A/N: Again, thanks to those of you that reviewed. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! It's not as brilliant as I'd like it to be, but I think it does some much needed explaining. The next one should move along a bit quicker. Hopefully.

Oh, and if you're just finding this story, please review! Any sort of feedback is appreciated! It assures me that I do, in fact, have an audience and I'm not just talking to myself over here.

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. To Live Without It is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 4

X

Denial feels so good.

We don't have a problem at all.

Oh, denial feels so good,
I'll even help you put up your wall.

And I'll applaud you as you fall.

/ / To Lie Without It by The Spill Canvas.

X

The word came out a strangled gasp, wedging itself somewhere in his throat.

"Wh—what?"

No. This wasn't happening. Harry had expected them to come in and tell him he was depressed, clinically so. That would have been horrible in itself, but it was at least expected, believable. This—this was wrong. It had to be. Schizophrenic? He remembered something on the telly—a woman with unseen friends, voices in her head, and delusions—no. He'd know if he was schizophrenic, wouldn't he? There would be proof. More proof than this, simple words and a bloody test.

Professor McGonagall's eyes were sad.

"I'm sorry, Harry," she said gently, sincerity ringing in her voice. "I know that it may be hard to understand, or accept, but—"

"No," he interrupted, shaking his head. "You're lying."

He couldn't think anything but this isn't happening. Harry could feel the floor lurching again, his world flipping upside down and spinning horribly out of control. Things weren't supposed to be like this. He had won. He had done the impossible, conquered Voldemort and shone his light where only darkness existed. He had fulfilled his destiny, his purpose, like heroes were required to do, so where was his happy ending? Heroes were supposed to have one, right? He was supposed to be happy, now, with a long life ahead of him—he was supposed to be happy, dammit. Not mad. Not bloody bonkers, falling off of his rocker at an unprecedented speed.

Professor McGonagall frowned—she could see him breaking further, falling a part in front of her, and her heartache throbbed. This wasn't right, or fair, but it was what it was, and the sooner Harry could try to accept it, the better off he would be. He may never believe it, she knew—his delusions may interfere with that, but he could at least accept the diagnosis itself.

"I'm sorry," she repeated. She was at a loss of what to say—she knew she needed to be strong, both as the Headmistress and someone who had come to care about Harry over the years, and she knew that an apology meant nothing. It changed nothing and offered little comfort. "There will be a registered Psychiatrist coming to visit you and confirm our diagnosis, of course. He will also speak to you about your options—what you should do next, treatments available, and how best to proceed."

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head again. He was no longer a simple observer—he was there, really there, and it hurt. There was a strange mixture of disbelief, panic, anger and sadness, all twisted into one, throbbing and building and choking him, and it hurt. His hands fell to the bed, his fingers twisting and pulling at the blanket, an automatic release.

Professor McGonagall studied him for a long moment before adding, carefully, "They will also need to evaluate if you're a danger to yourself, or others. Until they arrive, you will be kept under constant supervision."

Harry's head drooped and he kicked at the floor with the toe of his foot, hard, scraping skin against the stone. He thought of Draco, the Death Eater, the liar, and opened his eyes, gritting his teeth.

"He's lying. I didn't try—I didn't—" he paused, finally meeting Professor McGonagall's eyes with his own, "I couldn't kill myself."

Because I'm too much of a coward. The sentence finished itself, silent and unsaid, and Harry felt unbelievably weak.

Professor McGonagall shook her head.

"No, Harry. He isn't lying."

She gave Pomfrey a pointed look, who before had simply been standing there, observing, and trying very hard not to honor the burning behind her eyes. At Professor McGonagall's look, Pomfrey stepped forward a bit, straightening, and tried very hard to meet Harry's eyes. Like Professor McGonagall, Pomfrey was very aware of Harry's cracks. They were surfacing, written across his face and body, and a part of her broke for him. This wasn't fair. Although often from a distance, she had seen him go through so much—she had tended to his physical wounds and hoped that the love around him would be enough to heal his mental ones, to keep him sane.

"I found you two last night," she started, Harry deliberately looking past her. "When I came in, you had lost a lot of blood."

She glanced at Professor McGonagall, who gave her a slight nod, and then continued.

"You tried jumping. Mr. Malfoy, who was injured in the process, had enough sense to stop you."

The memory flashed before her eyes. Draco and Harry, tangled together on the floor. Sobbing. Horrible, heart-wrenching sobbing. Pieces of glass scattered about, glistening in the moonlight and shining with blood as the night air rushed in. The air had been electric, the buzz of magic apparent, and her first thought had not been about the two boys laying on the floor. Instead, it had been about the wards, the castle, the sheer power that had broken through—she cleared her throat, blinking away the memory.

Harry simply stared.

None of this made sense. None of it—especially that. Why would Draco save him? Why was he even here? Why couldn't he remember? He had so many questions, but what came out of his mouth was, "He tried pushing me?"

It was supposed to be a statement—an accusation—not a question, but it came out too soft, too uncertain.

"At my suggestion," Professor McGonagall answered, "Mr. Malfoy volunteered to use a pensieve and, if you insist on pursuing matters, take veritaserum. If you need more proof than that, and our word, Harry, look at yourself."

