'm sorry."
"I made him leave. Do you have any idea what I did for you? What secret could be fucking worth this? Now it's all gone, and there's nothing left!"
Harry is not aware of it, Draco can tell. He's too angry. He's pulling viciously at his hair, tearing off large clumps of it. Draco sits there, unable to stop the destruction as Harry sobs and bleeds and hurts. The nail marks on his face are a deep, dark red.
How did it all go so wrong?
They'd found a motel, they'd had a date, they're so close. And this is when it all falls apart? He'd worked so hard to gain that shred of care and trust from Harry, and it's all slipping away right in front of his eyes.
"Harry, I'm sorry, please, just…" Draco realised he's crying. "Just stop that." He scoots as close as he dares to Harry, "Hey, hey please."
"I don't get it," Harry pauses, his hands clenched around his hair, "What could be more important than… than my mind? Who am I if not my thoughts and head and memories? I can't think straight, it's like… like looking through a dirty broken window without my glasses, it's like my eyes are bleeding."
"I'm sorry." What else can he do right now?
Harry looks like he's preparing for a goddamn fist fight. He looks like he's going to keel over any minute.
Venom drips from his eyes, and his fingers, the ones on his left hand circle around Draco's wrist with a death grip, hard enough to bruise, "You say you fucking love me!" His other hand, still in his hair clenches, in tandem with the frustration and hurt and anger in his voice, "You know it! You know what's wrong with me."
Draco swallows, opens his mouth, tries to speak, but all he can see, and comprehend, is that Harry is just sitting there, and tearing his fucking hair out, and it's as if they're back again, to the nights where his eyes are closed, and he, oblivious to the world around him. And his own body that is striving, so hard, to bring harm to the soul inside.
Draco surges forward, holds Harry's wrist and gently tugs it off, and Harry fights. He is much much stronger than Draco had thought. He toples over him, his fists raining a barrage of hits against Draco's chest, as Draco rolls them over and traps Harry in his arms.
"I'm sorry," he says, over and over again in Harry's hair as the boy growls and hits him, his attempts only half-hearted.
"Liar! Liar! You fucker, let me go!"
"I'm sorry. It's no use, if I tell you, it'll get worse."
He drags then both to a sitting position, leans against the damp wall behind them, and Harry's fist lands on his shoulder.
A sharp pain runs through his arm and Draco curses.
"You are a bastard," Harry tells him, maliciously, raising his fist again, but Draco is quicker, he throws himself at Harry, lands on top of him, and just stays there.
His arms locked around Harry's shoulders like a cage and there they remain, for approximately five minutes, their breathing harsh and loud in the otherwise silent room.
Then Harry goes completely limp in his arms. Draco is terrified for a second, but then he feels Harry's breath against his neck, and loosens his arms around the other boy. His breaths have evened out now, and he seems to be sleeping. His face looks peaceful again.
And scratched up. Like Filch let Mrs. Norris have a go at him.
Draco's eyes travel over Harry's body, and settle on his fingers. Or more specifically, the nails. They're a cracked, bloody mess. And Harry hadn't even noticed. They smear blood wherever they touch, and Draco's terrified of an infection setting in.
There's a lump in his throat as he gingerly gets both of them off the floor. It's a little hard, trying not to wake Harry, but he manages.
His shoulder throbs in pain, and his stomach is cramping. But he makes himself rummage around their bag for a bandage; he upturns the bag completely.
There are none. He's staring down at the mess, a useless mess of empty potion bottles, a knife, and wands they can't use.
The hopelessness is so wild and all consuming, that he almost jumps out of his skin when the door to their motel room opens.
"Hey sweetheart, no one was answering the door so I decided to ch-" the middle aged woman, wearing a dirty apron around a dress that very much does not suit her, stands at the doorway. She has a mop in her hand, and a bucket trails behind her.
Draco and the woman both stare at each other, eyes wide. He's frozen, he doesn't know what to do. And what if she sees the broken mirror? They can't pay for it. They'll be thrown out.
The woman recovers first, "Are you quite alright?" She hasn't yet noticed Harry.
Draco bites back the urge to snarl at her. He doesn't want her getting even more suspicious.
On closer inspection, a tag on the front of her blouse reads 'Martha'. Well, Martha should fuck right off and leave him to his misery.
Naturally, no one answers his wishes.
The woman turns towards the bed and her mouth parts. Draco grimaces, if he could have used his wand he'd have obliviated this woman, confounded her, and then made her leave.
Except, if he could've used his wand, they wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.
