A/N: Okay, so, I know it's been a few years since I've updated this... but I was recently on medical leave and I miss these boys a lot, so I figured what the hell? Besides, I was absolutely floored at how many reviews I've still been getting on this. That's a big part of why I'm continuing it, too. All of you. So thank you for reviewing and giving me your input and encouragement and letting me know that there are still people interested in this.

Obviously, that means reviewing this will give me more encouragement to continue.

Thank you all for your patience and feedback!

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work and no copy-right infringement is intended. Sabotage Internal is by the Spill Canvas and again, no copy-right infringement intended.

X

Saved

by Magickbeing

I don't want to stay scared, living in a daymare,
burn off this mirage.

I lost my friends. I stole too much love from them.
I return it all in time. After all it wasn't mine.

/ / Sabotage Internal by The Spill Canvas

X

Something happened. He knew it. But he couldn't bring himself to ask what—the mere thought of doing so caused his heart to seize and the words to swell in his throat until he felt as if he were choking. And so he did what he did best—he avoided it. Draco seemed happy to do the same—or he really didn't care—Harry thought it might be a mixture of the two—as he withdrew his potions book from his rucksack and retreated to the sofa. He curled up on one end, his knees drawn up toward his chest, book spread against his legs.

Harry grabbed his advanced charms textbook without little thought. He had an essay due in practically every class and advanced charms was hardly the exception.

He sat on the opposite end of the couch and mimicked Draco's posture, sitting with his back pressed against the arm of the sofa, body angled toward his, feet breaths away from one another's. Draco paid him little mind and Harry watched him for a long moment, eyes transfixed on the movement of his quill. He appeared to be taking notes in the margins of the pages and Harry thought of Snape and wondered if his mother wasn't the only person Draco missed.

He averted his eyes at the thought and opened his textbook to its dog-eared page. He was acutely aware that there was no one there to scold him for treating his book with such disrespect and his heart ached.

He rolled his lips together, eyes drawn to the first sentence; he read the first paragraph three times without taking in a single word. He practically slammed his book shut and it was with an abrupt, sharp exhale that he drew his eyes up and asked, "What did I say to Hermione?"

Draco remained expressionless as his eyes flicked up and toward his. It wasn't the first time that Harry simultaneously envied and hated his ability to keep a relatively blank face. He stared at him for a long moment, eyes searching his face, and Harry forced himself not to avert his eyes. Draco seemed to be dissecting him, picking him apart, and it took far more will-power than it should have not to squirm under the light.

Finally he asked, "You really don't remember, do you?"

His voice was flat, almost disinterested, but somehow Harry knew he was anything but.

He bit at the inside of his lip.

"No." He averted his eyes, looking down to the frayed edge of his book. He flicked its tear with his nail. It was hard to talk about this—but easier, somehow, with Draco. Maybe because he had seen his cracks firsthand—revealed them with a flourish, even—and basked in them. He seemed to understand, as fucked up as that was in itself. He wasn't skirting around it like Hermione or Ron had been. He wasn't treating him like he was made of porcelain, cracked and ready to break at the slightest tremble. He had been the most consistent out of everyone. There was a lot messed up with that, Harry mused. He swallowed. "There are periods of time that I can't remember. Like time stops. Like I stop... existing. I don't remember anything." He shook his head slightly, a crease forming along his brow. "Saying or doing anything."

He waited for a reply but silence answered. He swallowed again, hesitantly dragging his eyes up and to Draco. Draco's eyes met his and his expression was as unreadable as before. Maybe it wasn't such an envious trait afterall.

"Thursday or today?" he asked finally.

"Both."

Draco barely hesitated.

"I didn't hear everything."

Harry scoffed, and looked back down at his book. He saw the lie for what it was.

"Yeah, well... I don't remember anything, so—"

"You called her a whore," Draco interrupted. Harry's eyes reeled up and to his. There was a slight pause. "You had her pinned against the wall—" there was a bit of disgust in his voice then as he continued, "it looked like you were propositioning her. Today, you called her a mudblood... and wondered how she would taste."

