A/N: I think this chapter starts to touch base with what happened during the war and the final battle. Hopefully, I'll be explaining more of it in the next chapter to clear up any confusion; I'm not a huge fan of the last bit of this chapter, but I was unable to think of what to add. Suggestions would be appreciated, of course, as would feedback. (: Thanks to all of you that have reviewed, read, favorited, or followed this story! I hope it doesn't disappoint.

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

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 7

X

Started sleeping on the train
to obliterate the pain
when the frost began to bite.
Every time the morning came
I found another me that I could blame.

/ / To Chicago by The Spill Canvas

X

The change in Harry was almost instantaneous—he grappled with his anger, trying desperately to recall it and its cause. With a sharp breath, Harry felt himself deflate, as if his emotion had been taken away, drawn out when he needed it most, regret quickly seeping in place of the anger nearly the second his skin had come into contact with Draco's. It was clearly too late to do anything else; there was a strange sort of crack and then Draco was stumbling back, slightly, his hand moving to cradle his jaw. His eyes were widened in surprise and within a moment, his hand had fallen and twisted into a fist. Harry stepped back once, twice, and was then flush against the wall, Draco quickly closing the distance. He let out a low, almost feral growl, and lunged forward—Harry quickly moved to the side, weaving out of Draco's way, and there was another crack as his fist hit the stone.

Draco cursed loudly and Harry quickly stepped back again, ducking behind and away from him.

Adrenaline coursed through both boys, but Harry's was weakened, off, a shadow of what it should be, considering the circumstance.

"Malfoy—don't, I—"

Draco quickly turned and moved to strike again. Harry hurried out of his way, dodging another swing. He reached into his robes to fumble with his wand, but he was too slow and it was pointless anyway; Draco was quicker and had his wand withdrawn before Harry's fingers had even brushed his. Harry swallowed, edging back a bit more.

"Wait—maybe we could just—"

"—just what, Potter? Talk?" Draco sneered, his wand hand steady now, pointed directly at Harry's chest. The idea was laughable, but Harry raised his hands in reply, palms up, as if to signal a truce.

Draco raised a single eyebrow, surveying the boy in front of him for but a moment. There was a subtle sort of change again—he could see it, barely, but it was there, and his adrenaline and anger flared. He had wanted so badly to push Harry over that edge, make him break just that little bit more—and he had, for a moment, but that moment had quickly passed. His reaction wasn't what he had been hoping for—Harry had disappointed him, and yet Draco refused to back down. He would take what he had and try to manage with it. After all, it wasn't often that Draco had Harry at the end of his wand, poised and helpless. The odds were in his favor and Draco didn't dare turn his back on them.

Harry shrugged. He didn't really know what he was about to suggest—his eyes flicked from Draco's face to his wand and back and he was overwhelmed with the need to try, the desire to say something, anything, so that Draco didn't prove he was as weak and powerless as he felt.

"Why not?" he tried, the words a bit forced.

Draco gave him an amused look, his eyes flashing as he stepped closer. He would toy with Harry a bit, he decided, try to enjoy what he could.

"Have it your way, then," Draco replied, his smirk amused but cold. He waved his wand a bit, gesturing to Harry in a very deliberate way. "Talk."

Harry swallowed, hard, peering at Draco through glasses that were slightly askew. He searched for something to say but he felt empty, inexplicably so, and it was hard to conjure words without meaning. He settled with something simple. Unbelievable, but simple.

"I, err—I'm sorry?"

Draco made an indignant noise and his smirk shifted into a bit of a smile, dark and almost malicious.

"Doubtful," he replied, cocking his head to the side. "I do suggest trying harder, Potter."

Harry knew he should be angry—seething, really. There was so much about Draco that he had come to despise. There was so much about him that made his skin crawl, set his eyes and heart on fire, and it was apparent that Draco enjoyed such reactions. It was apparent that he was enjoying this, toying with Harry like a mouse toyed with a cat before it started tearing at its flesh with sharp teeth. He looked at Draco's wand again, trying to think coherently inside of the emptiness. If he was quick enough, maybe he could lunge forward and manage to disarm Draco—after all, he was the one that had brought a wand to a fistfight.

"I said talk, Potter," pressed Draco, drawing Harry's eyes back to his face. His mouth curled into a sneer, and as if he had realized what Harry was considering, he flicked his wand toward his legs and added, "tarantallegra!"

