A/N: I think my muse has returned! (: I have an idea for the next chapter, but first, a few questions.

Would you guys rather have shorter, more frequent updates, or longer weekly ones?

And, has anyone been able to guess why I'm keeping the final battle vague? It should be quite obvious and I'm sort of torn between whether or not I actually want someone to guess it.. but give it a shot anyway! (: And maybe you guys will get a prize. I haven't decided yet what, but, maybe! Oh, and the more reviews I get by Wednesday (when I go back to work!) the quicker an update will appear and take away the slight cliff hanger! And as always, thank you for reading! You're all amazing.

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

Saved

by MagickBeing

&.Chapter 12

X

I've been thinking leaving since the day that we met,

'cause if I don't get close, when it's all over, I'll just forget.

I have seen the end so many times, I've played it in my mind—

and I am scared to death, I never want to see your dark side.

/ / Closer by Cauterize.

X

There was a searing heat coursing through his veins, a fire he recognized but could not understand as he paced the length of the bathroom with dark eyes and clenched hands. Draco had always had a way of getting under his skin but he had hardly scraped the surface this time; the anger Harry felt right then was unnecessary, unreasonable, and very impulsive. It was directed at Draco but caused by so much more.

Harry stepped toward the bathroom counter and, taking his glasses off, turned on the faucet. Exhaling sharply, he leaned down to splash his face with water; it was warmer than expected and his face flushed under its heat, his anger raising to meet it. His vision blurred and he straightened, barely steadying himself with the bathroom counter top. He felt as if he were only a passenger in the vessel that was his body, as if someone else were manning the wheel, and Harry could feel his anger wanting to lash out. He could feel it twisting around his heart and his magic and pulling, pulling hard, and he looked up abruptly, the bathroom mirror shattering.

He stopped, eyes wide and breathing ragged as he peered at the broken pieces of his reflection.

Broken. Broken just like he was.

Harry cursed to himself and with a few short, sloppy steps, he backed himself into the wall.

He slid down the wall and to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest. Panic fluttered through his chest, gripping his lungs and squeezing hard—he gasped for air, his hands moving to tangle in his own hair as he rocked slowly, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp pain shooting through his body. His lungs burned, desperate for air, and he floundered silently before a shuddering breath, hot air cooling the burn and making his eyes water.

Harry clawed at his hair and started sobbing, barely aware of the pounding against the door.

"Potter!" Draco yelled, trying the handle again. The door was locked from the other side and, because of Hogwart's enchantments, it was impervious to any unlocking magic he might typically try.

There had been a loud crash just moments before and a loud, pain-stricken mewling noise—a hard yell or a sob, Draco couldn't tell which—and he pounded harder on the door. Something was wrong, very wrong—he could taste it in the air, a sort of electric charge that made the hairs on the back of his neck and arms stand alert, goosebumps littering his skin.

"Potter—open this door this very instant!" he demanded, jerking the handle up and putting his shoulder into it. His body ached at the pressure and if Harry wasn't already dead, Draco swore he was going to kill him—he tried pushing into it again and then there was a sweet popping noise as the handle and its wards loosened. Withdrawing his wand, Draco muttered a spell under his breath and there was a small blast and lots of smoke as the door swung open.

Draco's eyes swept across the length of the bathroom, the air thick with steam.

The faucet was on, hot water rushing into the sink and spilling onto the floor, and the bathroom mirror was shattered, pieces of glass littering the water and sparkling in the light. His eyes moved to Harry and he inhaled sharply at the sight: Harry was against the floor, curled into himself and rocking back and forth, his fingers clawing desperately at his hair, bloodied by glass. Even from the doorway, Draco could see the small shards embedded into Harry's skin and he thought of that night in the Hospital Wing—he rushed forward and tried prying Harry's arms from himself. A few shards of glass had been transferred from his hands and arms to his face and Draco could feel them digging into his own hands as he struggled to tear Harry away from himself.

