A/N: Reviews are greatly appreciated; they feed my muse and encourage me to keep at it.. and, if any of you have looked at my track record for finishing stories, well, encouragement is most certainly needed.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Sabotage Internal is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter One

x

Talk to me like there was no suffering,

like I didn't tumble deeper, just to lose another keeper,

like I was who I used to be.

Oh, bear with me. I had to try everything—

Jekyll infiltrate my Hyde.

/ / Sabotage Internal by The Spill Canvas.

x

His classes flew by with an unprecedented speed.

Harry had simply went through the motions, dutifully taking notes and practicing his spell-work, but with very little thought. He absorbed none of what was said to him. Unbeknownst to him, he had walked away from several conversations through out the day, turning abruptly when someone was in mid-sentence. He was a wall, expressionless and empty, and it wasn't until he was in the library late that evening that he blinked out of his stupor, peering through the fog blanketing his mind.

There were several books sprawled across the table in front of him, some of which were open, but upside down, clearly of no apparent use. He furrowed his brow, eying their worn appearance with vague curiosity. He flipped one over, scanning its first few lines but unable to comprehend. What was this—German? Fairly certain that he had never been able to speak German, nor had he ever had a passing interest in the language, Harry tried remembering its purpose. His mind drew a blank and he tried remembering further, tried thinking of class and their lessons—had he even attended lunch or dinner? He couldn't even remember moving from the couch in the common room the night before, his cheeks flushing at the thought. Panic gripped at his heart and he slammed the book shut, pushing it away in a rush. He flinched as it slid off of the table, landing on the floor with a loud thump!, its noise interrupting the quiet environment of the library.

He swallowed, looking around.

A student he barely recognized glared at him from a nearby table, and Harry quickly looked away, refusing to meet their eyes or offer an apology. Carefully, he moved to pick up the book, dropping it haphazardly on the table. They were glaring again, but he ignored it, settling back into his chair.

His eyes flicked to the next table, the corner of his mouth twitching when green eyes met gray.

Draco Malfoy offered him a cold smirk and Harry pursed his lips, glaring at the other for good measure. The smirk widened and Harry rolled his eyes. He gave Draco a disgusted look and adverted his eyes, looking back down at the books sprawled across his table. The war had left the wizarding world in shambles. Many had disappeared—many more had died—and everyone had tried picking up the pieces of their lives as quickly as possible. New laws were considered and passed and defenses repaired—everybody's eyes were on the horizon, too strained to celebrate the end of the darkness and the rise of the light. People were concerned, obsessed with the possibility that it was simply a stalemate, not an end, and that another war was on its way. They were frantic to find some sort of preventive measure and turned their eyes onto the children of known or captured Death Eater's. Those children—they had been raised in darkness, had no doubt been fed it their entire lives—they had darkness in their heart and they should be locked up—or better yet, eradicated, given the kiss and sentenced to a self-imprisonment. The Ministry tried placating the public by trying children, teenagers, forcing them to take veritaserum—Draco had been one of the first to volunteer, but the Ministry backed out of the arrangement, deciding that they were unable to prosecute children simply because of their parents crimes. Harry had the sinking feeling that there had been a lot of money involved with that decision, but the Ministry showed no paper trail. Whether Draco, and other Slytherins, were truly innocent or had simply called the Ministry's bluff—Harry would never know.