Shame rushed through him and he felt like he was going to be sick, something akin to vile rising in his throat. Hermione was one of his best friends and he had—he had practically violated her. Ron should have knocked his teeth in. His lips turned down at their corners and the shame must have reflected itself on his face. You're disgusting. Pathetic, the voices whispered, and it was in stride that Harry realized he trusted Draco to tell the truth. There was little reason for him to lie and it certainly explained Ron's reaction. He should have pushed Draco away—he should have let Ron curse him or, at the very least, throw a good punch.

"Don't beat yourself up."

His eyes flicked up to Draco's again, surprise flashing across his face. "What?"

"You... act differently," Draco continued slowly, "You sort of square your shoulders and tense up—your eyes glaze over. If they're really your friends, surely they've noticed that too and will get over it." He lifted one shoulder in an odd, casual sort of shrug. "It's obvious you're not yourself."

Harry realized with a rush that Draco was trying to be comforting. The lines on his forehead slowly smoothed and he swallowed against the urge to draw attention to that fact—he sensed if he did, Draco's walls would raise back up in a flurry. So instead he remained quiet, simply nodding once and glancing back down at his book. He dragged his nail along its edge and voiced the thought aloud as it came: "...what if part of me really feels that way, though?"

Saying it aloud brought with it another wave of shame, as if saying it somehow made it more true than he wanted it to be. What if his voices were just acting on a part of himself he didn't realize existed—thoughts and feelings he really had but supressed because, consciously, he knew they were bad? Evil? What if a part of him was evil—what if he was more like Voldemort than he thought?

Draco barely had to consider his answer.

"Well. Granger is a mudblood."

Harry's eyes reeled up and he bit out, "Don't, Draco." There was an edge to his voice, instinctive and raw.

Draco gave him a somewhat pointed look. "See? You're the bloody chosen one, Potter. You're a saint." It was the first time the nickname didn't sound like an insult coming from him. Harry's lips twitched. "That's not how you feel."

He didn't think he deserved to be comforted by that... and yet a part of him was. "Thanks," he muttered. He rolled his lips together and added, "And it's still Harry."

"Don't mention it," came the scripted reply. Harry was beginning to suspect that those few words were more of a you're welcome than he had originally thought—especially because then, carefully, and with only a bit of mockery, Draco tacked on: "Harry."

Harry managed something resembling a smile, as small and strained as it was, and opened his textbook back up. Another wave of shame washed over him, more muted than before, and he thought he should really apologize. Explain—or try to. Maybe at dinner. He doubted Ron would let him talk but he hoped he could sway them. How he would go about doing so, he had no idea. But he needed to fix this. He needed them to know that he didn't mean it—any of it—and that it was just the... thing inside of him. The illness. You're not mental. They are. He tried pressing against the voice, gooseflesh touching the nape of his neck at its familiarity. They're lying to you, trying to make you out to be crazy. You saved them and they've turned away. Traitors, the lot of them. Traitors... and traitors must pay.

It was with a rush that he said, abruptly, "You know, I was almost sorted into Slytherin." The words came out quickly and without much thought. He needed a distraction and so his eyes found Draco's again. A single eyebrow quirked up, a silent I'll bite.

"You were?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah." He cleared his throat. "But I asked the sorting hat to put me anywhere but there. I just kept thinking... not Slytherin."

He didn't actually ask but Harry thought his look said it well enough: why?

"I thought all Slytherins were evil."

Draco didn't miss his wording.

"Thought?"

Harry nodded and tried choosing his words as carefully as he could. "It turns out some of them are just... human."

Draco scoffed, forehead smoothing.

"You really are off your rocker, Scarhead."

Harry flashed him the same small, strained smile as before and countered, "Yeah, well, what does that make you then, ferret?"

