A/N: First and foremost, thank you all for the wonderful reviews. I was absolutely floored by how many I've received since my last chapter. The encouragement does wonders and, although some updates may be a bit slower than others, I'm trying desperately to work through my writer's block or what ever else my lack of motivation throws at me because I don't want to disappoint you all.
Speaking of, that brings me to my second point. I love fanfiction. I love writing, and I love that I have readers that want more—but, I certainly hope that you all can understand that I do have a life. Aside from this story, I have a job, friends (real or virtual) and things or events or feelings that will occasionally call me away. Trust me, I'm trying not to let this story fall to the wayside. Some chapters will be harder to write than others, though, and some may take longer to be posted. This chapter was particularly hard for me. During part of it I came down with a bout of writer's block and turned to a rather distracting roleplay. I think part of the reason I sought out that escape was because this story is becoming increasingly off-plot, as are my characters, and I'm struggling with the idea that I need to change my original vision.
Hopefully the length of this chapter makes up for some of the delay?
Either way, please bear with me—hopefully the struggle will end soon, and please, as always, review. 3
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Miracles or Medicine? is property of Cauterize, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 10
X
Who will find us here,
all alone, my dear?
The angels or the ambulance?
Which will save us now?
All the pills we've downed—
miracles or medicine?
/ / Miracles or Medicine? by Cauterize.
X
His heart was heavy.
It was yet another day that was going by much too slowly for his liking. As he went through the motions, he struggled against the weight in his chest, desperately trying to keep his feet planted firmly beneath him and his eyes to the front. It was hard to focus on anything but the night before. Sporadically throughout the day, he would think of glass, of broken skin, and his arm itched in anticipation—and then he would think of a wet floor, of dizzying designs in the water, of bloodied-hair, and his face would flush. He had thought of that night little since it happened but now that he had he couldn't seem to rid himself of the memory. It made his stomach flip and the anger twitch. There was something different about his anger, that day—it felt lighter, more pleasant, perhaps. Harry could sense himself stepping across a bridge that wasn't meant to exist, teetering precariously on the edge of sanity and something else, something darker and twisted, and his face would flush a deeper red.
Through the anger and the heaviness, whispers would come in waves. When they came they were but a blur of sound in the back of his mind. He could rarely comprehend the words, aware of nothing but noise and the raw emotion accompanying it. It reminded him vaguely of second year and the basilisk and its familiarity was unnerving.
He walked with through Hermione through abandoned corridors, nodding occasionally as he listened to her chatter about Advanced Magic. She was leading him through the less traveled corridors to his Potions class, to Draco, guiding him away from prying eyes and unnecessary questions. It was there that it happened. The voices returned, clearer than before, and the muffled nonsense separated itself into words.
He whispered them aloud, the bridge swaying drastically beneath his feet.
"The unicorn hair has broken."
He startled Hermione from her one-sided conversation and she gave him a questioning side-glance, surveying his face.
"Excuse me?"
Harry stopped walking and she followed suit, turning to face him. He was looking directly at her and yet his eyes seemed unfocused.
"The unicorn hair has broken," he repeated, his voice a bit louder. His mouth twisted into an unwanted smile, dark and empty, and he edged closer. Hermione searched his face.
"What are you talking about, Harry?"
He clenched his jaw, his smile becoming strained. His anger was apparent, written across his face and bright in his eyes.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," he muttered, "mudblood."
Hermione's heart moved into her throat and she gasped, betrayal shooting through her chest. Her forehead puckered and she took a quick step back as Harry moved forward. Her voice betrayed her when she spoke, her words breathless and shocked: "Wh—what did you just call me?"
Dark eyebrows darted up and he stepped closer, backing her against the nearby wall.
"Mudblood," he repeated, more of an accusation than an answer.
Hermione worried her bottom lip, struggling to keep her composure. This was Harry, her friend, and he was harmless—slightly bonkers, but harmless—and she took a deep breath, reaching out to touch his arm.
"Are you—are you okay, Harry?"
