Disclaimer: Harry Potter and associated characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I clearly worship her work, and no copy-right infringement is intended. Rearrange/Replay is property of Nick Thomas and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.

Saved

by MagickBeing

X

&.Chapter 18

Lately, these days, I don't know
who we are anymore. Let's
rearrange and double back to
the way it was before.

Replay —I don't know
who we are anymore.

/ / Rearrange/Replay by Nick Thomas

X

He woke up with a hard-on, body turned so that he was laying on his stomach and rutting instinctively into the bed; shame blanketed him in waves and caused his movements to still. Embarrassment weaved between each rib and colored each breath – that was not right. It was hardly the first time he had had a dirty dream – hardly the first time such a dream had featured someone of the same sex, even – but it was definitely his first dream like that about Draco and he didn't know how to feel about it. But his body refused to let him take time for self-reflection – his arousal jerked and the fire in his stomach rushed up to burn out the embarrassment. It fizzled quickly and filled his lungs with smoke; he swallowed, mouth dry, and wished he could cast a decent silencing charm.

But he couldn't and so Harry tried to compose himself before dragging his own curtains back and peeking over at the other bed; green curtains were tightly drawn and Harry slid from his bed without further thought, moving as quietly as he could across the room and toward the bathroom.

His heart was in his throat.

He thought of Draco finding him here, bleeding and mad, and wondered if the other would try checking on him again.

A part of him hoped not—and a part of him hoped he did.

He locked the bathroom door before deciding to strip down and take a shower. The temperature difference drew gooseflesh across his skin and yet he was still warm, too warm, and the heat in his stomach had nearly reached its boiling point. He stepped into the shower and it started on its own accord, its temperature adjusting by magic. Water coated his skin in its warmth but was still, somehow, cool in comparison to the heat rushing through his veins. Harry closed his eyes and tried focusing on his breathing – maybe a cold shower would be preferable – but instead of the back of his eye-lids, he saw Draco stretched out before him.

He opened his eyes and swallowed hard, looking down at the water rushing around his feet. He remembered how the blood had twisted through it – remembered how the glass glittered – and forced out a slow, deliberate breath. He closed his eyes again, his hand dragging over his stomach and then further down, his fingers twisting around his arousal.

He thought of Draco and fell into the memory of his dream.

He knew his skin would be unnaturally soft – a contradiction to the sharp words that lined his tongue, to the defenses he raised to cover his vulnerabilities – that much had been proven with his hand in his. And then he imagined that he would be quiet. He didn't know why but he did – he imagined he would be quiet, full of sharp inhales and quivering exhales, throat desperate to swallow around each moan as it came. But when he did moan – Gods, how Harry would melt.

His fingers tightened around his width and he gave himself a slow, leisurely stroke, the electric contrast of the heat in his stomach overshadowing any lingering embarrassment or doubt.

He imagined his eyes sparking under his touch, pupils blown open with want and the small sliver of gray that would surround them. He imagined the quiver of his chest as he dragged his hands over his skin and he imagined the way his lips would fit against his own. There was a twist of his hand and he embraced the remnants of his dream in all of its glory, embraced the twisted longing and the contrast it brought – the sudden life of it all, the fire thrumming through his veins.

Harry tried taking his time but it was over all too soon – he came with a strangled groan, a gasp of Draco's name that buried itself under the sound of the water rushing to the floor.

X

Draco's eyes remained fixated on the canopy above his bed, his name reverberating through his head – his name said that way and in that voice reverberating through his head.

At first he had thought he had dreampt it – quiet had followed afterward... several long, blissful moments of quiet. Blissful and torturous. But then there had been movement, the sound of the mattress shifting under his weight and the drag of the curtains over its rod. Footsteps, quiet but deafening, and a bathroom door opening and then shutting. Moments later, water. Water.

Harry was awake.

Harry was awake and had woken up with his name on his lips.

His name – said in that way and in that voice and Draco swallowed, blinking.

He wondered if he should check on him.

What if he had imagined it and Harry was hurting himself again?

Or what if he was over-reacting and Harry just had to use the loo?

Better question – since when he had become so concerned with the on-goings of one Harry bloody Potter? He blew out a slow, deliberate breath, his fingers drumming against his blankets. He couldn't just lay there and act like he didn't know what was going on – or suspect it, rather. Harry was either cutting himself, touching himself, or really into personal hygiene at three in the bloody morning.

He highly doubted it to be the latter.

He wrestled with himself for but a moment longer – yes, it was a slight violation of his privacy but no, he really didn't care – really – and it served him right for being such a basket case and going around and worrying him and no, he had not just admitted to being worried, even silently.

Definitely not.

And to prove that he didn't care – not in the slightest – at least not about what Harry wanted or thought – he withdrew his wand and muttered, "Adsumus audire omnia."