Automatically, Harry glanced down. His eyes caught on his hands, tracing the spots of white with careful thought. He could see their lines, tiny, barely-visible threads of pink, scratches and cuts running across the surface of his skin and up to his arms. His hands continued to pull at the blanket, a dull, throbbing ache with each tug. He frowned.

"You had lost a lot of blood," Pomfrey repeated. "Too much for my treatment to work as intended—the scars, they should vanish, but it will take more time than usual for your body to heal."

Again, Harry was overwhelmed with the desire to speak, but his throat was tight and his mouth parched. He had no words left—no argument—and he eyed his skin with a strange sort of wonder. He had done this to himself. He had willingly done this—he tried imagining it, tried forcing the memory, feeling the shards of glass and the blood on his skin, but he felt nothing. His disbelief was waning, giving into the feeling, and he barely registered Professor McGonagall's voice.

"I've already received word that St. Mungo's will be sending over a Mr. Muller yet today; until then, you're to remain in the hospital wing under Pomfrey's care. We will, of course, be keeping this matter as confidential as possible—but, is there anyone you'd like me to notify? Mr. Weasely and Miss Granger, perhaps?"

Harry's hands had stilled and his breathing was even, automatic. He managed a shrug, his eyes still on his skin, and then there were more words, more incoherent speech, and the soft click of the door. Pomfrey offered him a two potions and an explanation, but like yesterday, Harry downed them without complaint, time slipping away.

X

It wasn't long before what ever Pomfrey had given him started to take effect. The nothingness melted into something else—vague, bare consciousness. He was aware and coherent, but numb. He was rational and alive and that was it. He watched, without real thought, as she bustled about the hospital wing. She had tried making conversation, but there had been little to say; Ron and Hermione had been notified, but were unable to visit until Harry met with the Psychiatrist, Professor McGonagall was securing him a more private room so that he wasn't on display in the hospital wing, and Mr. Muller would be arriving in but an hour. She had tried getting him to lay down again, but he had refused, his body stiff, but content, on the edge of the bed.

Behind him, the door opened, and Pomfrey greeted their guest.

"Mr. Malfoy—is there something I can help you with?"

Her words were strained, protective, and she stepped to shield Harry from view.

Finally, Harry stirred, shifting where he sat to crane his neck and look at the boy in question.

"You can bloody fix this," Draco replied, his voice hard, but with a bit of an edge. "Your potions aren't working."

Harry frowned, absently scratching at his arm and shifting more so that he could see around Pomfrey. He didn't know what he expected. Had he really expected to see something different than the prideful, arrogant prat in front of him? Had he expected his heart to warm at what Draco supposedly did for him? Had he expected a look, a question asked and answered, a silent truce? What ever his thoughts had been, Draco simply peered back at him, meeting his curious gaze with a steely one of his own. Pomfrey shifted, breaking their gaze, and Draco turned his attention back to the nurse.

"What do you mean it's not working, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco exhaled sharply, exasperated, and then there was the slight rustle of clothing.

"Oh, oh my," she muttered, moving closer to him.

Harry tried shifting more to peer past her, but what ever had happened had passed and then Draco was being escorted to one of the beds. He was limping a bit and, if Harry were more aware, he may have rolled his eyes at Draco's charades. Pomfrey deliberately seated him in the bed beside Harry's, muttering something to him that Harry couldn't quite hear, though he strained to, and then she was moving away and into her office.

Harry turned, facing Draco, who was offering him a bit of a smirk.

There were few things Draco regretted.

He thought it a pointless process; why dwell on the past when it was unlikely to change? Perhaps surprisingly, saving Harry from himself fell into that category. He refused to regret it—he couldn't, really. There was something wonderful and delicious about knowing Harry had fallen from his pedestal. It was intoxicating, seeing Harry as the broken hero who, after slipping past death a multitude of times, wanted to die. Almost addicting, really, that thrill of pleasure coursing through his veins when ever he thought of Harry, broken and defeated and alive, forced to live with it—just like he was.

"Apparently you need a baby sitter," he sneered, tilting his head slightly to the side. "Poor little Potter, too mental to care for himself."

His voice was taunting, challenging, but Harry was past baiting right then. He studied Draco silently, his eyes sweeping across his face and body—what potion wasn't working? Draco didn't seem injured, and he wasn't acting any differently—just himself, a pompous, whining git.

Draco tensed a bit under Harry's gaze and he clenched his jaw, his mouth turning into a scowl. Who was Potter to look at him like that—as if he were the one that was frail, sick, and mad, hurling himself from windows and such? Harry's eyes met his again and he smiled a bit, sensing the change in his counterpart. A bit of amusement worked its way into his mind but disappeared as quickly as it came, his words empty but there as he said, "Uncomfortable under the light, Malfoy?"

His smile was gone and the muscle in Draco's jaw tightened. He cocked an eyebrow ever-so-slightly. Who does Potter think he is? he thought, determined to remind Harry of his place. He was the broken one, not Draco, and he would do best to remember that. "If anyone is under the light, Potter," Draco drawled, "it's you; you're the one about to be dissected and experimented, treated as the freak you are."