Harry withdrew from her touch, his eyes flashing.
"Don't touch me," he sneered.
Hermione quickly recoiled, her hand retracting and tucking against her chest. Her other hand moved to her robes pocket, searching for her wand and brushing the reassuring wood with her fingertips. There was a tightness about Harry, a shift in the air around him that frightened her. Her heart quickened in her chest as he leaned forward, placing his palms flat against the wall along either side of her head, practically pinning her between his body and the stone. He was staring directly at her but he resembled little of her friend. His pupils were dilated, making his eyes darker, and there was a certain glint, a madness that she couldn't recognize.
She tried swallowing against the knot in her chest.
"Harry—just, please, what are you doing?"
Her voice cracked pathetically and she tensed beneath his stare.
"What's wrong, whore?"
His voice was low and hard, more a growl than anything else, and he leaned in, his nose brushing against her cheek as his breath ghosted her face. Hermione's fingers wrapped around her wand and she set her jaw.
"Please, Harry—you're scaring me."
His breath was hot against her ear.
"Good."
She let out a slow, shuddering breath, and before she could reply, there was a familiar drawl, startling Harry and drawing his attention away from her. He turned, his eyes on the intruder as the person said, "Well, well, well—what do we have here?"
Draco smirked at the familiar words, nearing the pair as he surveyed the scene.
Hermione pressed her lips together, her breathing uneven. For the first time ever, relief flooded through her at the sight of Draco; Harry pushed himself away from the wall and swayed unevenly before stepping toward him, leaving her to cower against the wall in confusion. Her eyes on Draco, she shuffled away, moving so that she was standing in the center of the corridor behind Harry, her wand now withdrawn. Her relief faded and she eyed Draco warily.
Draco's eyes held Hermione's for but a moment before slipping away and to Harry.
"A coward," Harry replied, his words echoing the voice in his head. Its control was fading—he was becoming more and more aware of his surroundings again, but he was groggy, as if waking from a deep sleep.
Both of Draco's eyebrows shot up and his smirk shifted into a sneer. He stepped closer to Harry, eyes narrowed.
"Watch who you're calling what, Potter," he muttered, voice low. There was something different about Harry—he could see that in his expression, his demeanor. There was a subtle change and he didn't see the usual emptiness but instead something else reflected in his eyes, twisted and dark. Draco was overwhelmed with the urge that he had denied the night before—the urge to reach out and hurt Harry—but it was slightly different. He didn't just want to hurt Harry but to reach out and push him as he had been pushed. Unlike the night before, he didn't bother resisting; he pressed both hands evenly against his chest, shoving him back, and as his hands made contact, Harry stumbled, his expression abruptly changing.
"Malfoy?" he practically gasped, clearly surprised. His eyes narrowed at Draco's raised hands and he stepped further away from him, refusing to raise to what ever bait Draco had provided. He wouldn't be lectured by the Headmistress—not again—and just look at what his consequences were for the last time. He looked around, struggling to remember what he had been doing last and finally asked, "Where's Hermione?"
"Right here," Hermione quietly called from behind him. Her voice was more of a squeak than anything, still gripped by confusion and fear, and Harry turned around. His forehead wrinkled at her flushed face and she wouldn't quite meet his eyes, instead staring past him and at the wall. "I.. think I'll be going, though."
Harry opened his mouth to ask if she was okay but she interrupted, managing a strained smile and forcing her eyes to briefly flicker to his.
"Just—stay with Malfoy, okay, Harry?"
She quickly averted her gaze again and nodded once, muttering a goodbye to his counterpart, and then turned, hurrying down and around the corridor's bend. Harry's eyes lingered on the spot she disappeared to, his stomach flipping. Something had happened—he knew it. Draco snickered behind him and his entire body tensed, becoming taunt, and he turned to face him.
"What?" he demanded, narrowing his eyes.
Both of Draco's eyebrows darted up for but a moment before his forehead smoothed. He gave Harry a broad smirk, shaking his head.