Harry was blanketed with a thick feeling of familiarity as his legs began to shake uncontrollably, moving in a sort of offbeat dance, a quickstep similar to second year. He tried resisting but putting pressure on his muscles only made them ache. Resistance was futile and Harry's eyes dropped down to his feet before returning to Draco's face. Draco looked as if he wanted to laugh and Harry was aware of a bit of feeling wedging its way into the emptiness, tight between his heart and ribs. He thought of the looks and whispers he had received throughout the morning—they were all laughing at him, he was sure. He had saved them more times than he could count and yet they were laughing, silently judging him for being weak—human.

"What's wrong, Potter?" called Draco, smirking again, "Speechless?"

He hesitated a bit but before Harry could reply, Draco shrugged and said, "Very well."

"Tu—"

Harry had seen his chance—so he took it. Before Draco could finish his curse, Harry was reaching for his wand, his movement jerky because of his constant dance. He was unable to reach it, his fingers just touching the reassuring wood, but the movement served its purpose. Draco stopped, mid-spell, and instead stepped forward, shouting, "Expelliarmus!"

Acting quickly, Harry leaned forward, shifting his weight, and tried putting as much force behind the movement as he could. His legs automatically pushed from the ground, continuing their dance, and at Harry's current angle, served to push him toward Draco. He nearly lunged through the air. Before Draco could react, Harry was coming in contact with his abdomen and they fell to the ground. Draco let out a sharp breath on impact, grimacing, and then there were footsteps, loud and quick from the adjoining corridor. Harry was practically on top of him. He tried pushing Harry off and away, but Harry's legs were still moving, kicking at him and blocking his struggles. Draco's heart was racing and he frantically looked for his wand—having dropped it on impact, it was a fair meter or so away. And then Harry's hand pulled his hair, jerking his face back toward his, and he grunted, putting his weight into pushing the other off again. The footsteps grew nearer and Draco's struggles increased; Harry's fingers scratched at him, pulling at his hair or pushing at his chest, and his own hands were trying to hit what ever they could.

There was a loud gasp as the footsteps came to a halt and then, Draco's burden lightened; Harry was lifted by a flash of blue light and practically thrown against a nearby wall. Before Draco could turn to see the caster, he felt a similar spell overtake his own body—he hit the wall with a thud!, his muscles screaming in protest.

There was an unseen force pressing him against the wall, restraining his movement, and Harry blinked up, owlishly, his eyes catching on Professor McGonagall's. His legs fought to spasm against her invisible hand, his muscles burning, and he gritted his teeth, gasping, relieved when she pointed her wand at him and said, "Finite Incantatem!"

His legs stilled and he practically collapsed against the wall, the pressure relieving itself.

Across from him, Draco deflated as well, his eyes wild and hair mussed.

Harry's eyes shifted to Ron, who was practically cowering behind the headmistress, his eyes wide as they met Harry's. He saw Ron look to Draco and his mouth twitched as his friend suppressed a grin. His eyes quickly darted back to Professor McGonagall, however, as she spoke.

"My office," she said clearly. Although her tone was even, low, it seemed to reverberate against the walls. "Now."

X

Pomfrey had already been in to tend to their wounds—none were very severe. Draco had managed the worst of it with a few broken knuckles. Aside from that, most of their injuries were simple cuts, scrapes, or bruises, and Professor McGonagall had ordered Pomfrey to leave them. She patched up Draco's knuckles and gave him the appropriate potion before returning to the Hospital Wing, managing to cast one last disapproving look over her shoulder as she left.

Ron, Harry, and Draco were each seated in front of her desk now, and Professor McGonagall's eyes swept across the three boys with a stern gaze. Ron struggled to refrain from stealing glances at Harry, and both Harry and Draco were content with staring at the floor. Harry tried focusing on his heartbeat, steady and sure, his thoughts anything but. He felt so unbelievably stupid. He had foughtwith Malfoy—physically fought—and there was all of this business about ensuring that he wasn't a threat to himself or others. Luckily, he had been able to keep his robes on as Pomfrey had looked him over—there was no doubt that the few, thin scratches across his forearm would be of little help to his cause.

Finally, Professor McGonagall spoke, her voice low, and Harry clenched his jaw.

"Who started it?"

Her eyes switched from one student to another, lingering on Harry.

Harry swallowed, hard, his skin crawling a bit under her intense stare.

