A/N: I'm so glad I've been able to update this quickly, and again, I'd like to thank all of you that have reviewed. Hell, I'd like to thank all of you that have read it, even. (: You all pretty much keep me sane.

And, in case any of you were wondering, the lyrics at the beginning of the chapters don't necessarily describe the chapter itself. It's just something I was listening to at the time that inspired me and that I found fitting.

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

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 6

X

I was hoping I could tell you this with two feet on the ground,
but I don't think I can talk,

because I'm not very stable right now.
No, I'm not very stable right now.

/ / Bracelets by The Spill Canvas.

X

Harry practically fell into his seat, careful to keep his eyes on the table. Ron and Hermione trailed behind him; Ron slid into the seat beside him and Hermione walked to the other side. She dropped her rucksack beneath the table and made an indignant noise as she plopped down in front of him.

"This is absolutely ridiculous," she declared, flicking some hair from her face.

Harry barely looked up. He was aware of the other students shifting a bit, sliding their plates down and clustering together a fair meter or so away. He tried to ignore the sharp bit of pain that wedged itself between his heart and ribs. At least his fellow Gryffindors were able to keep their staring to a minimum and only glanced at him when they thought he wasn't looking—the other houses weren't as considerate and, for the better part of the morning, had simply gawked. He was reminded of the snake his cousin Dudley had harassed before he knew he was a Wizard. He had felt mildly mad, then, unaware of his gifts or power.

Absently, he tugged on the sleeves of his robes, smoothing the fabric with an unconcerned hand. His skin prickled, his sleeves catching on the hairline scabs running along his outer forearm. Hermione fumed and Harry really wished she would just drop it; it was easier to ignore when she wasn't bringing it up every five minutes.

"They're acting completely preposterous," she continued, "as if you're—"

She stopped and Harry automatically glanced up, following her gaze. Another Gryffindor was staring at him—a first or second year, maybe—and Hermione plastered a fake smile on her face, waving her hand in front of Harry and breaking their gaze.

"Can we help you with something?" she asked loudly, and through clenched teeth.

The girl had enough common sense to look sheepish and quickly turned back to her friends.

Hermione sighed and turned back to her two friends.

"I mean, really. How do they know, anyway?"

"They are acting a bit—err, really—absurd," Ron replied, shrugging, changing his opinion mid-sentence at the look Hermione was giving him.

It had been like this ever since Harry had surfaced from his quarters.

The school was alive with rumors and poorly concealed gossip, secrets said behind a raised hand or muttered quietly behind his back. It hurt more than it should. He had always been a person of interest, for obvious reasons, and that had hardly changed after he defeated Voldemort. Ever since he rejoined the magical world, people had whispered about him. Curious looks had followed him where ever he went. Over the years, he had learned to ignore it. He had built up a wall, gradually and over the course of time, so that he was able to keep his sanity and mental well-being intact, but as that crumbled, so did his defenses. He was painfully aware, now, and that in itself bothered him more than their looks or rumors. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and he hated it. Hermione assumed that the Hufflepuff that had found Harry had opened his mouth even further, and Ron blamed Draco—Harry could care less, but there was the sinking feeling in his stomach, the tightly wound knot that told him their whispers were about more than his concussion or attempted suicide. His classes were going much too slow. Harry wanted nothing more than to burrow into his bed again, close his eyes, and embrace the creeping darkness gnawing at his soul. Everything else was pointless, anyway; his first class had been Advanced Magic, a step-up from Charms, and his second had been Transfiguration. In both cases, and as expected, he had been forced to sit most of their exercises out. He had tried, of course, but his magic was too weak. Within minutes, he had felt light-headed, dizzy, and he had quickly been shoved off onto the side lines and promised, with a reassuring smile, that he would have his own lesson plan within a week. The professors' reassurances were unnecessary and only served to make him feel more pathetic. And the whispers increased.

Hermione looked a bit placated after Ron agreed, and she instead turned to Harry, eying him worriedly.

"Are you okay, Harry?" she asked, her voice softer now, just above a whisper.

The corner of his mouth twitched and he fought to keep his voice level.

"Fine," he said briefly. That had been, what—the one hundredth and ninth time Hermione had asked him that today?

She nodded, not looking even a bit convinced, and started loading her plate. Ron had already started in on his and Harry's was empty—he was staring at it, tracing its outline with his eyes and etching idle designs into its reflection. Hermione watched him for a moment before adding, "You should really eat something."

Harry felt his shoulders tense and his eyes flicked up to hers, darker than usual, and she offered him a half-smile. She knew that harping on him wasn't helping any—every time she asked a question or tried helping him, he seemed to withdraw further into himself. Ron had told her multiple times to lay off, but it was hard. She felt so helpless—Harry's world wasn't the only one spiraling out of control, and every time he lashed out, a piece of hers broke away.