"Nothing, Potter," he drawled, his eyes light as they met Harry's.
Harry's eyes narrowed even further, into slits, and he clenched his jaw.
What ever had happened, it was clear that Draco enjoyed knowing something he didn't.
"Something happened, Malfoy—tell me what."
He didn't think Draco would give in so easily and was proven right as he was offered a casual, effortless shrug and a smug, "You're just off your rocker—that's all. Now, let's go. I'm not going to be late to Potions because of the likes of you."
Harry's glare intensified.
"Go to Hell, Malfoy," he muttered darkly, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Draco smirked again, echoing their conversation from the night before.
"You first."
The corner of Harry's mouth twitched and, as they started down the corridor, he said, "Well, we are going to Potions."
X
After a short-lived attempt at homework, Harry retreated to the privacy of their bathroom, shutting the door and practically collapsing against it. He slid down its length and to the floor, his arms wrapping around his abdomen to hold his sadness in.
Ron and Hermione had distanced themselves.
Hermione had separated herself from him by sandwiching Ron, Ginny, and Neville between their seats at dinner, and even Ron appeared uncomfortable. He shifted awkwardly beside him and muttered quietly to Neville instead of ranting about Quidditch or class. Harry was certain that it had something to do with the incident in that dimly-lit corridor to Potion's class but both Hermione and Ron had dodged his questions and Draco simply smirked. Harry stared at the floor for a long while, a whirl-wind of emotions, tracing light spilling onto the stone with his eyes. First was sadness and confusion, then anger, and finally, sudden and abrupt emptiness.
He was unsure of how much time had passed before he found the strength to rise from the floor and slip quietly from the bathroom to collect his toiletries and ready himself for bed.
X
Attempting to smooth his damp hair, Harry's eyes caught on a vial nestled against his pillow. He neared his bed, surveying it. Secured with a thin, black ribbon was a note that read "Dreamless Sleep Potion" in an elegant scrawl. He slipped the vial into his hand; it was light, warm to the touch, and the firelight made its contents swirl. It was an iridescent, pale green pearl, and as Harry's eyes followed its murky design, he recognized it as the potion Draco had taken the night before. He turned, searching. He stared at Draco's bed, its canopy closed to shield its inhabitant. With his recognition came a realization, startling but certain—Draco had nightmares, too. Harry's eyes traced the lines in his curtains and wondered: what were Draco's nightmares about? Harry's own were usually about the war. A great deal of his nightmares consisted of pain—not necessarily his own—and the sounds of helpless people screaming, the sounds of their last breath, gurgling, hot and loud. He wondered if Draco's nightmares were anything like his own or if he dreamed of their current reality—both his parents and Voldemort gone, leaving him alone and without a compass or guide. Surely this must be his worse nightmare—Harry alive and Voldemort dead and the light overcoming the darkness.
A part of him was amused by that idea and another had an idea of its own: Draco had suffered, too.
He had heard the rumors about his mother. She had died shortly after Draco fled from the Astronomy tower, shortly after Dumbledore had died—right before his funeral, if Harry remembered correctly. No one knew for sure—no one but her family and Harry doubted Draco would ever share that information—but it was speculated nonetheless. Her body was never found, however, leading to other rumors, too—that she had gone mad, much like Harry, and was currently on the run as her husband rotted away in Azkaban.
Harry had always imagined that Draco was close to his family. He was too spoiled not to be and it lead him to wonder if that was what Draco's nightmares were about—a world without them.
Either way, the idea comforted him.
Turning back to his own bed, Harry looked back at the vial in his hand.
He was unsure if he should trust it. Draco had no doubt purchased or brewed it and could Draco really be trusted?
He thought of the possible outcomes. It could be what it was labeled and nothing more—or it could be laced with poison. It could also be something more sinister entirely and cause Harry to awake with a strange rash, five arms, bloodied vomit, and a tail the next morning. He pursed his lips into a thin line. That would be too obvious. It would be connected to him too quickly, Harry thought, and he doubted Draco eager to join his father or anything of that sort.