"I said—who started it?" she repeated, pausing. "Mr. Potter?"

Begrudgingly, Harry lifted his eyes and met hers. He could feel Ron's eyes on him, curious, and he licked his lips.

"He did," he said quietly, remembering the light shove to his shoulder. Maybe it wasn't the whole truth, but right then, Harry felt as if his honesty had been thrown out the window with his sanity.

Draco's eyes darted up, narrowed, and lingered on Harry, unsurprised. His cracks were beginning to show and, apparently, even gold could rust.

"Liar," he bit out, looking to Professor McGonagall. "He's lying. He started it."

Professor McGonagall's eyebrows shot up slightly and her eyes switched from one boy to the other.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," she agreed finally, mouth set. "One of you is a liar—but which one?"

Draco's mouth puckered into a scowl and for a moment, he thought he had heard Ron suppressing a snicker. He kept his eyes even with Professor McGonagall's. Of course she would take Harry's side, just like that old fool Dumbledore had. Draco really wasn't expecting a fair judgment, but he was hardly going to back down, either—especially when he was telling the truth.

"Would I look like this if I had started it?" he challenged.

"So what if 'Arry kicked your—" Ron bit out before he could stop himself. Draco disgusted him, and the fact that he was sitting there, currently trying to lay the blame on Harry—Ron's temper flared, but Professor McGonagall interrupted him before he could finish the sentence.

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley."

Draco's scowl darkened and he looked past Harry to glare at Ron. Ron returned the glare with a scowl of his own, and Harry simply dropped his eyes to his lap.

So you're a lying little coward, said a voice in his head. Harry grimaced, his eyes slipping shut at the thought. The last word echoed again, reverberating in his mind and drilling itself into his subconscious. He was a coward. A lying, pathetic, weak coward.

Professor McGonagall surveyed Harry quietly for a moment. He had withdrawn into himself and she was reminded of those few days ago in the Hospital Wing when he had been completely unaware of his actions or his appropriate fate. Images flashed through her mind, bits and pieces of the final battle—she thought of his expression when he apparated just off the grounds. He had been dirty, bruised and bloody. He had been triumphant and yet, even then, there had been something off about his expression—a dark glint in his eye, a sadness that showed what he had lost hardly compared to what he had won.

Her eyes moved to Draco. Draco met her gaze with an even look of his own. She thought of that night, nearly a year ago, when Draco had sought refuge. He was afraid, unsure of what to decide, and had come to the Headmaster with bloodshot eyes. Albus had turned him away after oblivating his memory. He had been a brilliant man, Albus, but his decision had never sat well with her. He had done it for the greater good. Draco had been a needed pawn in his plan for the final battle—he had been a needed piece in forcing Voldemort's hand, and while it had been for the greater good, there was a part of her that ached for him. Surely there must have been another option, another way for things to play out—for both boys.

She sighed, glancing down at her desk for but a moment.

"I shouldn't have to explain the consequences to either of you," she said finally, her eyes sweeping across them again.

At this, Draco finally adverted his eyes.

Draco had been requested to kill Dumbledore the year before in their sixth year. He had failed miserably and his punishment had been swift. He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named sought revenge for his failure by punishing those who raised him to fail; his father was tortured at the hand of Snape, his godfather, and his mother was given to Fenrir Greyback. He had been forced to watch as he tore her apart—forced to listen to her screams. At night, when it was quiet, that's all Draco could hear. Once the war ended, and with his mother dead and father sentenced to Azkaban, Draco had been given to a distant family member in Bulgaria with no known ties to the Dark Lord. Draco knew it was bullocks—there was money involved, lots of it. Just because Harry had managed to defeat He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named hardly meant the end of corruption. Draco barely knew this family member, but he was certain that the Ministry was overlooking something. He would have rather been tried and sentenced for crimes he did not yet commit than to be given to a family member as unhappy with his failure as the Dark Lord had been. Professor McGonagall and a few of the remaining order members had spoken on his behalf. Somehow, and Salazar knew why, they had managed to convince the Ministry that the best place for Draco would be Hogwarts, someplace familiar and under strict supervision. They assigned him as a temporary ward of the school—provided she could keep him out of trouble and in line.

