A/N: Sorry this chapter is so short, my lovelies, and so much later than I had hoped! I've been really sick since Tuesday and I've missed a bit of work because of it.. at times I felt like my brain was literally mush! But I didn't want anyone thinking I've abandoned this, because I most certainly haven't, so I thought posting something small was better than posting nothing at all. (Look, I'm a poet and I didn't even know it! Mm, yeahh, blame the drugs.)
It looks like the general consensus is for longer, weekly updates, so I'll try posting something with a bit more length and depth by this time next week.
On a side note, I've been getting a lot of anonymous reviews. This is great—I have no problems with that, but it seems a few of you are a bit confused about Harry and Draco's relationship, and I can't PM you to clarify things. Rest assured, this will be slash—eventually. I think this chapter kind of starts into that, actually, but in my mind, their relationship is complicated. They've always had a strange sort of relationship, even as enemies, a strange sort of fascination with one another. I don't want them to loose that strangeness and suddenly become all fluff and hugs and kisses, if that makes sense. /endrant.
That brings me to my request, though; please, if you have a question you'd like me to answer, ask it! And in my next author's note for the next chapter, I'll do exactly that!
As always, please review!
Your encouragement and feedback is doing wonders for my motivation!
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 Flaws is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 13
X
I'll change everything I do,
take what ever measures possible to accommodate you.
No, I don't put much faith in anything at all..
but I feel confident when you're around,
and I'm not afraid to fall.
/ / Flaws by The Spill Canvas.
X
Harry let out a low hiss through his teeth as the glass sliced through his skin, a faint smile playing at his lips. Draco applied a bit more pressure than Harry would have himself, but adrenaline—hot and cold at the same time—coursed through his veins and dulled the sensation. It was a mixture of Heaven and Hell—relief and pain, a realization and a nightmare. He was a whirlwind of thought and emotion as Draco's hand stilled above his arm, the glass leaving his skin. Harry wasn't the only one broken, he realized. It was possible that Draco was simply sadistic, of course, but the way his eyes held onto Harry's—he thought he saw something more there, a hot, drowning fire that he could recognize and understand. As twisted as it seemed, Draco was the first to show any sign of understanding. He still felt as if he was surrounded by darkness, but knowing that there was someone in the darkness with him helped tremendously.
Draco's eyes widened with the realization of what he had done and the glass fell to the floor, breaking into smaller pieces. His mouth was parted, as if to speak, but no words came.
He had broken through his own wall, had laid down his restraint at his feet and had, perhaps unknowingly, beckoned Harry closer. He felt weak—exposed—and ashamed. He remembered when he had first witnessed Harry hurting himself with surprising clarity. He could remember the slight taste of bitterness in the air, his blood glistening under the torchlight—he could remember the almost overwhelming urge to reach out and hurt him, show him that he wasn't alone. Draco had had the strength to walk away, then, but perhaps when he needed his strength even more, it had abandoned him. He was disgusted with himself.
He pushed off of his chair and moved to leave.
Harry quickly sat up, firmly catching his hand in his own.
The movement was almost dizzying and Harry suddenly felt very, very tired.
"Stay?" he asked quietly, his voice no longer pathetic and breaking.
Draco turned to him. A slow trail of blood was sliding down Harry's forearm, wrapping itself around and dripping to the floor. He watched it for a moment before his eyes flicked up to Harry's, his stomach tightened into a knot.
Harry tugged on his hand gently and Draco allowed himself to be pulled toward the chair again. He practically collapsed into it, his eyes returning to Harry's arm, their hands still clasped.
"I should treat that."
His voice was quiet, soft, and without its usual edge, causing Harry's eyebrows to pucker.
"Leave it," he replied just as softly.
Draco nodded slightly and started picking at the remaining bits of glass embedded in the back of his hand. His skin was considerably softer than Harry's own and despite the obvious change in composure, Draco's touch steady, perhaps more gentle than before. Harry watched him through half-lidded eyes, feeling much too relaxed for the situation. He only tensed when he felt Draco's touch retreat and looked at him more clearly. Draco moved the chair and the bin to the other side of Harry's bed before sitting again. He then started working on Harry's other hand and wrist, tossing the glass carelessly into the rubbish bin—save for Harry's slightly ragged breathing, the slight cracking noise it made was the only sound that interrupted their joined silence.
That is, until Draco spoke.
"Are you in pain?"
Harry searched his face but there was nothing to be found. He assumed Draco was asking if his hands or arms were hurting, but his answer referred to much more than physical pain.
"Not anymore."
Draco nodded slightly again and Harry could see the muscle working along the edge of his jaw. He surveyed him quietly, not quite realizing he was staring and not quite caring if he was. It was only when Draco had withdrawn most of the glass from his arm that he looked up, their eyes meeting. His eyes were brief, fleeting, and moved past Harry's eyes to his forehead. Having realized it wasn't needed, the owl above Harry's bed let out a soft hoot of a snore, nestling its head down into its neck-feathers, and Harry flinched, having forgotten its presence.