His skin prickled, the hair on the back of his neck and arms raising, goosebumps covering his skin. He could feel Draco's eyes and he tried to ignore it, scanning a few more of the books he had chosen. There was another one about muggle wars and Harry furrowed his brow, unable to remember grabbing it. Pushing his glasses up with his forefinger, he glanced up; Draco was still staring at him, his expression unreadable. Harry quickly adverted his eyes and began stacking the books that were of no apparent use—which was basically every one he had grabbed. It was then that it happened again—Draco watched, with slight curiosity, as Harry's irritated expression melted into something else. The emptiness was written across his face and when Harry looked up again, dead, blank eyes met Draco's own. Draco narrowed his eyes. Over the years, he had become very aware of Harry's presence, partly out of duty to his family and their cause, and partly out of fascination. Despite the fact that their cause had abruptly ended, Draco found that old habits died hard—when ever Harry was in the same room, Draco found himself watching him, studying him for signs of weakness and, appropriately, pouncing when they spotted. Since the beginning of term, Harry's weaknesses were more apparent than ever. Draco he had seen the emptiness in his heart, witnessed it taking over and blanketing his demeanor. He could see Harry's cracks as plain as day and it gave him a silent thrill. He was ecstatic that a piece of Harry's life was in ruins, too, that someone had managed to take something from him just as he had taken something from so many others.

Harry stood, walking in his direction, and Draco watched intently as he headed toward the stacks.

"The phoenix flies true north," Harry muttered, his voice barely audible as he passed, "and traitors burn."

Draco's eyes darkened and he raised an eyebrow to his back.

"Excuse me, Potter?" he sneered.

The nearest student coughed loudly, glaring, and Draco turned in his seat. He gave the other a pointed look of his own, his mouth twisted into a scowl, and as if suddenly realizing who he was, the student looked away with wide eyes and went to packing his rucksack. Draco shifted again, his eyes flicking back to Harry, who was returning to his previous table, eyes downcast. He sat without a word and Draco stared at him for a long moment, irritation blanketing his chest. He would not be ignored by the likes of him.

And so, Draco pounced.

With a scrape of his chair, Draco stood up and strutted over to Harry's table. He laid his hands flat against the wood, smirking slightly.

"What did you just say, Scar-face?" he asked, his voice low, challenging. Harry refused to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the remaining book, and with a single, languid movement, Draco reached out and closed it, slamming it shut. His hand was flat against the cover, now, and yet Harry simply stared.

"Deaf and mute, Potter?" he sneered.

Finally, Harry's eyes flicked up, meeting Draco's, and Draco was unsurprised at their lifelessness. A thrill of pleasure shot through his body and he clenched his jaw, repeating his question a final time, pausing between each word for emphasis—

"What did you just say?"

Harry blinked, still expressionless, and slipped the book out from under Draco's hand. Draco scowled as Harry moved to stand—he reached out, reflexively, and pushed down on Harry's shoulder, knocking him back into his seat. Harry startled, dropping the book as his eyes flicked to Draco's face.

"What the hell, Malfoy?" he growled, pulling back.

Draco smirked, his hand falling back onto the table.

"I won't be ignored by the likes of you," he said, his disgust apparent in his voice.

Harry furrowed his brow, his mouth twisting into a slight frown. Ignoring him? The last Harry had remembered, Draco had been seated across the aisle—he shook his head.

"You're off your bloody rocker, Malfoy," he muttered, eyes dropping to the table.

Where had his books gone?

"Funny," he continued, eyes flashing as he looked back at the Slytherin, "but what did you do with my books?"

Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and his smirk widened.

"And I'm off my rocker?" he asked.

Harry rolled his eyes. What ever game Draco was playing at—well, he refused to take the bait.

"What ever, Malfoy," he muttered, pushing his chair back and standing. Draco didn't stop him this time, instead watching with slight amusement as Harry moved, tripping over the book he had dropped. He stared down at it for a long moment, clearly confused, before kneeling down to get it. He could hear Draco snickering behind him and he gritted his teeth. He was so not in the mood right then.

He straightened, and started toward the stacks again, tossing over his shoulder, "Just bugger off, ferret."

Draco uttered no reply, his smirk still firmly in place as he watched Harry return the book and wander out of the library. He looked back to the table Harry had been sitting at, pleased to see that the other had left his rucksack—his eyes lit up and he moved forward, dumping outs its contents in a single movement. A piece of wood caught the light and, instinctively, he picked it up, another silent thrill coursing through his body.

Twirling Harry's wand easily in his fingers, Draco's mouth twisted into an easy, dark smile.