His eyelids were heavy, eager for but frightened of sleep, and Harry uncorked the vial before he could reassess his options. He tossed it back, slightly surprised at its feel and flavor; despite the potion's apparent warmth, it was cool against his tongue, refreshing, and had an after flavor of mint. He stirred, setting the empty vial on top of his trunk, and stretched a bit before crawling into his own bed and drawing the duvet over him. He pulled his curtains closed and, once more, the fire extinguished itself.
Within minutes, Harry's breathing slowed and evened, darkness greeting him—whole, wonderfully black darkness and nothing more.
X
Draco awoke to screaming.
His heart in his throat, he blinked through the darkness, his ears straining through the sudden silence. There was a sharp, audible gasp and then another scream, pained and feral. It wasn't him, then. Good. Grabbing his wand from beneath his pillow, he shrugged the blankets from his body and slipped from his bed. The floor was cool beneath his feet; the cold ran up his legs and into his chest, nestling itself against his lungs and causing him to shiver. The small hairs on his neck and arms stood at attention, goosebumps covering his stomach and chest even beneath his night-shirt. The scar running across the length of abdomen tingled at the sudden temperature change, as it was prone to do, and Draco rubbed at it, muttering a soft lumos as he focused on Harry's bed. The curtains swayed around it, gently and then quicker as another scream cut through the air. He parted them easily, his forehead wrinkling at the sight that greeted him.
Harry's blankets were tangled around him, twisted around his limbs as constraints, and his face was contorted into a look of sheer, raw pain. This was different than the night before when Harry had simply screamed and twitched, whimpering between breaths, and Draco's gut told him that something was wrong, very wrong, and he moved forward. A tremor racked through Harry's body and he gasped, a strangled, unpleasant noise erupting from his mouth—a mixture of a whimper and a scream—and Draco pressed his hand against Harry's shoulder.
His clothes were damp, clinging to his body because of sweat, and he was hot to the touch.
Draco frowned.
"Potter," he said loudly, shaking him a bit.
Harry's features flinched, cringing, and he trembled again, panting.
"Potter," he repeated loudly. When there was no change he finally yelled, "Harry!"
His own yell went unheard as Harry screamed again, thrashing under the weight of Draco's touch. Harry's hands moved to his forehead, his fingers digging frantically at his scar. Draco dropped to the edge of Harry's bed, depositing his wand in his lap, and tried to pry Harry's hands away from his face. He managed, although barely—Harry was considerably stronger than Draco would have ever admitted—and he yelled again.
Harry continued to struggle and Draco thought of slapping him awake.
Instead, Draco tried clamping one hand around both of his wrist's to grab his wand. He pointed it at Harry's head and tried to keep it steady as Harry thrashed again, pulling out of Draco's grasp. His hands moved to the bed, gripping and clawing at the sheets as his body thrashed, lifting itself from and then throwing itself back down to the mattress. Draco tried waking Harry again but there was no change—and then there was nothing.
Harry abruptly stilled, deflating against the bed, and his expression smoothed.
Draco's stomach flipped, panic gripping his lungs.
He touched his fingers to Harry's neck, his eyes moving to his chest.
It was still.
And Draco was unable to feel his pulse.
He thought quickly. There was no floo network in their room. Screaming for help would be of no help. By the time someone heard and came rushing to their aid, it would be too late. So, instead of seeking help, Draco followed his gut, acting on sheer adrenaline and impulse; he shook Harry again, his hand coming down, hard, against Harry's chest. Sensing Draco's need, the fire roared to life and his wand extinguished itself. He touched the tip of his wand to Harry's temple and said, "Expergiscendum!"
He pressed his other hand against Harry's chest again and applied a liberal amount of pressure—once, twice, three times, and then there was a sweet gasping noise as Harry sprung to life. He was a rush of movement, twisting where he lay to free himself from his blankets and clinging to Draco as the burning in his lungs and eyes increased. Hot tears slipped through his eyelashes and down his face and he clung to Draco much like he did, unknown, those nights ago. A strange sort of irritated relief washed across Draco as Harry pressed his warm, wet face to his stomach, his breaths coming out in shuddering, hiccuping gasps. Draco cringed, quickly regaining his composure, and his words came out in a dull drawl: "Morning, sunshine."