The tip of his wand glowed a pale green and the sound of the water against the bathroom tiles intensified, growing louder. There was a bit of splashing – sounds of movements – and then, as if on cue, as if sensing him, a strangled groan and a gasp of Draco that cut through the sound of the water rushing to the floor with startling clarity.

Heat rushed into his stomach and he banished his magic with dark eyes, casting himself in darkness again, the sounds of Harry's shower – and evident pleasure – more muted than before.

Well.

That answered that, then.

Harry wasn't cutting. Not then, anyway. And he wasn't just really into personal hygiene at odd hours of the night – no. He was wanking.

He was wanking and he was doing it to him and – and Draco didn't know how to feel about that. He didn't know how to explain away the heat curling in his stomach or the pleasant tingling in his chest that was borne from the mere idea. Luckily, he didn't have to. Not then, anyway, because the water had stopped and the door was opening and had Harry even bothered getting dressed? More heat, more confusion, and Draco turned deliberately in his bed, practically tossing himself onto his side, back to Harry, as if doing so would prevent him from looking and checking himself.

He drew his blankets tight to his chest and there were nearing footsteps – nearing footsteps and then the creak of the mattress again as Harry crawled back into his bed, carefully drawing his canopy around his person. Draco stared accusingly in his direction for several long moments, forcing himself to focus on anything but the steam in his lungs that had nothing to do with the heat clinging to the air and everything to do with the man laying just breaths away.

X

They skipped breakfast.

And somehow, Draco knew.

Of that Harry was nearly certain. The way he had looked at him earlier that morning – the way their eyes had met and their gazes lingered, the way he had dissected him. He knew. And he hadn't spared a look in his direction since.

Harry's movements were colored with embarrassment and shame. There was no heat to wash it away then, no arousal to take away its sting or rid his mouth of its bitterness. There was nothing but his embarrassment and shame and that familiar itch – that burning that resided under his skin and made it crawl. He had found a friend of sorts in the most unlikely of places – and, within hours, he had managed to lose him.

He was alone.

Again.

And the burn intensified.

He couldn't take it any longer – he tossed his book to the floor and moved to his feet. Draco barely flinched – didn't glance up – and Harry figured to hell with it all. To hell with pretending that he was okay when he was struggling to keep himself together at his seams – to hell with trying to convince himself that he was stronger than this... this thing. This urge. This sickness.

And so he went through the appropriate steps. He walked around the room and to his trunk – opened it – moved his pants and his spare sweaters, ones that itched and caused him to think of vacant eyes – until he found the small bundle. He unwrapped it from its cloth and tossed the stray piece of fabric onto his bed – the glass glistened and he shut his trunk, turning to move toward the bathroom, false pretenses stripped and defenses down – only Draco was standing in front of it, his eyes trained on his hand and the object clenched protectively between his fingers.

He thought of the way Harry's skin had glistened just two days before – thought of the torchlight and the blood and the pressure he had unwittingly applied – his weakness – and he needed to be strong then.

He couldn't be weak, not again.

He needed to be strong.

He dragged his eyes up and to Harry's.

Harry moved to pass him but Draco met his step with one of his own, blocking his path a second time.

Harry frowned.

"Move," he bit out. It wasn't like Draco cared – because he didn't. He didn't. He was disgusted – he hated him and he had every right to. He was pathetic. Disgusting.

And yet Draco shook his head and held out his hand.

"Give it to me."

A crease formed along Harry's brow – wait. What?

"Give it to me," Draco repeated, hand jerking for emphasis.

Harry felt his grip on the glass loosen, however marginally, because he remembered their connection. Draco understood. Even if Draco hated him, even if he thought him disgusting – he understood. He understood and he wanted to help and Harry's lips twitched against a smile. He nodded, trying to show that he understood, and reached his hand out to meet his.

"Yeah – okay. Cut... cut me," he muttered, adrenaline wrapping itself around those few words.

A crease formed along Draco's brow and Harry hesitated, jerking his hand back before giving him the shard of glass. Don't trust him. He's a traitor – a traitor. Traitors must die.

He licked his lips and asked cautiously, "You're... you're going to cut me... right?"

He could see the muscle along Draco's jaw working again. He tightened his hold on his piece of glass, hand returning to his side.

"No," Draco sighed. "You need to stop this, Potter."

Harry shook his head.

"No. I can't."

See? He's a liar. Don't trust him – he lies. Always lies.

Draco took a careful, measured step closer to him. Harry eyed the shrinking space between them warily, trying to ignore the whispers. He dragged his eyes back up and to his.

"No," Draco corrected. "You won't."

Harry shook his head again.

No, I can't. He couldn't – he needed it, needed the release – why couldn't Draco see that? Why didn't he understand – understand like before? He bit at his bottom lip, tilting his head and hating how pathetic he sounded when he insisted: "Come on, Draco – cut me." Draco's expression didn't change and Harry tried again, eyebrows pinched at their center. "Cut me. Please.. you – you did it before."