Martha stares back and forth between Harry and Draco, and then closes her mouth, a strange look crossing her eyes. "Well," she says, "Well, this doesn't look good. You're going to need some antiseptic and bandages for those nails, honey. And some cream for those scratches."
"I don't need your help," he says automatically.
Martha looks unconvinced, "Are you sure, hon?"
"I…" he turns to Harry, and then back at the woman. The fight drains out of him, what's the worst that could happen? She'd laugh at him and do nothing. "Do you have bandages?"
Martha pauses, before saying, "I'm sure there's something in my purse."
A tiny smidge of hope returns, and he asks, "And pain killers?"
She purses her lips, fingers tapping lightly on the mop handle, her gaze flicking back to Harry, "Does he need the hospital?"
"No," Draco says hastily, and then a little slower when she frowns at him, "No, just… I don't know. Do you have them or not?"
She sighs, ceasing the tapping, "I have ibuprofen, if that helps."
His mind screeches to a halt, "And what's that?"
There's a pause, before- "Pain killer."
He feels stupid. He rummages around his pocket for all the bills and coins they might have left, taking out the crumpled pieces of money, he starts walking to her, "Listen, this is all the money I have in exchange for…"
Martha quickly shakes her head, "None of that, lad. I don't take money from a kiddo."
So this was the catch? He should have expected it. But she seemed so genuinely concerned. He swallows and tries again. "I need the bandages and the ibu… Pain thing."
"And I'll give them to you," she says promptly, and Draco stares. "My locker is downstairs, and I'm sure Mona has some stuff in her stash too."
Draco blinks, "Who?"
"The cook,"she explains quickly.
Draco stares at Harry, and then Martha, he asks again, just to make sure, "You'll just give them to me?"
"Sure," she shrugs, "Seems like your friend needs the band-aids more than I do. What happened to his face?"
"That is none of your business…" he snaps, and then winces, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I can't tell you. Okay?" He takes a deep breath, hardly able to believe it even now, "You really want to help us?"
She's looking at him strangely now, but answers, "It's nothing, just some band-aids, ibuprofen. Maybe some rags and warm water to clean that blood off, some balm for the scratches."
Draco blows out a breath, stifling the urge to crumble on the floor, "Thank you, so much."
Martha nods, "Just follow me. I'll have to ask Mona too,"
Draco's suddenly alert again. The more people that see them, the more evidence. That is not good.
"Listen, she can't see me," he says urgently.
"She's a doll, don't worry-"
"No. You seeing me, that's bad enough." And they'd already done accidental magic. He's not sure if the Ministry can trace something this miniscule, especially done without a wand, but he can't risk it. "You will be in danger. If anyone, ever, comes looking for us here, you have to lie."
He doesn't care that he's giving advice to a muggle. He doesn't fucking care that she's a muggle. Her life matters, because she is decent enough to offer them help.
Draco can't believe that's the only thing he cares about. And then again, can't believe that he was so prejudiced-maybe still is- to refuse help just based on her blood.
Martha looks quite alarmed now, and Draco desperately hopes that all this baggage won't put her off helping them. "Who would follow a bunch of kids-"
"They will kill you," he says sharply, and firmly. "And they can do that. The law can't touch them. Please, just, I'll come with you, but you deal with her, and stay away from suspicious assholes asking after us," he's babbling so much. He probably shouldn't have said anything, let alone this much. Great. She probably thinks they're escapees from a mental asylum.
She just looks concerned, "Are you in danger? Can you call the police?"
He doesn't know what police is. "We're calling nobody."
There's a few moments of silence as Martha contemplates it, and Draco waits for the bombshell.
"Okay, alright then. Right this way," she says and turns around, opening the door and holding it open for Draco.
Draco hesitates.
Her eyes follow his gaze to Harry, who's completely still, the rise and fall of his chest the only movement. "He'll be fine. He looks out like a light."
If only sleep was enough to prevent disasters.
Harry isn't asleep when he gets back. He's just laying on the bed in the dark, his hands drawn to his chest, and his eyes sluggishly blinking at the table lamp on the nightstand.
Draco thickly swallows, and closes the door behind him as quietly as possible. The brown paper bag that Martha gave him crinkles in his hold as he delicately makes his way to the bed.
"Hey," he mutters, feeling the mattress dip as he settles down.
"Hey," Harry croaks. He looks slightly better than before. Or maybe it's just wishful thinking. His eyes are less red though, so Draco knows he must have stopped crying some time ago. And the cuts look less inflamed. Just shallow, angry red lines. Imitations of the deep scab on his own face.
"I got you some things," he says, hoping Harry won't reject them out of anger, "For the pain."
