A/N: First and foremost, I would like to extend a warm, big thank-you to everyone that reviewed. I want to apologize, again, for my whining in my last chapter. I'm slightly embarrassed by it, but, that doesn't make what I said any less true. I do need the encouragement. Just look at my track record and you can clearly see that. And yes, even then, it may not be enough, but it's certainly worth a shot, eh?
Please, please continue to review! I actually gained quite a few ideas from what everyone said and I hope that this chapter explains a bit more. In case it doesn't, I would like to point something out—this is AU. It doesn't follow the books in their entirety. Err, rather, it follows them up until book six. And then things get a bit selective, and hopefully, I'll be able to explain that a bit more and weed out those details for you. If anyone has any questions, feel free to PM me, or of course, leave a review.
Secondly, this chapter is kind of dark. Let me repeat that: this chapter is dark. D-a-r-k. Yes. That. And because of that, I've decided to up the rating. Just an FYI, because I'm fairly certain it will get a lot darker before the light rises.
Again, please review!
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 9
X
..such information is best reserved for our dark corners.
So I lock the bathroom door and started forgetting my name;
I annihilated all my pride to usher in my shame.
For all my could have's and my used to be's..
(and the darkness inside me).
For all my could-haves and my used-to-be's...
(and the dark consists of me).
You'd think that I'd have found myself some new beliefs..
(in every hopeless tragedy).
For all my should haves and my hoped to be's..
(hoped to be's).
/ / To Chicago by The Spill Canvas
Hands on either side of the sink, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, tracing the dark bruise marring his jaw with his eyes. His hair fell to frame his face in silver wisps, casting shadows and highlighting his features, emphasizing the thin, hair-line scar that ran across his cheek. It was barely visible now, but he thought of that night, of the spoken curse and the sharp breath that followed. He thought of the betrayal and the pain. He had been broken, then, a pathetic puddle of blood and tears on the bathroom floor.
Draco pushed himself back and away from the sink with an irritated huff.
He couldn't afford to break anymore—again, rather—not now.
He had always been an angry sort of person. His anger had been encouraged and he turned to it now. His anger made him strong, which he needed to be, if not for himself but for his legacy and his parents. Unfortunately, today had been a trying day. He thought of that night again, the night that he had let himself slip and Harry had witnessed him breaking. Harry had pushed him further, then, and Draco thought it only fair he did the same. There was that part of him that wanted nothing more than to turn away from his anger, his unhappiness, that small part of him that pressed to the point of breaking again, but he wouldn't allow it. He couldn't. Nothing was at stake, and yet, everything was, too.
Draco paced the short length of the bathroom in deliberate strides, his eyes downcast.
He could hear Harry shift from the other side of the door and his anger intensified.
More memories, unwanted, flooded his mind. Thoughts and images of his mother, her death, her murderer—his father's trial with the Wizengamot, publicly broadcast and plastered on the front of the Prophet. He thought of his failure, of how much could have been avoided if he had been strong then, too, and had managed to do as told. If he had managed to kill Dumbledore himself, surely things would have been different? His mother would be alive, at least, fluttering hands and tense smiles. There was a knot in his stomach, then, twisting and tying itself around his lungs. It was growing increasingly difficult to breathe but he managed. He forced through it, his breaths slow but deliberate. His lungs ached with each inhale or exhale and he closed his eyes with the shuddering realization that it was his fault.
Most days, he had come to term with this.
Most days, his acceptance came as easy as his anger.
Most days.
But most days weren't good enough.
Draco stilled in the center of the room, his hands absently, almost nervously, smoothing his trousers. He struggled to keep himself upright and the rise and fall of his chest even.
To add to his mood, he was here, stuck in this predicament with Potter. He tried hard to forget his failure. It was easy enough—he had had enough practice. He shifted the blame and thought of Harry.
