Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his universe belongs to the transphobic J.K. Rowling. I'm sure she'd be thrilled I'm still writing slash in it. Still, no copy-right infringement is intended. Keep in mind I'm poor.
The song at the beginning, Honest, belongs to Nick Thomas and again, no copy-right infringement is intended.
Saved
by MagickBeing
X
&.Chapter 20
If you could just be
honest with me, but it just won't stop. I wanna take you seriously, but you just
can't stop. I know the lies, they taste so sweet. Could you just be honest with
me?
/ Honest by Nick Thomas
X
Harry became aware of the curious looks as they closed the distance between their tables and the doors of the Great Hall. He wasn't that daft. A pair at the end of the Hufflepuff table blatantly gawked, nudging their friend with an elbow to the ribs, and the skin along the nape of his neck tingled in response. He quickened his pace, wishing for ignorance as the knot in his stomach hardened. He thought of leading Hermione back to their dormitory but was unsure she would follow. He remembered the look she had given him before pulling Ron from the room—she had looked sad, broken, searching. Frightened, even, although the knowledge of what he had said to her—what he had tried to do—could be coloring his perspective.
And Draco was with them—Harry trusted, wholeheartedly, that the other boy would stop things from going too far, which was a bit frightening in and of itself—their dynamic had only recently shifted and yet Harry trusted him with every fiber of his being. How was he going to get through tomorrow?
The knot in his stomach seemed to tighten at the thought and whatever euphoria Harry had felt earlier that morning was fading fast, too discolored with time and dread.
They passed through the doors of the Great Hall and Harry hurried further down the hall.
Dormitories felt out of the question and so he slowed when reaching the closest alcove, small as it was.
Draco neared, settling himself on the jutting edge, leaning casually against the wall as a sort of shield, further blocking him from view from those entering and exiting the Great Hall. Harry instinctively shifted closer to him.
Hermione stopped in front of the pair, her steps stuttering, feet struggling to gain traction as her body instinctively kept its distance. Guilt and shame wracked him then; her appearance became more haggard the closer they were, her usually bushy, near-tangled hair clearly knotted along one side, half-hazardly pulled into some semblance of an up-do in an attempt to disguise, and the shadows around her eyes were darker, more prominent than before in the dim lighting of the hall. The knot in his stomach was expanding, pushing against his ribcage, and acidic shame crawled up his throat. He swallowed hard, quickly averting his gaze to the floor.
Hermione's eyes flickered from Harry to Draco to Harry again, searching his face.
There was a long moment of silence as Harry mustered the strength—courage—to bring his eyes to hers. He needed to look at her. He owed her that much. Filthy Mudblood. The thought came as soon as their eyes met and it was invasive, equally acidic as the guilt and shame and disgust washing over him. He caught the inside of his lip between his teeth, worrying on it hard as if to correct himself, to purge the words from his mind.
"I'm sorry," he managed. It felt inadequate, falling flat to the floor. Another wave of guilt and shame and he tried again, embracing their swell: "I'm sorry."
His voice was rougher then, heavier, and he struggled not to avert his gaze. Hermione's expression softened some but her guard was clearly still up, arms wrapping loosely around her own body.
"Dr—" he stopped, something unexpected, small and possessive wriggling free from his ribcage at the use of Draco's given name. "Malfoy told me what I said," a pause and his voice quieted further, regret underlining the word: "Did."
Hermione noticed the slip up, of course, and her eyes switched to Draco again before returning to Harry's, brow pinching.
She frowned.
"You didn't remember."
Her voice hooked at its end and he was unsure if she meant it as a statement, a creeping realization, or a question. No matter what it was, he supposed it didn't matter because it was the truth. He didn't remember. He nodded, looking guilty at the confession.
A noise came then, pulled itself from her throat - a half whimper, half scoff. Whether it was borne of disbelief, pity, anger, or sadness... he didn't know. Another heavy wave of guilt crashed over him, colored vividly by his shame, his own disgust in his actions, and there was a whisper of a voice in the back of his mind. She deserved it. He swallowed hard, flinching at the thought, and sensed Draco shift beside him, guard raising as Harry's shoulders tensed, the knot in his stomach starting to burn.
"I've been reading, Harry—" his name came with difficulty, sounding somewhat choked, "and that's... that's not normal. Schizophrenia - it shouldn't manifest that way, even with magic."
She had suspected, then. The burning in his stomach waivered.
He shouldn't be surprised.
