A/N: Okay. So, it seems that I go into spurts with the length of these chapters—and for that I eternally apologize. I posted a different version of this chapter early this morning (October 15th), but after posting it, I decided I hated it. So. Ignore anything that isn't this. Yes? If you have no idea what I'm talking about or telling you to ignore—well, then, just skip on down.
I actually really want to add more to this chapter, but I need sleep and I work early tonight, so I'm unable to do so right now. I thought replacing its old version was more important and so, yeah, this is the result.
I fully intend on updating Wednesday morning again, simply because this chapter is so short. Love me, yes?
Flawless Beauti asked a few questions I thought you all might like to hear the answer to—provided I can avoid writing chapters less than 2,000 words (like this one), and manage to accelerate the plot some, this story will probably be 30 or so chapters long. Maybe. Probably more like 40. Mm. Again, maybe. That's clearly a really rough guesstimate, especially considering this story seems to have a mind of its own and keeps pulling me off plot, making it increasingly difficult to rejoin my previous course. Still. It's a guesstimate nonetheless.
As for why I chose schizophrenia—well, I can only give a really vague answer, lest I give too much away. I'm a Psychology major and it's a mental illness that fascinates me, no doubt in part because of my mother. She was diagnosed with schizophrenia just before I was born—I'm taking some known liberties with the mental illness in this story, though. It's my creative right and all of that rubbish. If you'd like to know more about schizophrenia in the real world, not my AU-messed-up-Drarry-world, then please, I invite you to check out NMHA's website (it ends with org, not com).
Any more questions? PLEASE, ask away! It helps my writer's block, promise!
And, as always, please, please, 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. The song As Long as It Takes is property of The Spill Canvas, and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
&.Chapter 15
X
I was watching when you lost direction—
and I saw you when the headlights died..
you were standing at the edge of a train wreck,
twisted up inside.
/ / As Long as It Takes by The Spill Canvas.
X
There is one thing that must be set straight in order to proceed—Harry had never imagined hugging Draco. That being said, hugging him was a considerably different experience than he would have thought. If Harry had spent any time whatsoever imagining what it would be like to hug him, he imagined he would have thought it uncomfortable, Draco's body pressed against him in all of the wrong ways, all sharp edges and protruding bones—but it wasn't like that at all. Draco was taller than him, noticeably so, and if Harry were to turn, just slightly, his face would be aligned with the crook of his neck, his body melding against Draco's in a way that was impossible with Ron. He and Ron just didn't fit like this, and Draco's body was considerably more narrow than Hermione's, lithe and almost delicate. All around, it was a new experience—and not an entirely unpleasant one at that—or, rather, not an entirely unpleasant one for Harry. The instant his arms wrapped around Draco and pulled their bodies flush, Harry was aware of how unbelievably tense the other was. He felt very much like a tightly-wound coil in his arms, stiff and ready to snap, and Harry imagined the only reason he hadn't been cursed was that he had actually managed to surprise him. Yes, imagine that—Harry had managed to surprise him, Draco Malfoy.
The shock didn't last for long, however, and mere moments passed before Draco said, between gritted teeth, "Remove yourself at once, Potter—" a slight pause in which Harry didn't immediately comply, and then he added, voice low, "—before I am forced to do it for you."
Harry let the hug linger for but a moment longer before pulling away, able to feel the warmth of Draco's body even as cool air took its place.
As a preventive measure, Draco took a quick step back and away from Harry. His expression was twisted, eyes dark, and Harry could see traces of surprise written across his brow—he smiled slightly, amused, and folded his arms in front of his chest.
"What was the meaning of that?" Draco demanded, unable to think of anything better or more witty to say.
Harry shrugged.
"You looked like you needed a hug," he replied lightly.
Draco opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, his eyes searching Harry's face. Finally, the words slid from his tongue and toward Harry, their tone as angry as before.
"I did not and never will need a hug from you, Potter."
Harry pursed his lips together to suppress a smile. Every bit of anger he had possessed just moments before had vanished—a strange, silly sort of happiness had overcome it, and Harry sensed that Draco found his mood more infuriating than anything else he had just said or done.
"I highly suggest keeping such urges to yourself," Draco continued, his hands brushing across the length of his chest to smooth his shirt, "unless you fancy two bloody stumps."
Harry was unable to suppress his amusement, then, and actually laughed—Draco wrinkled his nose, partially in disgust, and partially because of the irony of what he had just said.
"I swear," Draco sniffed, his expression softening a bit, turning away from anger and into its usual arrogant mask, "you have the emotional consistency of a ogre."
"Better emotional consistency than personal hygiene," Harry quipped, grinning.
Both of Draco's eyebrows raised, pinching together at the center, and he shook his head.
"You're giving yourself far too much credit."