Harry simply nodded, pursing his lips. He thought of St. Mungos and vaguely wondered if it would be anything like the insane asylums pictured on the telly. He knew he was stupid, so stupid to have fought with Draco—but it was too late, always too late, and there was nothing he could do but accept his fate. He should be used to it, really—wasn't that always his final option? Besides, this was his fault. It's always your fault, said the voice. Harry felt little but a pang of guilt at that thought and his emptiness quickly brushed it away.

Professor McGonagall let out another slow breath, an exasperated sort of sigh, and she leaned forward a bit in her seat.

"I could, however, be persuaded to keep the event between us," she said delicately, her eyes passing over the three boys and lingering on the last two. "The decision is yours."

Harry looked up, his eyebrows puckering a bit at the thought. There was something in her tone and mannerism, something that let him know he was hardly off the hook—but that something had to be better than an insane asylum. He nodded, his heart quickening a bit in his chest.

Draco cocked an eyebrow and, albeit more hesitantly, nodded as well.

"Very well. Considering you appear to be so—" she paused for but a moment to choose the proper word, "—concerned—with Mr. Potter's well-being, Mr. Malfoy, and considering you appear to be incapable of doing as asked, Mr. Weasley, Mr. Malfoy will be taking over your charge."

Harry thought his world should be crashing down around him, again, but it remained firmly in place.

Still, the word came out on its own accord, strangled, a mere whisper.

"What?"

Ron said it in unison, drowning out the word with his own voice, loud and disgusted.

"You can't do this!" continued Ron, scooting to the edge of his seat. He glared at Draco, his face flushed as he said, "He'll bloody kill him!"

Professor McGonagall gave Ron a hard look and raised a hand to silence him.

"I can and I have, Mr. Weasley; I suggest you return to Gryffindor tower. Your things will be waiting."

Harry was staring at his lap again, tracing the folds in his robes with his eyes. He supposed it was fitting. He had wanted to die, apparently—let Draco finish it, then. The idea bothered him less than it should, and he looked up with a detached sort of interest as Ron moved from his seat. He was shaking a bit, his anger apparent, and a part of Harry sought it out. A part of Harry understood it, wanted it, and even needed it—somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice echoed the word blood traitor. Ron gave him a lingering look before turning back to Professor McGonagall.

"Please, Professor," he said quietly, through his anger, "give me another chance—don't stick Harry with him."

Harry was slipping away in front of Ron—he was worried, panicked. There was a hard knot, a sinking feeling in his stomach—dread, maybe. He couldn't lose Harry, too. He had lost his mother, Fred, and nearly his sister Ginny. Her injuries had been so extensive, she had been in the infirmary for nearly two weeks. If Professor McGonagall did this, if Harry was forced to bunk with Malfoy—in his state, well, surely Ron would lose him too.

Professor McGonagall knew that her decision seemed brash, stupid even, but there was a method to her madness. With those two boys in mind, the two from a year ago, she wanted to give them another chance; she wanted Draco to learn something besides hate and she hoped that, along the way, Harry could relearn his compassion. Draco had saved Harry, after all—and over the years, she had witnessed how intense their relationship was. In the right circumstances, she hoped that it could help them thrive.

Her lips puckered a bit and she raised both eyebrows, peering at Ron through her glasses.

"Leave," she replied simply, motioning to the door.

The muscle in Ron's jaw was twitching and his hands had turned into fists.

"No—please, just—" his words were hard but pleading, and Professor McGonagall pushed herself from her seat.

"I won't repeat myself again, Mr. Weasley. Leave."

Ron's shoulders slumped down, deflated but somehow tense, and he gave Draco a dark look as he turned to leave.

The door closed behind him and she turned back to Harry and Draco. She remained standing, pressing both hands to the surface of her desk and leaned forward a bit.

"I understand that this will be a hard transition, but I believe it is a needed one," she said finally, her voice a bit more gentle than before. "You both need to rebuild your lives. I suggest you start here, today."

Harry simply nodded, not quite comprehending the situation in its seriousness, or her reasoning behind it. If Draco had saved him, it had been for his own sadistic purposes and nothing else. Dumbledore had placed his faith in Draco, once—and Draco had tried killing him for it. Harry expected nothing less.

Draco's eyes were hard, but he knew it pointless to argue, and he was hardly one to walk away from the door when opportunity knocked. Living with Harry would have its advantages. He thought of earlier, of how close he had been to pushing Harry over that edge—how he had succeeded, if only for a moment, and the jolt of pleasure it had given him.

"You're dismissed," she finished simply, nodding once.