A part of him felt grateful that Draco didn't feel it necessary to skirt around his diagnosis. He almost flaunted it in front of him sometimes, which was annoying in its own way, but he supposed he would rather have him pick on him about it than dance around it. At least Draco was consistent in his behavior. At least he acted normally.

"I never claimed I was sane. That's one of our differences."

It was Harry's turn to scoff. One of their differences. But they had similarities, too, it seemed. So maybe everything wasn't normal after all. Harry was slowly deciding that some change was for the better.

"Like you don't care what people think."

"You'd be surprised what I care about," replied Draco coolly.

"Yeah. I guess I would be," he mused. There was a pause and then, "So. Surprise me."

"Easy: nothing," shrugged Draco. "Nothing matters. We're damned if we do, damned if we don't."

Harry snorted.

"You're awfully optimistic. Pick that up from your parents?" It wasn't meant to be an insult but he saw the tension that blanketed Draco's shoulders. He grimaced, making a bit of a face, and quickly went on to say, "Err—sorry. I didn't mean anything, really."

The tension didn't disappear and yet Draco's voice was soft when he replied, "I know."

Harry rolled his lips together, hesitating before: "Can I ask you something?"

"As if saying no would stop you." Harry thought the words sounded more amused than they should—rather, than they ever had.

It was a risky question, considering how Draco had responded to similar ones in the past, but he had already scraped his nails along that wound. Might as well just get it over with and delve in. Curiosity had sunk its claws into him and refused to let go—Harry could do little more than honor its whims. "Do you miss your father? I mean—my opinion aside... he's still your father."

Draco searched Harry's face and again, Harry wanted to look away. But he forced himself to keep his eyes on his. Draco had always had this unnerving ability to make him feel exposed—vulnerable—but he imagined his question had the opportunity to do the same, and so it was only fair that he bore the scrutinty in kind, although the odds of Draco answering were small. He half-expected another blow up, which made the sudden answer all the more surprising. "I missed him before." Draco didn't need to specify. Harry understood. Before Voldemort came back. "But he changed when I started here."

Harry made a bit of a face. "He wasn't always a git?" It was impossible to imagine. Lucius Malfoy was and always would be an evil, self-righteous, bigoted arse in Harry's mind.

Draco twirled his quill between two fingers and seemed to choose his words with equal care. "He always had a certain way about him..." he paused, the quill reversing direction. He thought back to when he was five years old and broke his wrist falling off of his broom—he remembered his father scooping him up and carrying him inside as he choked back tears. He needed to be a big boy for his father. His father wouldn't tolerate tears and already he knew this. He cradled his wrist to his chest and the tears escaped anyway, silently running down his cheeks, and he tucked his face against his father's chest and tried hiding his weakness. He remembered his father setting him down on one of the plush couches in his study—he was no longer crying. His father never let him go into the study and his eyes were running over forbidden bookshelves and shrunken heads in awe. His father touched his hair and praised him for being strong. He remembered the burn of the skele-gro and the touch of his father's hand in his as his eyes met Harry's and he replied, quietly, "but I guess you could say he was human once, too."

It was still hard to imagine. But Draco had no reason to lie, not about that, and if anything, Harry felt encouraged by the sudden willingness to share. Even if his answer had been somewhat vague and cloaked in euphemisms—it was an answer, not a shut down.

Harry managed a slightly more genuine smile as he said, "...thank you, Draco."

A crease touched the center of Draco's brow.

"For what?"

"Being human," Harry said simply.

His forehead smoothed and the corner of his mouth twitched into something similar to a smirk—similar, but not quite. It was softer. More of a smile, in a way, wry as it was. Being human wasn't something that was terribly acceptable for a Malfoy. He was expected to be better than that. He was expected to be smart, strong and cunning. He was expected to get what he wanted by what ever means possible—he was expected to be the best of the best and never let another see his weaknesses.