"I thought you weren't coming back," Harry says, and the hollow way he says it makes Draco go cold. What-?
"That's silly," he forces himself to say, forcing himself to sound light, nonchalant, but it's impossible. He settles for concerned instead of panicked. "Where else would I go? In this rain too."
"Stop mocking me." His voice is hoarse, as if he's been screaming for hours. Draco shudders, because through some twisted sense of irony, he actually knows how Harry sounds after he's been screaming for hours.
"I'm not," he helps Harry sit up a little, blinking like it could wash away the memories; their bodies pressed close together, he shows Harry the bag of medicine, "How are you supposed to take these?"
"You just left me here," Harry whispers, burying his face in the crook of Draco's neck. His face feels hot. Is Harry running a fever?
"I'm sorry, I was just down the hallway."
"You didn't tell me." His breath brushes against Draco's shoulder. He sounds exhausted.
"You were sleeping." He clears his throat, trying to remain calm. His safe spaces are gone. He's shaking so badly and he's in so much pain. He shouldn't have left without a word. Especially after they'd had their argument."I'm sorry. I'll be more careful from now on, just tell me how you're supposed to take this thing."
"You can't just leave me." Harry's arms tighten painfully around him.
"I didn't," Draco whispers, wrapping an arm around Harry.
They stay like that for a few moments. Or maybe more, Draco doesn't know. But eventually, Harry's shuddering breaths slow down, even the shaking eases a little. Harry pulls away, and looks down at the discarded bag of meds.
"How did you afford this? We didn't have enough money for this," he looks at him, frowning, "Did you rob a-"
"No," Draco interrupts quickly, feeling strangely bereft without Harry in his arms, "None of that. A muggle helped."
Harry blinks, "A muggle helped you."
"I don't know why you find that hard to believe, Martha was great." He really hopes he didn't bring doom upon her. She wouldn't deserve it. "How are your hands?"
Harry looks down at them, as if just realising he has them. He flexes a finger or two, just barely. "Numb," he says. Matter-of-fact. Emotionless.
Draco nods as if that's perfectly normal, but it isn't. None of it is. He pulls out the little jar, "See what I also have here, ointment." He looks up, and Harry is staring at his face instead of the jar. "Come on, don't look like that."
Harry groans, "Oh fuck you. Just…" He looks away, flushing red.
Draco regards him in silence, and Harry's tough exterior crumbles.
"I'm sorry," he blurts out, "For shouting at you before and the mirror, and this whole thing. I'm just—." he trails off, and silence overtakes the space between them.
"The mirror?" Draco's voice rings out, and scenes flash before his eyes, of their struggle, right on the floor, and Harry hitting him in the chest, over and over again, as he called him a liar.
Harry groans into his hands, "I didn't mean to break it."
It seems rather odd to be hung up over the mirror, given all that happened afterwards. Draco, gulps in a deep inhale and leans a bit forward, "It's nothing. Martha said she won't say a thing… Are you okay?"
Harry looks at him, his face impassive, and marred and his eyes narrowed, "Of course not."
"Dumb question."
Harry groans again, and tries scooting a bit closer, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to sound so mean-"
"How can you say that?" Draco interrupts him, "you're not mean. You're like the least mean person I've fucking seen in my life and-" and I, if nobody else, deserve your rage. Undiluted and not delayed.
"You don't have to do this," Harry says,
And Draco sighs, putting his hand over Harry's frantic, wringing ones. It's his own fault, after all.
"You think me not calling you mean is doing something?" Draco smiles, "I…"
I love you.
"I do," Harry interjects, "I was such a bastard to you. You didn't deserve that." He sounds genuine, and miserable and Draco's horrified to see his eyes well up.
"It's fine," he says hastily. He doesn't know what Harry sees in him anymore.
He doesn't know what he sees in himself . All Draco knows, has known for a while now, is that Harry is not a force to be reckoned with. He's a gentle storm, and from time to time, no matter their predicament, Draco wants to let Harry pass him, make him better.
And it hurts so much, knowing that Draco can't help him. What he is doing now, lying, manipulating, controlling, the exact opposite of helping. It's tarnishing.
And Harry, gullible, and loving and trusting, if only of Draco… he doesn't even remember the fight.
"I'm such a dick," he says thickly.
"Well…" Draco smirks. Harry's face lights up.
"Oh," Harry giggles wetly, and something eases in Draco, "You're awful."
It's true. He is awful. Draco loathes it, but he guesses that for Harry's sake, he can bear with himself for a while.