Their eyes locked again and Harry knew he should feel something. There was truth in Draco's words and he knew he should be afraid of that possibility, shy away from it, frightened, sad and angry. But Harry was no stranger to unwanted attention and criticism. He had been on the receiving line of that for so many years—Draco thought of him as the golden boy, the chosen one incapable of wrong-doings, immune to rumors or criticism. Draco hated him, partly because of that belief, and Harry knew it. Maybe it was a side effect of the potions Pomfrey had fed him, but right then, Harry was incapable of caring. He was incapable of fear, because fear would mean he cared enough to be afraid.

"I'm sure you'll enjoy every minute of it," Harry replied finally, simply, his voice flat.

Harry was the first to break their gaze and Draco could practically growl. He narrowed his eyes and studied Harry with a strange sort of curiosity, a sort of automatic wonder in his eyes. Harry's flippant attitude was annoying him. He was stealing Draco's thunder again, resisting the bait, and it irritated him. He didn't know what to make of it, really. He had always had a way of getting under Harry's skin and he enjoyed that. But this, this man sitting in front of him—it was almost as if Harry were a shadow of himself, then, caught in between who he used to be and who the emptiness had forced him to become. There was little emotion, but it was there, vague, bare consciousness in place of the emptiness and it made Draco's temper flare.

Harry's eyes returned to his and Draco smirked again.

"Thank you," he sneered. "Thank you for letting me save you—it'll be much more enjoyable to see you drag it out."

There was more truth than sarcasm and Harry eyed him quietly for a long moment. That answered that, then. If Draco really did save him, if he really had tried jumping, Draco had done it for his own masochistic purposes. Unsurprising, really. That almost made it believable—almost.

Harry shrugged, emotionless, and said, "So glad I could do you a favor, Malfoy."

Draco scowled again but Harry didn't particularly care about his reaction.

He eyed Draco carefully, simply, and spoke without really thinking.

"So. How about doing me one—do you have the Dark Mark?"

Another side effect, apparently. A loose tongue.

It was something Harry had wondered, before, but never considered asking. He wanted an answer, of course, but he knew before the words even left his mouth that he wouldn't be getting one. Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and a moment passed in thought. Harry had managed to do something unlikely—surprise him. He stared him expectantly, as if he thought he would really answer, and Draco's scowl shifted into a smirk, cool and taunting.

"Do you cut yourself and cry about how horrible your life is?"

Non-pulsed, Harry pressed, "Did you really worship Voldemort?"

Draco nearly flinched at his name. Nearly. With careful concentration, he kept his face expressionless and heartbeat level. Before he could bite back another scathing remark, Pomfrey re-entered the room and Harry looked away. She was on him within a matter of seconds, blocking Harry from his view and instructing him to peel off his cloak. He did so, almost hesitantly, his eyes flicking past her to watch for Harry's curious gaze. She asked him to lift up his shirt and, again, he did so, finally catching Harry's eye as the other leaned to see around her.

Pomfrey pushed his shirt up a bit more, revealing a bit of shoulder without having him withdraw his arm from its cover, and Harry scrunched up his nose.

There, running along the length of Draco's side and twisting up his shoulder, were a series of bright red splotches, scabs that had been broken and were bleeding. They were similar to Harry's own wounds, but more apparent, fresh. Draco was staring at him and Harry was careful not to meet his eyes, settling back on his bed and out of his view.

Draco smirked, his eyes meeting Pomfrey's as the nurse touched his wounds with delicate precision. He deliberately flinched, biting out, "Watch it, will you?"

She ignored him, frowning, and prodded one of the incisions again.

"Something's interfering with the serum," she muttered, bringing her eyes to his. She withdrew from him and reached into her cloak. "I want you to take this until I can find a more permanent solution."

She handed him a light green vial and Draco raised an eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you know these sort of things already?" he sneered, taking it from her with a bit of disgust. "You are the bleeding nurse."

Pomfrey gave him the sort of look a mother gave a misbehaving child.

"I suggest taking it, Mr. Malfoy," she said briefly, puckering her lips into her own, small version of a scowl, "before I start treating your attitude, as well."

Draco smoothed his shirt, pulling it over his abdomen again, and scowled. He was unafraid of what ever Pomfrey was trying to imply, but downed the potion nonetheless. She gave him an approving look and said, "Now, make yourself comfortable, Mr. Malfoy. I should have a remedy within the hour."

Draco seriously doubted that.

Incompetent witch.

He shifted, however, leaning his aching body back against the pillows as she turned to Harry.

"As for you, Mr. Potter," she said gently, careful to use his surname in front of another student, "the Headmistress will be here to collect you shortly."

Harry nodded, his heart skipping a beat. This was it, then—Mr. Muller was on his way and Harry was to be sentenced as the lunatic he was. The thought was biting but empty, barely scratching his consciousness, and Pomfrey stepped away, hesitating. She looked at both boys, her eyes gentle but voice hard.

"Do behave, won't you, boys?"

Harry shrugged, looking over at Draco—he was smiling a bit, but it was dark and twisted, and Harry felt an unexplained flare of déjà vu.