Harry promptly untangled himself from Draco and moved to sit up, startled as the words—or more importantly, voice—registered.
Draco pressed his hands to either side of Harry's collarbone and pushed him back down and to the pillow.
"Stay," he said firmly, sliding out from under Harry and withdrawing so that they were no longer touching. He retrieved his wand from beside Harry, who was staring up at him with bleary, red-rimmed eyes and a look of utter confusion. He looked desperate, so desperate, and Draco struggled to keep his face expressionless and stop the sneer that threatened to overcome him.
"You were screaming again," Draco supplied, running a hand through his mussed hair. He tried flattening it a bit, his eyes on Harry's. "And you stopped breathing."
Harry felt groggy, disgustingly so, his eyelids heavy as he peered up at Draco. His eyebrows pushed together as he processed what Draco said. He had been screaming, no doubt because of another nightmare—but wait, he had taken that potion. He moved to sit up again and this time, Draco simply gave him a humoring look, one that said what he chose not to—bloody idiot. Blurred, Harry's room lurched, and instead of standing as he had wanted to, he settled for grabbing his glasses. There was a weight against his heart, hard and painful, and his lungs ached more and more with each breath. He narrowed his eyes and tried giving Draco a proper glare through his confusion. His thoughts were slowed, sleep-ridden, and it took him much longer than it should to put two and two together.
"I took that potion," he said with an edge, accusing.
Draco wasn't stupid.
He narrowed his eyes at what Harry was implying and, with a slight wave of his hand said, "There was nothing wrong with the potion, Potter."
"Yeah, okay," scoffed Harry. His voice was hoarse and it hurt him to speak.
Draco exhaled sharply, shaking his head. He was much more under-handed than Harry was giving him credit, and besides, he had worked with poisons before. They were too unreliable. They depended entirely on the other person consuming them and Draco disliked the number of scenarios involved. If, for instance, the person had taken any other sort of potion, the effect of a poison could be rendered completely useless—his eyes met Harry's again, the question sudden, and he narrowed his eyes further, almost into slits.
"This is very important, Potter," he said carefully, searching his face. "What did you take?"
Harry shrugged, cringing a bit at how sore he felt, and kept his glare trained on Draco.
"Just that ruddy potion," he answered.
Draco's eyebrows lifted slightly.
"Nothing else? Nothing else at all, at any point today?"
Harry jutted out his chin a bit in defense, shaking his head.
"No, just that..." there was a pause and then a realization, "..and my treatment from Mr. Muller."
Draco blanched.
"..what?" he asked, nearly hissing the word. He stepped closer to Harry's bed again, his eyes narrowed. Harry shifted uncomfortably, his breathing still too shallow, and eyed Draco as if he were something poisonous. He went to repeat himself, his grogginess making Draco's reaction incomprehensible, but Draco interrupted, his voice considerably louder.
"You bloody idiot! You ignorant, foolish, block-headed Gryffindor! You never, ever mix potions—of any sort—without first researching if they're compatible!"
Harry's glare softened.
Oh.
He looked away, down at his lap and the tangle of blankets by his feet.
"You're the one that gave it to me," he offered quietly, the heat of Draco's glare making him squirm a bit. "I just, I thought that—"
"Well that's the problem, isn't it, Potter?" Draco interrupted, his words scathing. "You thought."
Harry's guilt was apparent and he kicked at the mountain of blankets at the end of the bed, his legs screaming in protest. He pursed his lips, a bit of his confusion passing, and he could feel his eyes burning again. He tried blinking the sensation away and wrapped his arms around himself, his fingers playing with the hems of his night-shirt.
"Sorry," he muttered finally, defeated.
He had almost died.
He had almost killed himself.
Again.