Draco swiftly uncaps the little jar, the one he's gotten from Mona, Martha's cook friend, and lets the empty packet tumble to the floor, he holds Harry's gaze, waiting for a response, and runs a hand through his hair.
In Harry's body, he sees a reflection of himself, and that reflection, and Harry both seem to be beckoning him closer. To just get closer, close the distance, and stay for an undetermined amount of time.
"We need a rest," he tells Harry, pressing his lips together as the strong scent of peppermint hits him in the face and burns through his nostrils.
The balm is blessedly cool on his own fingers, Draco momentarily hopes that it'll feel at least somewhat good to Harry too.
He takes Harry's hands, and kisses him. He can breathe a little easier, with his eyes closed, and his fingers, so carefully holding Harry's.
The fight might have not happened in Harry's eyes, but it did in Draco's. And he needs to make up for it, but that's not really a nice way of describing it.
It's not compensation. Draco just wants to tear a part of himself, give it to Harry, and tell him to keep it. The salvageable part. He deepens the kiss yet again.
"What are you doing," Harry mutters against his lips. Draco runs his fingers through Harry's. Harry groans into the kiss, but Draco can't tell whether it's from relief, or pleasure. He runs a tongue over Harry's bottom lip.
Take it, he thinks, just take me, and hold me, and make me a better person.
Harry stiffens, only momentarily, and Draco panics. He's allowed to do this, right? He wants to pull out of the kiss, but Harry's fingers, numb and tensed into stillness before, squeeze his hands ferociously.
Draco has never craved anything more. They taste so sweet, his lips, so warm, and soft and...
This has no right feeling so good. Draco hums and slowly pushes the bag off the bed with his elbow, reclining Harry back in the same motion. They're flushed against each other now, Draco carefully keeping his weight off Harry.
He finally breaks off to breathe, "You have to tell me," he kisses Harry's jaw, massaging his fingers, "when you want me to stop."
Harry breaths hard under him, reaches up and claims Draco's lips again, his face dotted red and his fingers entangled with Draco's. He doesn't remember the last time anything felt this exhilarating.
Draco thinks about it, for approximately the twenty seconds it takes for Harry to run out of breath again. They both need this. A bit more. A little bit of rest. Something sweet, painless.
"Harry," he murmurs against Harry's neck. He still smells like him, despite everything. Draco would recognise his scent everywhere. Anywhere.
Harry hums above him. Pushes his hair out of his face with a tiny smile. He's so shy.
"We'll stop if you want to," Draco promises, one he never intends to break, "Okay?"
Harry shudders, "Okay."
His hands break out of Draco's hold and lock around his neck, the peppermint scent engulfs them both as he deepens the kiss, gently sucking on his lower lip, insisting. His own fingers are featherlight as he traces Harry's jaw, his neck, the curve of his shoulder.
Draco can hardly believe this is his first time. Harry seems like a professional so far. Their lips fit together so well, they don't even feel cold anymore.
When he pulls away, their lips are red and their faces flushed, and Harry's eyes are telling him 'more'. 'Whatever it is, just more of it.'
"Harry," Draco says, soft, not wanting to break whatever this is. It feels precious. He wants to still it, Harry's face, like that. Caught in pleasure and flushed with happiness. Frame it, capture it, burnish it in his head.
He can't believe it's taken him years, getting to know such a complex creature. His pain, happiness and good, beautiful mind. His previous thoughts.
Draco will save him. No matter the cost. Because there are no other alternatives, and no other choice.
"Don't stop," Harry says, resolute.
Draco gives him a tired grin, and reaches for the lapels of his coat, "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear those words."
Since that night, the very first, when Harry's face shone above him, framed in a halo of light.
'I told you so,' he'd said, with that ridiculous grin, and Draco, more than anything else, wanted to kiss the grin, stitch it to his own face, through the haze of pain.
He shrugs the coat off with Harry's assistance, and Harry shifts, the coat is flung away, and they kick the itchy blanket off the bed as well. They should be cold without it, without the coat, but he feels hotter than ever.
Draco wants to babble to Harry all the inner thoughts zipping through his head, the moments, his fears and every fucking urge that pushes him further into Harry's arms, but he's almost sure that Harry knows them all without him having to utter a single word.
And he, in return, can see perhaps for the same time, a glimpse of Harry's thoughts, evident on his face.
The desire to just be in their own little world for how long it takes. To just be. Not in the motel room.
But with each other.
A/N * the fade to black didn't involve penetrative sex, as we have not tagged this fic as underage, HOWEVER sexual intercourse occurred and will be talked about in the following chapter