"At least try?" she asked finally, holding his gaze for but a moment longer.

Then, she turned to Ron and began talking about the newest version of Hogwarts, a History. Harry relaxed a bit and, in response, loaded a spoonful of shepherd's pie onto his plate. He knew Hermione was trying to help, and he knew that, under normal circumstances, he would be more patient with her—but nothing about him was normal right then and Harry struggled to give her that leeway. He would try eating, at least, if only to reinforce her silence.

X

They were nearly finished with lunch when Hermione let out a borderline screech and tossed her copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table in front of them. She had tucked it away at breakfast without so much of a glance, deciding to read it later, and now she regretted that decision. Harry nearly dropped his fork and Ron sputtered up some half-chewed food. There, on the front page, was Harry's face. It was the snap-shot from after the final battle: his hair was matted down from sweat and there were patches of dirt littering his skin. His glasses were broken and his eyes looked everywhere but at the camera. Above him, the headline read: The Next Dark Lord?

Harry's eyes traced over the title and the knot in his stomach tightened.

"In an ironic twist," Hermione quoted bitterly, "sixteen-year-old Harry Potter, who defeated the mad man, He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, has become mad himself. Is he the next Dark Lord? Only time will tell."

Harry could feel the sadness and betrayal. It started as an annoying itch in the back of his throat and then moved to his eyes, a tell-tale burn, and he squeezed his eyes shut. He let out a slow, deliberate breath, and Hermione reached across the table to touch his hand. Her fingers were warm, soft, and her touch light. Harry pulled away.

Ron cursed, reading the first few lines.

"Psychiatrist? Schizophrenic?" he muttered, his expression darkening. "Bleeding prophet—how did they know this?"

Ron glanced to Hermione and Harry focused on keeping his breathing even. That explained it, then—the looks, the whispers, the knot in his stomach—brilliant, just brilliant. He tried pulling himself together and regaining what little composure he had. Having another break down right then just wouldn't do. He refused to let them see him that weak, refused to reinforce their twisted ideas and embrace The Prophet's logic.

"It wasn't the Hufflepuff," Hermione replied simply. She turned and cast a deliberate look at the Slytherin table.

Harry's eyes opened and, automatically, he followed her gaze, easily finding Draco's light head of hair. He was talking to a dark-haired Slytherin that reminded him a bit of that Zabini fellow that died in the war—Harry frowned as the other elbowed him gently and Draco snickered. As if on cue, Draco shifted a bit in his seat and his eyes caught Harry's.

He flashed Harry a deliberate, twisted smile—more of a smirk, really—and Harry's nails dug into the table, his heartbeat hard.

X

There were times Ron was a little too unobservant, a little too unaware—and as Harry turned a corner behind his friend and ducked into the nearest corridor, he was mindful that this was one of those times. As soon as he was out of Ron's sight, he slumped against the nearest wall. It felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. His heart lightened a bit at his sudden, no doubt short-lived, solitude. In minutes, Ron would notice that he was entering their next class alone and he would surely come looking for him.

He sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing at his eyes with tired fingers. He just needed to escape for a bit.

It had been one day but everything was already so tiring—the whispers, the looks, being constantly watched—he felt weak, drained, and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and wish it all away.

Coward.

The thought was quiet, a whisper at first, but echoed through his mind a thousand times. There was something different about it, something off—its voice wasn't his own and his eyes darted open. There was something clawing at the edge of his consciousness, a familiarity he should recognize but was unable to. His forehead wrinkled and he stared at the wall in front of him. Images flickered—blurred pictures, as if he were looking under water—that sunflower field, the hill's crest—darkness, thundering clouds, and red eyes—his heartbeat was quickening and there was something against his mouth, making it hard to breathe. It was warm, musty and Harry rubbed at his face with frantic hands.

There was a noise to his right and everything stopped—there were no memories, no invisible predator, and Draco rounded the corner, his eyes widening slightly as they met Harry's. Harry quickly shoved his glasses back on.

"Well, well, well," Draco drawled, moving closer. His movements were slow, casual, and Harry was reminded of a cat before it pounced. Draco leaned against the wall beside him, breaths away, and Harry struggled to regain his composure. "What do we have here? Little Potter-kins get lost?"

Draco's mouth curled into a half-smirk, half-sneer, and his eyes lingered on the muscle working in Harry's jaw. One remark and he had already managed to fluster the other—his eyes almost sparkled in delight, his amusement apparent.