"Hold still," Draco commanded quietly, reaching up and plucking a single piece of glass from Harry's hairline. Harry barely flinched. He hadn't even realized it was there.
Draco searched his face for more glass but it appeared that that was it—the shards he had spotted earlier must have been illusions borne of glistening water in the torchlight. He dropped it into the rubbish bin and moved to stand again, reflexively shifting out of the way before Harry could grab at him again.
"Where are you going?" Harry asked, his hand falling back to the bed. He didn't really expect an answer; Draco had every right to leave and Harry couldn't stop him. Silence answered as Draco neared his own bed and crouched down in front of his trunk. Harry watched with vague interest as Draco quietly muttered something before pressed his thumb to its emblem, the snake withdrawing to prick him before the trunk unlatched and granted him access. Much like the last time Harry watched him open his trunk, Draco pressed his bloodied thumb to his mouth and kissed the blood from his skin. There was no smirk this time, no taunting acknowledgment of Harry's presence, and then Draco was rummaging through his belongings.
He could feel Harry's eyes on him, constant and questioning, but he remained quiet, returning to his bedside moments later with a small blue-green vial, a beige cloth and a tin of ointment.
"In theory, this should help draw out the remaining glass," Draco explained, setting both the vial and ointment on the bedside table. His eyes locked on Harry's.
"I trust you," Harry said quietly, his eyes flicking to the aforementioned items and then returning to Draco's.
The corner of his mouth pulled into a slight smirk, but it was fainter than usual, less twisted, and he touched the cloth to Harry's bloodied arm as he said, "How reassuring, Potter."
Harry inhaled sharply at the contact; the cloth was cold to the touch and he watched, startled, as it absorbed his blood, the fabric stained red for but a moment before cleaning itself.
"It's Harry, not Potter," he corrected quietly, his eyes returning to Draco's face. He thought it only appropriate that Draco stop calling him by his surname now—there was a change in their relationship, a shift that he was only vaguely aware of but comforted greatly by. He caught his lip between his teeth and tested the other's given name, adding, "Draco."
Draco shook his head, his smirk widening.
"It's always going to be Malfoy—" a deliberate pause and then, "—Harry, not Potter."
Harry snorted.
"Clever, Malfoy."
"Always," was the simple reply as Draco shifted to touch the cloth to Harry's head. Harry grimaced, biting back another low hiss—its coldness burned—and then Draco was setting it on the bedside table and picking up the vial instead. Attached to the cork was a small dropper and, carefully, Draco touched a single droplet of the potion to each of Harry's cuts. The potion bubbled against his skin, fizzing and hissing, and then evaporated. Harry watched, intrigued, as his skin pushed out the occasional sliver of glass, barely visible but glinting in the light.
When he was done with the potion, he opened the tin and started applying a pasty ointment to each cut. Harry could feel his skin cooling, but unlike the temperature of the cloth, it wasn't an unpleasant sensation. It kind of tingled, like menthol, and Draco was careful not to meet his eyes as he tended to the wound on his forehead.
Harry opened his mouth to speak but then Draco was moving away, bringing his things to the other side of his bed to work against his other arm. He repeated the same steps with Harry's left arm and Harry searched for something to say.
Finally, he settled with, "Thank you."
Draco's eyes flicked up to his face. He looked as if he wanted to say something but instead simply nodded, his gaze returning to the task at hand as he spread the ointment along Harry's skin. He flipped Harry's arm over, a hand sliding down and settling underneath his. Draco's other hand hovered above the cut he had deliberately made and his eyes returned to his.
"Leave it," Harry repeated, meeting his gaze.
Draco swallowed and then the muscle was working in his jaw again.
"At least let me clean it."
Harry sighed but nodded. It was strange and twisted and wrong but Harry had grown rather fond of those sort of scars—and, with a flash, he remembered the scar Draco bore against his chest, and he thought it rather fitting that Draco had given him one in return.
Draco averted his eyes and reached for the cloth, touching it lightly along the length of the incision.
Harry barely made a noise this time, but his hand did wrap around Draco's, his grip tightening.
Draco draped the cloth along the rim of the rubbish bin, the ointment and vial setting next to it on the floor, and he settled back in his chair, Harry's hand still firmly clasping his. His eyes traced the cut on his forearm—the skin was pulled back to show the tissue underneath and Draco felt something bitter and cold push at his heart. He had applied more pressure than needed, evidently, and more than he had intended.
"You'll be lucky if that doesn't get infected," he observed, looking at Harry then.
Harry shrugged and gave him a flippant sort of smile.
"I'm the chosen one, yeah? Luck is my middle name."
"Too bad that gash wasn't a bit deeper," Draco replied, "maybe it could have let some of that air out of your head."
"There's always next time."
The truth of his words echoed for a moment, bouncing between the two of them until finally, Harry averted his eyes, Draco's hand warm in his.