"Potter!" he said loudly, searching his face.

Harry's eyes were squeezed shut and he was muttering to himself, his words slurred and incomprehensible.

Draco grabbed him roughly by the shoulders and shook.

"Dammit, Potter—get a hold of yourself!"

Harry suddenly stilled, practically collapsing into Draco's arms, and Draco fell to the floor beside him, nearly cradling him.

Harry grabbed at Draco's shirt, twisting his fingers around it and pulling him as close as their position allowed. His face was breaths away from Draco's, then. Draco swallowed, hard, staring back into Harry's wide eyes with a confused gaze of his own—there was a dark sort of fire to his irises that felt familiar, the same sort of fire he had witnessed in his mother's eyes as someone cast an unforgivable on her before feeding her to Greyback. Harry suddenly screamed, falling against him with a hiccuping breath, and he started digging at the glass in his wrists.

"Get it out—get it out—it's burrowing, fuck, it's burrowing—just—just get it out, please, just—"

Harry looked down at his skin, frantic as the glass worked its way further in, slipping into his veins and cutting him open—Draco sensed his delusion and caught Harry's hands before he could do anymore harm. His wand narrowly twisted between two fingers, nearly slipping out of his grasp as Harry struggled, Draco said, loudly, "Stupefy!"

There was a flash of red and Harry stilled.

Draco untangled himself, his trousers wet, and spelled the water off before levitating Harry out of the bathroom and into his bed. He kept the spell firmly in place and walked the length to their window, pushing it open and whistling out into the fresh air. Sticking his arm out the window, moments passed before an owl swooped down and dug its talons into his forearm. He hissed, pulling his arm (and owl) back inside and moved to his desk, quickly scribbling a note onto a scrap of parchment.

Harry groaned from his bed, Draco's spell lifting itself, and Draco flicked his arm up—the owl flew over and landed onto a bedpost as Draco neared Harry again.

"Just stay still, Potter—I'll curse you again in a heartbeat—don't think I won't. I'm getting Pomfrey."

"No," he managed, staring up at Draco with more coherency than before. He could feel the glass in his arms, sharp and burning against his skin, and unlike before, he was careful to hold still. "Please—I.. sh-she's just going to s-send me to the n-nut house."

"Like they should have long ago," Draco said, his eyes hard. "You're a raving lunatic, Potter, and if you weren't the bloody chosen one, you'd be locked up already—well, I'm not playing your sitter any longer—I hope they lock you up, do us all a favor."

Harry could feel his eyes burning, panic gripping at his heart again, and he shook his head, frantic.

"No—please, please Malfoy—I'm begging you."

"There's a sight," Draco smirked, shaking his head and beckoning his owl closer.

"Please—" Harry repeated, trying to sit up. He felt so bloody pathetic but his survival instincts were kicking in. He didn't want to be locked up like some mad person, a lunatic dead to the world, and he would do anything to remain at Hogwarts—even if it meant selling his soul to the devil. "Please, Malfoy. I'll do anything. I-I promise."

Both of Draco's eyebrows went up and he looked back to Harry.

"Anything?" he repeated, and with a slight sneer.

Harry swallowed hard but nodded despite the weight in his chest.

"Anything."

Draco's eyes swept over him and he appeared to be considering it. The owl kept its place just above his head, perched on Harry's bed, and peered down at him with dark eyes as if it, too, sensed a shift.

"Here's the thing, Potter," Draco said after another moment, his eyes meeting Harry's again. "You're useless. What could you possibly have to offer? Nothing—that's what." He smirked. "I'm sure you'll make a lovely addition to St. Mungo's."

"Information?" Harry suggested, grappling at straws.

Draco perked up a bit. Maybe there was something he could offer after all. Draco was curious, very much so—his eyes swept across Harry again, lingering on his bloodied arms. There, littering his forearms, were dozens of thin, faded lines. He had noticed them before, of course, witnessed Harry making several of them—after a moment of silence, he asked, voice quiet, "Why do you do it?"