If Harry had just died when he was a bloody baby, his parents would have never left him. If he had just killed He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named in their first year of Hogwarts, Draco would never have met the mad man. If he had succeeded in second year, he would never have heard his father's screams as he was finally broken, reprimanded for his failure. If Harry had managed it in their third year, he never would have had to deal with that sniveling, disgusting rat, Pettigrew. If it had been done their fourth year, Draco never would have disappointed his father so. Fifth year—he never would have been pressured into following his father's footsteps. Before their sixth year had ended—he would never have had to watch that dog tear his mother apart while she was still alive and conscious. He wouldn't hear her screams when he was alone, without his anger, or see her eyes, blank, bloodied and accusing, when ever he closed his own.
It was Harry's fault. It was always Harry's fault and, with a final, deliberate breath, Draco thought it time he reminded him of that.
X
Harry was breaking.
Draco could sense it the very moment he stepped foot into their quarters. It was palpable, suffocating, his sadness filling the room and reaching out to meet Draco's anger. He could hear Harry's ragged breathing, see his shoulders shaking and almost taste his despair. He lingered in the doorway, still, watching—Harry shifted where he lay, his face heating as he became aware of Draco's presence. Tears ran hot against his face, angry and betraying, and he pressed his face further into his pillow, regretting not closing his drapes. His fingers twisted at his bed, pulled and clawed, and his breaths came in hard hiccups.
Finally, Draco moved forward, turning his back to Harry and allowing his eyes to sweep the room. It was mostly gold and silver with bits of red and green scattered about, such as the duvets covering their respective beds. The bathroom door had looked across the length of the room; there were two beds, obviously, separated by a liberal amount of space and an ornate rug. Across from their beds was a fire place, nestled in front of a single couch. A small table lined either wall, a desk of sorts, and on one either side of the room was a banner for their respective houses. It was a common room and a dormitory combined and Draco vaguely wondered what the room's purpose had been before.
He neared his bed.
"Stop whining, Potter," he bit out, eying what used to be the Weasel's bed with disgust. "It's pathetic."
Harry's shoulders tensed but it became easier to ignore the hollow spot in his chest. He focused on Draco's voice, letting it fill him up and flood him with anger.
"Go to Hell, Malfoy," said Harry, his voice muffled and cracked. He sat up to glare at Draco through crooked glasses and red-rimmed eyes. A small part of him was grateful to have Draco there with his sarcasm and cold malice. It was easier to deal with, much easier than Ron's awkward shoulder pats and strained, pitying eyes. He watched as Draco withdrew his wand and he tensed a bit, hardly relaxing when the other simply spelled his bed clean and then tucked it away. He watched as he sat down and turned, facing him.
Draco met Harry's heated glare with a cold one of his own. He recognized Harry's anger, his raw emotion, and he smirked, "Oh—there he is. Decide to join the land of the living again, eh, Potter?"
Harry let out an uncontrolled, gasping breath, and he gritted his teeth. Draco was referring to his emptiness, his sadness, and Harry could feel the judgment radiating off of him in waves.
"Sod off," he muttered.
Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up in mock-shock and he shifted, leaning back onto the palms of his hands.
"I will once you stop being such a pansy," he replied simply, his voice flat.
There it was again: judgment. Harry's eyes narrowed and he grabbed a fistful of his duvet, squeezing.
"Fuck you, Malfoy—you don't know what it's like."
Harry practically growled the words and Draco cocked his head, his forehead smoothing. Harry was breaking, much like Draco had those months ago, and Draco thought it best to give him another shove. Harry was so vain—did he really think he was the only one suffering? Draco's mouth curled into a sneer at his ignorance and he replied, "Get over yourself, Potter. You're not the only one that's lost people."
Harry snorted, taking his glasses off and wiping furiously at his eyes. He knew he wasn't the only one that had lost people. That knowledge hurt more than anything else, his own loss included. Hundreds, thousands of people—millions, perhaps—had put their faith in a failure and it had cost many their lives, or the lives of their loved ones. It was his fault and the cost of his failure weighed heavily on his shoulders, pushing him down to the ground. His anger wavered for but a moment and his words were sad.
"I never said I was, Malfoy. I leave selfish thoughts like that to you."
Draco's eyes hardened.