Harry's skin crawled. He could feel the heat radiating off of Draco's body, could almost smell the other's shampoo—his eyes met Draco's and his face twisted into a scowl, his expression darkening.

This is his fault.

The thought echoed again, and anger wrapped around his heart. He imagined shoving Draco back, grinding his face against the wall, his skin scraping against the stone, peeling off and burning—Draco's smirk widened at Harry's expression, and Harry imagined bloodied teeth.

"Your fault," he muttered, voicing the thought aloud.

Smirk still firmly in place, both of Draco's eyebrows lifted.

"Excuse you, Potter?"

Harry held Draco's gaze for a moment longer before looking away, pushing himself away from the wall and stepping back.

It's always his fault, isn't it? the voice continued, louder this time. Things would be so much easier if he didn't exist.

"So much easier," he mumbled, his eyes surveying Draco's face. Draco's smirk faded a bit and he narrowed his eyes—there was something off about Harry, then. He was reminded of the shadow in the Hospital Wing, the detached, sort of light, version of Harry. There was emotion, but it was vague, barely there, as if Harry were struggling with it before Draco's very eyes. Harry simply stared and Draco waved a hand in front of his face, barely suppressing the urge to snap his fingers.

"Potter?" he muttered, irritation tugging at his voice. Of course Harry would have another damn mental break down while he was there—of-bloody-course. Harry barely blinked at the movement and, frustrated, Draco reached out and pushed on his shoulder. Harry visibly startled, his expression changing, lightening for but a moment. He gave Draco a strange look and Draco thought of the library, the inquisitive look Harry gave him as he realized where he was.

Harry's expression quickly darkened again and he glared at Draco.

Draco narrowed his eyes.

"Potter?"

"I'm lost," Harry agreed, replying to his first question, "going to give The Prophet a ring now, yeah?"

Draco's mouth twisted into another smirk as he put two and two together.

"Speaking ore nonsense, I see," he said conversationally, shaking his head in mock-concern. "Maybe they should increase your potions."

He could see the muscle working in his jaw again, and Harry's nostrils flared. He was sick of Draco's mind games—as if he didn't have enough on his plate without the bullheaded Slytherin trying to add more. This was Draco's fault—everything that had gone bad in Harry's life, recently, had been connected to him. His apparent suicide attempt, the article in The Prophet—Harry moved closer, his eyes flashing.

"You—you pathetic, arrogant, sniveling git—"

"Calm yourself, Scarhead," Draco interrupted, his eyes flashing. "I won't be saving you from any windows this time."

"That's rich," Harry bit out, his hands clenched into fists, "as if you had nothing to do with that—"

"Oh, yes, Potter," Draco said loudly, clearly humoring, "I'm the reason you're suicidal."

"I'm not suicidal!" Harry replied, practically yelling the words. His anger flared again and he wanted nothing more than to shut Draco up—he gritted his teeth, his nails digging into the palms of his hands.

Harry's anger was obvious and Draco felt that thrill of pleasure again—his smirk twisted into a smile, cool and taunting, and his voice was barely above a whisper.

"Bonkers, then. Absolutely, brilliantly, and bleeding mad."

Harry's eyes flashed.

"Take it back," he managed, his voice dangerously low.

Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up again. He gave Harry a challenging look.

"Make me."

Harry clenched his jaw tighter, his vision wavering a bit at the pressure.

"Careful, I—"

Draco audibly snorted.

"What are you going to do, curse me?" he asked, his voice hard. He tilted his head slightly to the side, surveying Harry, basking in his emotional turmoil. Harry was tense, so tense, and Draco knew he was ready to snap. His adrenaline thrummed, pleasure shooting through him, and he continued very slowly, his voice practically acidic. "I've heard the rumors, Potter; you're practically a Squib. You're nothing. No-one."

Draco paused, moving a bit closer so that he was a breath away from Harry again. He met Harry's glare with an even one of his own.

"How does it feel?" he pressed, silently delighted. He couldn't believe his luck—Harry had fallen from his pedestal and lay broken on the floor, and Draco was there to watch his cracks intensify. Finally, Harry would feel what he felt—he would feel the utter unimportance Draco dealt with on a daily basis, the feeling of his world falling to pieces around him, the ground slipping from beneath his feet—finally, Harry would know what Draco did. Nothing mattered. Nothing.

Especially not him.

Harry was practically shaking. He could feel Draco's body heat again. He was painfully aware of his breath against his face, warm but cool at the same time—his heart was loud in his chest, hard, beating against his ribs and making him tremble with its sheer force.

"I don't know," he said finally, the words coming out choked, hard. "You tell me."

His stomach tightened some and then, before he had really registered the movement, Harry reeled back and forward, his fist coming into sharp contact with the edge of Draco's jaw.