But this time was different. He could remember his actions clearly, remember the course he had taken. He hadn't wanted to die, but it had been a near-consequence, and he felt more pathetic than even before. His mouth puckered a bit and he let out a hard breath.
Draco let out a sharp exhale of his own, surveying Harry with an uncertain eye. Harry's regret was apparent and Draco started to analyze himself. Why had he saved Harry—again? He thought of the previous day, of glass against skin, and he wondered if Harry wanted to die. If he did, why shouldn't Draco let him? Misery loved company, yes, but Draco didn't, and after yesterday, he was unsure if he got the same sort of thrill from Harry's suffering.
Harry looked utterly desperate, and now that Draco had managed to suppress his sneer, Draco felt an unfamiliar sensation wrap itself around his heart.
He ignored it and conjured a glass of water, handing it to Harry without a word.
Harry glanced up at the movement and eyed it as if it were something poisonous again.
"It's just water," Draco huffed, offering it to him again with a bit of a jerk. "Drink it."
Begrudgingly, Harry did as he was told and put the glass to his mouth.
"Just make sure you—"
Draco stopped mid-sentence as Harry finished it. He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until he had taken that first sip, and Draco gave him an incredulous look.
"—sip it," Draco finished finally.
Harry gave him a slightly guilty look and Draco didn't meet his eyes as he magically refilled the cup.
"Never mind that," he muttered, stepping back and away, sitting on his own bed. He met Harry's eyes again, pleased as Harry took a careful sip and then settled the glass in his lap. "Listen carefully, Potter—you need to remain awake."
"Why?" questioned Harry, his eyelids still heavy.
"While I admit the amount of enjoyment I find in your company would raise considerably if you were to slip into a never-ending coma, I imagine McGonagall would make my life quite insufferable."
Harry studied him for a moment, thinking.
"Is that why you're being so nice?"
Draco's nose wrinkled at the question.
"No," he bit out, "I'm a glutton for punishment."
Harry didn't push for more of an answer. He doubted he would like the real reason any better than the scathing one.
"Figured," he shrugged. He worried on his bottom lip before saying, "You know, Malfoy—this is the second time you've saved me."
A deep breath and then, "I should probably thank you—or something."
"Don't mention it," Draco replied quickly, his expression hard. It wasn't a you're welcome but more of a threat, and Harry quickly dropped it. Again, he was unsure if he really wanted an answer, if he really wanted to try figuring Draco out. As twisted as it may seem, Harry sort of liked the certain circumstances. He liked the strange sort of distance Draco gave him, watchful but apathetic, cool and calculating. It was better than Ron's poorly concealed looks or Hermione's tense shuffling. Harry sighed, hiccuping again, and looked back down at his lap. His eyes hurt. He wanted desperately to sleep, and the more he tried to resist, the more tired he became. Carefully, he sipped his water, but it was of no use. His throat was parched and his lips dry. He swallowed, hard, and with more self-discipline than should be necessary, lowered his glass. He glanced at Draco again, eager to find a distraction to his exhaustion.
"I'm tired," he said simply.
Draco arched an eyebrow.
"Point?"
Harry shrugged.
"Help keep me awake?"
"I could always bring you to Pomfrey—"
"No!" Harry snapped. He refused to go to Pomfrey—they would think that he had done it deliberately, he was sure, and that would be it for his freedom. He would be forced into a small room in St. Mungo's, the fallen savior locked away from the world because of his spiral into insanity. "I'm just... tired... why do I have to stay awake again?"
"You have to let your system work through the potion. We learned it during our second year in Potions—" Harry gave him a blank look and Draco sneered, "—Salazar, you really are horrible at it, aren't you?"
He paused, shaking his head before Harry could reply and said, "Forget it. Maybe you should just go to sleep."
Harry scowled and shifted to throw a pillow at him. It fell short and to the floor with a pathetic thump. His eyes lingered on it before moving to Draco, who was giving him a broad smirk.
"I reckon that's why you're not a beater."
Harry tried throwing his other pillow.