"Because you're such a saint," he scoffed, his words dripping with sarcasm. It was obvious that Harry was too self-involved to move past his own suffering and acknowledge another person's. That much had been proven when he had cursed Draco, broken him further than Draco had broken himself. Some savior.
"That's rich," Harry sniffed, shaking his head, "coming from the git who walks around as if he's better than everyone else."
Draco's glare intensified.
"Says the boy-wonder."
"Get off it," Harry bit out, his voice a bit louder than necessary. He gave Draco a humoring grin. It was twisted, distorted by his tear-stained face and red eyes, and its patronization was thick. "You thin you have it so rough, don't you, Malfoy?"
He arched a single eyebrow, smirking.
"I should say the same, Potter—may I kindly suggest taking your head out of your arse?"
Harry shook his head again, squeezing the duvet and then letting it go entirely. Back and fourth, back and fourth—it was clear that Draco thought exactly the same thing about Harry that Harry thought of him. He was tired of their little dance, his anger running hot through his veins, and he pushed himself from his bed.
"Go to Hell, Malfoy," he glowered.
Draco's face became expressionless again, cold, and he said, "You first, Potter."
Harry nearly smiled.
"Already there, thanks."
Draco raised both eyebrows again.
"We'll see about that."
They stared at each other, silently challenging one another until Harry averted his eyes. He exhaled sharply, his self-pity creeping up through his anger. A small voice recited the side-effects to the potions he was taking—increased depression, mild to severe mood swings, stomach cramps, and head aches—and Harry fled to the bathroom, sick to his stomach.
X
Two hours had passed and Harry was still in the bathroom.
There had been little sound. A yell here and there, a loud, broken sob—and as his anger faded into a sort of twisted curiosity, Draco decided to investigate. He briefly entertained the idea that Harry had finally finished himself and that, should Draco enter, he would find Harry dead, head submerged in the toilet, or something else completely Gryffindor and completely absurd. Walking over to the bathroom in a few long strides, Draco wrapped his knuckles lightly against the mahogany. Silence answered and he knocked again, his patience wearing thin. There was a soft click as the door came ajar and he edged it open slowly, quietly, his eyes flashing as he surveyed the mess before him.
That was a bit of an understatement, really.
Harry wasn't a mess—he was a disaster.
Harry was sitting on the small bathroom counter, much to Draco's disapproval, with his back crammed against the stone wall. He was hunched over, his hair disheveled (it appeared to stick up even more than usual, if that were possible—which, in Draco's opinion, it wasn't), and he had a sort of primal, wild look about him. There was something small clutched firmly in his hand and he was dragging it carefully across the length of his left forearm. It caught the light, a bright spot grazing Draco's feet before disappearing completely as Harry shifted. He was smiling, although however slight, and his grin reminded Draco of that night—that look he had been given just before Harry had made an attempt for the window.
For the first time, Harry Potter fit his description.
He looked as mad as he acted.
Harry was completely oblivious to Draco's presence. He was too focused on the task at hand, the weight of the glass between his fingers and its edge against his skin.
For the better part of the last two hours, Harry had simply sat in the bathroom, crammed in one of its corners with his knees drawn to his chest. His head had rest against his knees and he had tried forcing himself into a temporary oblivion by clearing his thoughts—but then there was something inside of him screaming, telling him he was a coward, taunting him for his weakness. It forced memory upon memory upon him—he sat, thunderstruck, as the faces of the dead haunted him, Death sharing its burden for him to shoulder. He had heard their screams and, with an almost feral scream of his own, had moved from the corner and to the counter.
He had sought refuge in his pain and the voices murmured their approval.
Draco slipped into the bathroom, shifting his weight so that his movement was barely audible.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't report you," he sneered, drawing Harry's attention away from his arm and announcing his presence. Harry hardly even flinched and his eyes just barely met Draco's. He was fidgeting, his eyes moving rapidly, unable to focus on one spot.
"You'd miss me," Harry replied offhandedly. He looked back down at his arm. He made another cut, a slow, deliberate strike against his forearm the width of a hair, smiling wider as blood stained his skin. He could hear whispers in his head, quiet encouragement, and he knew he was pathetic. It was so much easier if he embraced it.