He was surveying Harry carefully, unsure of what to make out of his sudden mood swings—he wanted very much to continue to yell at Harry and shower him with an array of rather creative insults (creative in Draco's mind, anyway), but he strongly suspected that such words wouldn't have the desired effect. Harry seemed beyond arguing right then and, without a bit of a fight, insulting him was hardly as satisfying or worth-while. So instead, Draco simply studied him with a quiet sort of curiosity, his hands stilling at his sides and his head tilting-ever-so-slightly.
Harry's smile softened at the way Draco was looking at him and, quietly, he said, "It's okay to miss her, you know."
Draco visibly stiffened, straightening again, and set his jaw.
He was a tightly-wound coil again, stiff and ready to snap, and Harry's own body tensed in reply.
"What a relief," Draco sneered, "I can finally feel, knowing that Saint Potter has validated my emotions."
His tone was hard, clipped, and Harry sighed.
"I'm not going to fight you on this, Malfoy," Harry said quietly, shifting a bit. "I just—well, it seems so pointless. You're not the only one that's lost someone—and I'm not talking about my parents. Just.." he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching as he forced himself to meet Draco's eyes, "well, if you need to talk sometime—I'm here. I'm absolute rubbish with words, but I can listen."
Draco scoffed, his mouth pulling into a sneer.
"Tell me, Potter, what would ever give you the idea that I would confide in the likes of you?"
Harry shrugged. The words had come on their own accord and while the offer certainly stood, Harry hadn't lied. He was absolutely rubbish at words. He was rubbish at listening, really, too—anything emotional, really. He supposed he was a stereotypical man in that aspect (and he was basing said stereotypes on the few glimpses of television he had managed when young, and the way his relationship was with Ron and other Gryffindor boys). He would much rather bottle his emotions up and deal with his own hell in private than broadcast it to others—but, begrudgingly, he could admit that talking had helped, on occasion.
"It's just an offer," he replied finally, "nothing more, nothing less."
He felt a bit foolish at suggesting it, really, but Harry imagined part of its purpose was repayment. He wanted to repay Draco, even a bit, for the strange sort of understanding and kindness he had shown earlier that morning.
Draco shook his head and stepped forward, once, and then again so that they were breaths apart. His eyes were a hard gray—liquid, molten silver—and his jaw was set, his mouth drawn into a thin line. Harry straightened a bit and tried to meet Draco's challenging look with an even gaze of his own. He swallowed hard despite himself and when Draco spoke, his voice was dangerously low, clearly threatening.
"I'm not and never will be a charity case." He held Harry's eyes for a deliberate moment in silence before continuing. "Have I made myself clear, Potter?"
He didn't need saving and he most certainly didn't need Saint Potter coming to his rescue. What ever he felt or, perhaps more appropriately, tried not to feel—well that was his concern, not Harry's.
Harry shrugged, managing to look somewhat dismissive despite the strain in his shoulders.
"Crystal," Harry replied.
Their eyes remained locked, however, and Harry absently realized that Draco's eyes weren't gray at all. Not really—they were a pale, silver-blue with flecks of green and dark gray around his pupils. Harry swallowed again and, finally, averted his eyes. This clearly pleased Draco as he was stepping away moments later, retreating to the sanctity of their bathroom without another word. Its door shut softly behind him and Harry stared at it for a long moment before he, too, stirred, practically collapsing onto his bed. Upon Draco's insistence, Harry had magicked the bathroom clean before his meeting with Mr. Muller, even repairing the mirror as if that would fix his reflection. His forehead twitched at he thought and he stared at his canopy, his hands folded haphazardly across his stomach and legs dangling over the bed's edge, feet just brushing the floor.
Harry tried to focus on nothing but tracing the shadows with his eyes—soon after, the shadows increased and his eyes slipped shut.
There was a strong scent of honey and cinnamon and the shadows lightened, cradling Harry gently, pulling him down into their depths. He felt as if he were drowning, his mouth open and feebly attempting to suck in air but unable to—his lungs refused to work and the shadows were a deep cerulean blue, shifting and shimmering into a dark turquoise. Water—he was encased in water, not shadows, and at that realization, Harry's lungs filled. The water filled his open mouth and slid down his throat, choking and suffocating him at the same time. He panicked and started to thrash, arms and legs flailing around him, unknowingly propelling him to the surface. He pushed up, toward a sunlit blue, and let out a gasping, choking cough as he fell upwards and to the ground.
It was green, then, not blue.
His entire world shifted, flipping upside down, and then he was laying on dark grass, staring upwards at a cerulean-blue sky. There were bubbles and waves and Harry struggled into a sitting position—carefully, he reached up, his fingers lightly skimming the surface of the water.
The lake above him dropped suddenly, showering him with its weight, and it wasn't at all like Harry had expected.
His body melded against it, then, in a way previously impossible—he could breathe easily and there was a lingering warmth, two arms cradling him from behind, lithe and delicate.