"Funnily enough that's never something I've been praised for."

Harry's bottom lip twitched up and he shook his head.

"I don't think that's funny at all."

Draco scoffed and looked somewhat amused. He wasn't entirely sure why he was humoring Harry so much. Maybe because he realized, on some level, that something was wrong. Maybe because a part of him still felt bad for what had happened earlier—and silently cheered, as well, that Granger and Weasley were upset and suffering. The former feeling was uncommon for him. He rarely felt anything akin to pity or compassion for another person and yet, as he looked at Harry, he felt just that. He understood, on some level, what it was like to have the entire world turn upside down, and for what ever reason, he no longer felt as happy that Harry was experiencing the sensation.

"Well you've always had an odd sense of humor," he muttered.

Harry gave him another small smile and countered, "You're one to talk."

Besides, it was sort of nice to see him smile—it was a nice change to all of the moping and darkness.

The right corner of Draco's lips pulled up, a half-smirk, half-smile—or at least that's how Harry would describe it—and he looked back down to his potion's book. Hell—maybe Harry was contagious. Maybe Draco was falling off his rocker too, descending quietly and evenly into madness. He needed to stop this before it went any further and yet a part of him rebelled at the thought. The curve of his mouth melted again into a line, eyes drawn to dark print. Harry hesitated, unable to tell if their conversation had come to a natural end or if Draco was trying to force it to. He still wanted a distraction but he didn't want to be a bother either. Funny how he was suddenly concerned with bothering Draco. Maybe Mcgonagall's decision had held more wisdom than either of them had first thought.

Harry opened his mouth to ask another question but before it could fall from his lips, Draco asked one of his own—well, in a manner of speaking. It was his name and nothing more, a simple, "Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up now," he said flatly, eyes trained on his Potion's book. He needed to stop this.

Harry gave him a small, sheepish smile. "Right," he nodded. "Can do."

Draco's eyes dragged back up to his. "You're still talking," he observed wryly.

Harry pressed his lips together and made a zipping motion with his fingers. "Lips are sealed. Promise."

Draco's eyes narrowed slightly in response.

"Right."

The silence was short lived.

"Do you always have to have the last word, Draco?"

"Do you?" he countered, his eyes returning to his Potion's book. He really needed to stop this.

X

The Gryffindor table quieted when he approached. His usual seat beside Hermione and Ron was taken—he moved to sit toward the end of the table, near the head table, but a student shifted to slide down. He looked to Ron and Hermione but both avoided his gaze, and then started toward the other side, only to have a second student shift their plate to take up two places. Harry stopped, his eyes dragging to the floor. Right. Ron must have told other students. Not surprising—he had always had a mouth when he was mad. Maybe he could sneak off to the kitchen—but he wasn't supposed to be unsupervised. He turned toward the head table to see if Mcgonagall was watching him. She was. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, brow creased, and she looked ready to say something—but then a familiar voice was behind him and, "Come on, Potter."

Draco's eyes barely met his as he turned to walk toward the Slytherin table.

Harry hesitated.

"Mad and deaf?" Draco tossed over his shoulder, an eyebrow raised.

Harry's feet jolted into action and he followed Draco to the end of the Slytherin table. Draco moved toward a single, empty seat, and pointedly elbowed the dark haired girls on either side of him. The one to his left turned to say something but settled for glaring once she saw who it was, plate scooting in the opposite direction; the one to the right looked to Harry and then back to Draco, a bit of surprise coloring her features. She remained quiet and obediently moved closer to the other person so that Harry could sit.

Harry thought it was funny that Draco didn't just choose the empty spots on the other side of the table—the Slytherin table was the least crowded of all of the houses—but instead had to inconvenience two other students.

He carefully lowered himself to the bench and sat beside Draco and the second girl, the one to his left. She managed a strained smile before turning back to her friends.