Harry wasn't implying that Draco cared—far from it. He had decided to call him out, make it known that he was very aware of how much pleasure Draco derived from tormenting him.
"Hardly," Draco replied, and with a bit of an edge, "I was thinking—blackmail?"
Harry's smile widened, darkened, and Draco tensed a bit, watching for any abrupt movement.
"That implies I care," Harry muttered, glancing up.
His eyes met Draco's briefly.
He made another incision across his arm, sloppy but slow, holding Draco's gaze all the while.
There was a silent challenge, a question asked and unanswered, and then he averted his eyes, looking back down at his arm. He longed for oblivion, sweet and dark, and he muttered, "I'm tired of caring."
It was true. He was tired of caring about life—the past, the present, the future—all of it.
He had fulfilled his purpose and had been denied his happy ending. What was the point in fighting fate?
Draco raised an eyebrow, surveying the boy in front of him. He silently sought out his anger but, strangely enough, none answered. It had worked. Harry sat in front of him, broken and bleeding. It wasn't just by Draco's hand, but by his own. He had realized what Draco had long ago accepted; when it came down to it, there was no wrong or right. There was no past, no future. There was simply that moment, suspended in time—and even that didn't matter. Nothing mattered, really, least of all him—them.
And yet they were expected to live through it anyway.
He had an almost overwhelming urge to reach out, then, and touch Harry. Hurt Harry—and maybe even himself. He wanted to show that he understood, that they were both alone and angry, but together in their bitter loneliness. He wanted to cause Harry as much pain as he was causing himself and, Hell, maybe even hitch a ride.
So, Draco did the only thing logical.
Without sparing Harry another glance, he turned.
And he left.
X
The rest of the evening passed in a strange sort of silence. It wasn't comfortable, by any means, but it was different than before; the air was charged with knowledge, forbidden truth that neither dare utter. Both boys avoided each other as much as possible, barely sparing the other a glance. What looks did pass were done in private, behind the other person's back or when they weren't paying attention.
Draco was hunched over his desk, scribbling furiously, and Harry showered before bed.
They pretended that nothing had changed when, in reality, everything had. Their world had shifted, no matter how subtly, and both boys were wrestling for their footing.
Shortly after Harry showered, Draco did. While Draco was in the bathroom, Harry opened his trunk and found his potions. The elves had moved them, evidently, out of Draco's sight, and Harry fingered one of the vials absently before closing his trunk and readying for bed. He felt better, in a way, after his break down. The emptiness had returned, cocooning him in its embrace and stroking his heart. It was easier to breathe, but he was tired, drained from his high.
He was drawing the crimson curtains around his bed closed when Draco entered their room again, his hair sticking to him in a light waterfall. Harry's eyes swept across his body, catching on his bare abdomen. There, highlighted by the fire, was a silver-white scar, running across his chest and to his face. It was tinted pink from the warm water and Harry traced it, meeting his eyes. He swallowed, hard, the memory sweeping across him in a rush.
They stared at each other for a long moment, expressionless, before Draco's mouth twisted into a smirk.
He stirred, nearing his own bed, and Harry's eyes followed.
Draco crouched down before his bed, in front of his trunk, and muttered something Harry couldn't hear. Harry caught the flicker of movement as the lock untwisted itself, turning into an emblem—a snake with a jeweled eye—and Draco pressed his thumb to it. There was a slight clicking noiseand the trunk opened itself. When Draco pulled his hand away, there was a small, barely-visible droplet of blood. He looked to Harry again, still smirking, and pressed his thumb to his mouth, drawing the blood from his finger and to his lips.
Harry quickly averted his eyes, his face flushing.
Draco's smirk widened and he withdrew a vial from his trunk. Harry's eyes were drawn to him again at the rustle of movement, and he watched, quiet, as Draco uncorked the potion. It was iridescent, a pale green pearl, and he downed it without flinching, setting the empty vial back into his trunk and closing the lid. Harry's eyebrows twitched, furrowing slightly, but he knew better than to ask. Draco climbed into his bed, which stirred Harry from his stupor. He moved, finally, drawing his own curtains and burying himself under his duvet. The fire extinguished itself. Minutes passed, excruciatingly slow, before Harry fell into an uneven sleep.