Draco's jaw twitched. His eyes seemed to flash.

"Don't," he warned.

Harry scoffed.

"Why not?"

There were several moments of deliberate silence, Draco's eyes searching his and Harry's eyes challenging Draco's.

Finally: "You're sick. You need help."

Harry swallowed hard, heart thrumming loudly in his ears.

"Then help me," he fired back.

It was Draco that shook his head this time. "No. Mental help."

He's a liar. A LIAR. He's betraying you – see? He's betraying you. He's a traitor – a traitor, don't listen – a traitor. The fingers of Harry's other hand turned into his palm, digging against his skin so that his hand was twisted into a fist. "I'm already getting that, remember?" he bit out, glaring at the other. He thought he understood but he didn't. Why couldn't he understand?

"Yeah — and it's not working," Draco replied. There was an edge to his voice, one he tried to erase – he couldn't be angry at Harry for his own weakness. Harry was sick. Draco wasn't. Well, not technically so. He needed to be strong. "Look—"

"Yeah, well, you'd know about crazy right?" Harry interrupted, eyes flashing. Draco could see the tension drape itself along his shoulders and with it came a wave of his own. He eyed him warily.

"What does that mean?" Draco asked cautiously, eyes narrowing.

Harry scoffed. "Get off it, Malfoy. With your family, you're an expert."

It wasn't him. It wasn't Harry. But it was – Draco could see the starts of the change, the emptiness reflecting itself in his expression – the odd, angry sort of vacancy – but it wasn't there yet, not fully. It was forced. Harry was grasping at straws – trying to push his buttons, trying to make him lash out – to underestand. To connect.

Draco swallowed, warning, "Watch it, Potter."

"No," Harry replied easily. It was Harry that took a measured step closer then, his eyes fixed on his. "Your dad? I reckon he's what—a psychopath? And your mom, well—"

Draco shook his head, his eyes flashing again.

"Don't talk about my mother." There was definite emphasis on the first word. It was a command, not a suggestion, and Harry made a deliberate noise in the back of his throat, a twisted sort of scoff.

"She married a psychopath," he continued. "That probably makes her what, a—"

Draco knew what he was doing but he couldn't – he couldn't just stand there and let him talk about her like that. Instinct drew his hands up and pressed them against the flats of Harry's shoulders, shoving him back a bit. "Shut up!"

Ah. There. He had found the button, the trigger – he had gotten a reaction. Draco had snapped – his fury was right there, right there and if Harry could just tap into that – he shook his head, brandishing the piece of glass as he took a deliberate step back toward him and said, almost tauntingly, "Make me."

Draco struggled to regain his composure. He needed to be strong.

"You're sick, Potter," he scoffed, a bit of desperation lacing his voice. Stop. Stop talking about her – just shut up. Shut up.

Harry's eyebrows darted up, a silent no, and then: "She's a—"

Draco quickly closed the distance between them and it was instinct, again, that brought his hands up. But instead of pushing against his chest, his hands settled on either side of Harry's face, narrow fingers digging into the underside of his jaw. Harry startled, visibly confused – the words died on his tongue and his eyes widened – but before he had a chance to utter another syllable, Draco's lips were crashing against his.

Harry's eyes closed on their own accord. The kiss was hard. It was anger and passion, his mouth pressed firmly and persistently against his – but it was fleeting, too. Their teeth crashed together, noses bumping, and then Draco's touch was disappearing, retreating; Harry was vaguely aware of the glass slipping from his fingers and falling to the floor, likely breaking, its crash echoing, a shadow of a noise. His eyes opened as Draco's lips disappeared.

Their gazes locked. Draco's expression was annoyingly unreadable – his face was impassive, blank – and this wasn't the reaction he had had in mind when trying to break the other man. No, not at all. His actions had a ricochet effect, it seemed, because Draco wasn't the only one fraying at the edges, his resolve crumbling. No, he wasn't, and Harry acted on impulse, on desire, and his hands mimicked Draco's, moving to cup either side of his face.

Draco didn't pull away, which was what Harry half-expected.

His eyes searched his, flicking down to his lips and then back up to his eyes.

Draco's eyes were fixed unnervingly on his and before Harry could second-guess himself, he leaned in to press their lips together again.

His touch was careful but firm, one of his hands sliding down to the curve of his neck. He angled his mouth against his, lips pressed firmly together, and waited for a response — none came. Two seconds passed. Two long, torturous seconds, his heart loud in his ears, and Draco's lips were still against his own. Shame rushed to the surface, hot and familiar. You're pathetic. Of course he doesn't want you. Pathetic. PATHETIC, screamed the voice — but then there was a hand against the small of his back and his mouth was opening against his.

Harry almost whimpered — almost.

Draco's lips worked carefully against his and their second kiss was far more gentle than the first.