Harry furrowed his brow.

"Do what?"

"Hurt yourself," Draco said simply, his eyes steady with Harry's.

He drew in a quick breath, searching Draco's face. Of all the things he had expected Draco to ask, that had been the furthest from his mind—Hell, that hadn't even been in his mind. He had expected Draco to press him for unnecessary details regarding the war or information about himself that would no longer be of any real use. He swallowed, hard, and caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

"I... I don't know," he said finally, clearly hesitant. He brought his eyes to Draco's again. Both of Draco's eyebrows raised, ever-so-slightly, and he offered Harry a casual, one-shouldered shrug.

"Fine," he said easily. "I'll just owl Pomfrey, then."

Harry tensed.

"N-no—" he said quietly, bringing Draco's eyes back to his. Draco stared at him expectantly and he continued to worry on his lip, his eyes dropping to his bloodied hands. The glass caught a bit of the sunlight, shining brightly with an utterly surreal beauty, and Harry's fingers twitched, drawing a dull pain up his arm.

"I.. I'm pathetic," he said finally. "I-I can hear.."

He trailed off, his eyes closing with a grimace. He could feel Draco's eyes on him, hard and intruding, and Harry felt much too vulnerable for his liking. He was sure that Draco was enjoying it, and he tried very hard not to squirm under his gaze. He was hesitant to tell Draco of the voice that told him how worthless and pathetic he was—voicing it aloud somehow made it more real and Harry wasn't ready for that. He opened his eyes, swallowing, and finally said, "It's completely backwards—but, I.. I feel so pathetic. The way everyone looks at me now—treats me—what else am I supposed to do, besides embrace it?"

His mouth pulled into the faintest of smiles, wry and self-pitying, and he forced himself to look at Draco again. He shrugged slightly, not quiet meeting his eyes and finishing with, "It—it makes me feel less worthless, like I still have some sort of control.."

Draco's expression was unreadable and Harry looked away. He wouldn't be surprised if Draco went back on his word and called Pomfrey anyway—and Hell, maybe he had a point. Harry certainly sounded like a raving lunatic. Maybe being locked up in some dingy cell in St. Mungo's would be better than this, better than the pitying looks and the swirl of whispered rumors. Instead, Draco called for the chair from the nearest desk. There was a loud scraping noise as it slid across the floor, propelled by magic, and Harry's eyes flicked to Draco as he dropped down into it.

Draco conjured a trash bin from the glass of water from earlier and set it beside Harry's bed. Harry shifted so that he was sitting, letting out a low hiss, but Draco barely glanced at him. Harry wanted to know what Draco was thinking, demand to know what he would do with what Harry told him—it was obvious that he wasn't going to call Pomfrey, but Harry couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why. He remained quiet, however, as Draco withdrew his wand, spelling his hands so that the glass wouldn't transfer, and then he set about withdrawing the shards from Harry's hand. Harry hissed occasionally, his nose scrunching up every now and again as Draco pulled at a particularly tender bit. He tried to remain as still as possible, but it was hard. As soon as the glass was withdrawn, his skin crawled, itched, and it was taking every ounce of self-control he could muster to keep his other hand still in his lap. Draco struggled to keep his mind blank. He half-considered asking Harry if he would rather be unconscious, like he was when Pomfrey did it, but he didn't, if only because of the silent thrill he got every time Harry flinched. He pulled out a particularly long sliver, causing Harry to twitch, to jerk under the movement. The glass scratched at his arm, cutting skin, and Draco pulled back; droplets of blood seeped through broken skin, a new scratch besides old ones, and Draco stared at it, his hand hovering above the spot, still. Harry's eyes flicked to Draco's face and then there was that voice in his head again—he swallowed, hard, and moved his arm up, pressing into the shard of glass.

Finally, Draco met his eyes.

He let out a slow, almost shuddering breath, and Draco's hand moved on its own accord to drag the glass further across Harry's arm.