At first, he dreamed of silver, red-rimmed eyes and a bloodied floor.
Soon, though, things changed.
Unwanted memories played through his head, flickering images of what had been. He felt the tug of a portkey as he was carried away from Hogwarts. Twisted branches scratched his skin as he was unceremoniously deposited onto the ground, a mess of bruises and tangled limbs. His scar throbbed, his vision blurring under its ferocity. It was dark, bits of light barely filtering through the thick canopy overhead, and there was an eerie silence, a sort of quiet that buzzed. He was aware of what would happen—a foresight that hadn't existed the day of—and he pushed himself from the ground, stumbling blindly through the trees, desperate to find his mark. He wanted to run the other way, run as far and as quickly away as he could, but his legs moved on their own. He unwillingly retraced his steps.
Voldemort was waiting for him.
Just past the tree line and down a low-sloping valley, there were dozens of death eaters amongst a field of sunflowers. At the peak of a hill, Voldemort stood, his cloak billowing in the sunlight.
Each death eater raised their wand and there was a blast of light—sound—and Harry's knees buckled as screams filled the air. He could feel their pain, hot and throbbing, coursing through every vein and making every fiber of his being hurt. They begged for death and Harry's eyes flashed as he tried fighting against it with strength they no longer had. Something dull and hard stabbed at his shoulder—he pushed against it, raising his eyes to meet Voldemort's. His face was much closer than it should be, considering the distance, and something stabbed at Harry's shoulder again. Voldemort's mouth opened and—
"Potter! Potter.."
He awoke with a gasping breath, sitting up and scampering across the bed to grab his wand. His back was flush with his bed's frame and he struggled to raise it, green eyes catching on gray. Panic gripped at his heart before the day's events came trudging back, slow and blurred from grogginess.
"You were screaming," Draco said carefully. Harry noticed that he was bending over the edge of his bed, his wand illuminating his pointed features and darkening the bruise on his jaw as he shifted his weight. He frowned and scooted a bit further away.
"Sorry," he managed, his face flushing.
He felt weak and exposed and he could only imagine how Draco would later use this against him. The incident in the bathroom hadn't embarrassed him nearly as much as this, and before he could think that strange, he averted his gaze. There was a long moment of silence, Draco's eyes tracing his face, surveying the emotion it wore. It must have been late and Draco must have been sleeping soundly, unable to shake the grogginess from his mind, because Harry next heard, "Are you..." There was hesitance, as if he were spitting out something foul, and then, "..okay?"
Harry's forehead wrinkled in confusion but he kept his eyes firmly on the shadows playing against his canopy.
He managed a shrug.
"Fine," Harry muttered, the word forced.
Draco nodded shortly and straightened. He hesitated at the edge of Harry's bed and Harry barely relaxed. His eyes continued to watch the shadows from Draco's wand, as if ignoring him would simply make him disappear, vanish into thin air, but Draco's voice cut through their room once more. It was low, barely above a whisper, and Harry wasn't entirely sure he had heard it right.
"Does it happen often?"
He wondered if he was still dreaming, caught in some twisted alternate universe. He shrugged again, swallowing hard.
"Every night."
Draco nodded again.
"Right," he said carefully, stepping away from him and toward his bed. Harry didn't look. He could hear the mattress shift as Draco climbed under his blankets and the light faded. A bit louder now, "Well, then. Proceed."
Harry scoffed at the words and then Draco was muttering a spell. He turned, paranoid, his eyes lingering on Draco's canopy as it glowed a faint blue and then darkened, the light extinguishing.
"Malfoy?" Harry asked quietly, his heart quickening a bit. There was no response and Harry repeated it a bit louder.
Silence answered, buzzing silence with a taste of magic, and Harry realized he had cast a silencing charm. With a slight, confused smile, Harry slipped back into his bed and shrugged his blankets over his body.
He wondered how late it was again and if he were dreaming.