After sitting, Harry turned to look back at the Gryffindor table. Both Hermione and Ron were staring at him. Hermione looked close to crying and when her eyes met his, she turned away, elbowing Ron so that he did the same.

Harry turned back to the table, forehead creasing when Draco wordlessly offered him the roast turkey. He swallowed and took it, knowing that Draco wouldn't harp on him to eat like Hermione had but somehow feeling obligated to try.

There was sudden movement in his peripheral and Harry looked up, his view of the Gryffindor table abruptly blocked as Theodore Nott and Pansy Parinkson moved down to sit across from them. A crease formed along his brow but he tried not to stare. He couldn't remember seeing Draco interact with them all year—but then, he couldn't remember a lot of his year so far, so maybe that wasn't terribly surprising.

Two clean plates magically appeared in front of the pair. Harry sheepishly passed them the roast turkey and Nott gave him a short nod in thanks. Harry managed a smile and looked back down at his plate, carefully taking a bite and chewing slowly before swallowing. Maybe if he looked really interested in his food, everyone would ignore him.

"You know, I have a cousin who's schizophrenic."

Apparently not.

Harry blinked, looking up to Parkinson, who was staring at him with obvious interest.

"She did a stint in St. Mungo's," she continued conversationally, "we visited her once when I was little. It didn't seem all that bad." She shrugged.

Harry thought she was trying to be comforting—and failing miserably.

Nott scoffed and Harry's eyes were drawn to the dark haired boy.

"I'm sure that's a real comfort, Parinkson," Nott said dryly.

Parkinson shot him a look and then looked back to Harry.

"Look. All I'm saying is... we're all a little mad sometimes." She shrugged again. "I say embrace it."

Harry managed a strained smile, a crease along his forehead. "Err—right. Th...thanks."

He glanced at Draco, who seemed to be suppressing a smile. Draco's eyes met his and his eyebrows swept up and then back down.

Harry's smile became more genuine and he looked down at his plate again.

Parkinson snickered and Harry wondered when the Slytherins had become more personable than his own house.

X

It started with the color yellow. It was dull and muted, faded at its edges, and when the screaming started, the color seemed to vibrate to life. It brightened until it was blinding and then it was changing, darkening, and red flooded his vision: blood. So much blood.

He couldn't move. He knew he was dreaming, he knew it was a nightmare, a memory, and he couldn't move. Try and try as he might he was paralyzed, a prisoner in his own body—he could feel the duvet wrapped around his legs, could feel the pillow covering half of his face and he was suffocating. He was suffocating and no one was there to help him and this is what it felt like to die. There was fire in his veins and paranoia had woven itself around each rib, in and out, in and out and someone was killing him. Someone was suffocating him and he was choking and—

And then there was nothing.

Darkness enveloped him and he fell into as peaceful a sleep as he managed these days.

Until the contrast came. Until there were hands against his skin, fingers that were soft and nimble and they were dragging across each cut he had made on his skin, each scab and scar. The person shifted to drag their nail over a fresh scab and it itched and burned but it felt good, too, and then there was hot breath against his neck.

He was aware of the bed again but not in a conscious sense. It was in his dream. He was dreaming he was in bed and someone was straddling him. On some level he felt aware that it was a dream but there was heat in his stomach and his heart was in his throat. He didn't want it to end. There were lips against his, persistent but gentle and the person smelled like citrus and sandalwood and tasted like clover.

He didn't want it to end and his own lips moved feverishly against theirs, his hands moving on their own accord to settle against either side. He drew the person closer, needing more, and the fire in his veins was no longer painful.

Smoke seemed to fill his lungs as the kiss continued but he was no longer choking, no longer suffocating but living and it was such a delirious contradiction he felt as if he was swimming in its contrast, sensations heightened and distorted. Arousal crept further into his stomach as lips moved to trail along his jaw, nipping and kissing, and then their mouth was against his ear. Harry.

His voice was low and familiar and Harry bit out a groan of his own, body practically arching up and into his: "Draco."