He thought of what Draco had said.
You act differently. If they're your friends, surely they've noticed that too.
She was the brightest in their class... of course she noticed.
Friendship had little to do with it.
"Have you—" she stopped, a group of students filtering from the Great Hall and walking past. Their necks pivoted toward them; they were blatantly staring, and Harry glanced at Draco, instinctively seeking the other out as an anchor, as if looking to him would lend him strength, would lend him the ability to school his face into an even, uncaring mask and hide the shame and discomfort coloring his form. Draco stared directly ahead, meeting curious gazes with a hard, challenging look of his own. When Harry looked back to the other students, they had the good sense to avert their gaze and turn away, hurriedly feigning conversation and brushing by. Hermione shot their backs a disapproving look, mouth slightly puckered. She was still protective of him. She still cared, that much was obvious, and Harry felt a rush of relief that only fueled the turmoil in his gut. No. She pities you. The Mudblood pities you. Pathetic.
He shook his head, trying to clear his mind, and sensed Draco shift beside him, his footing changing so that he could feel a glimmer of body heat from the other boy. The line across his shoulders tightened.
Hermione turned back to him, lowering her voice. "Have you talked to Pomfrey or that doctor about this? Dr. Muller?"
He looked away again.
"Malfoy just told me. After—after... Ron..." It was his turn to choke around a word, his friend's name heavy on his tongue.
Draco shouldn't have intervened. Ron should have cursed him into oblivion.
Let the blood Traitor try.
"How often does that happen? The memory loss?"
There was a flicker of normalcy then, a curiosity in her voice that he recognized.
She pities you. They all pity you. Oh, how you've fallen.
He furrowed his brow, shrugging, feeling the need to shield himself then, defend himself. He couldn't let her see how broken he had become. He didn't want her to worry further. This wasn't her problem anymore—he wasn't her problem anymore.
"Maybe it's a symptom of one of the serums," he offered, hoping she wouldn't see the lie for what it was. It had been happening far before the diagnosis and the serums. While yes, the miniature black-outs seemed to be intensifying in their frequency, he doubted it was the serum's doing. You're just that pathetic, taunted the voice. Hopeless.
He was certain she had spotted the deflection for what it was, but she let it pass.
"Which are?" Hermione inquired, her curiosity becoming more apparent. He could practically envision the swirl of logic rushing through her, trying desperately to piece things together and solve the puzzle—solve him. Fix him.
Are you really so worthless you'd accept a Mudblood's help?
He tried to ignore the voice and admitted sheepishly, "I don't remember their names."
Silence again, a heavy pause, and the sound of footsteps as more students passed. Harry couldn't bring himself to raise his eyes, instead raising his left hand to rub at his right forearm, imagining the irritated lines of red beneath his jumper. He could picture them in his mind, almost feel them as if they were living things, crawling and burrowing into his skin, and it itched. Before he could apply more pressure, a feeble attempt to ground himself, Draco shifted again, arm bumping into his.
He could practically hear the command: Knock it off, Potter.
His hand dropped, and Hermione watched the two with increasing curiosity.
"Could... could I come to your dormitory before dinner?"
Harry looked up, shifting his weight again. She was looking to Draco, asking Draco, not him.
She was afraid then. There was a second question buried under the first, a testing of waters, an attempt to determine risk versus reward.
Good. She's afraid. A thrill coursed through him, fanning the flames, and he pressed against the sensation in his mind.
Draco glanced at Harry, searching his face briefly. Although he was the one that had said they needed to talk—the one to initiate this meeting—he wanted to yell out no. He wanted to be done with this, tuck his tail between his legs and run, hide, burrow in the warmth he had discovered this morning and pretend nothing had happened. But he couldn't. He owed Hermione more than that. She was his friend. He needed to be strong. And so he remained silent and Draco's gaze returned to Hermione.
He nodded once in reply.
X
The walk to their dormitory was quiet.
Heavy.
Once they were in familiar, winding hallways, Harry sought Draco out again, his fingers looping briefly around his. The other boy didn't solidify the connection by intertwining their fingers again as Harry had hoped he would, but he didn't pull away either, and Harry tried desperately to find comfort in that. Just today, he reminded himself. Maybe it would be easier this way—if he let Draco force some distance between them.
A slow, cold seeping dread coursed through him.
It didn't feel like it would be easier.
X
"The blackouts... they were happening before the diagnosis."
The portrait hole closed behind them.
It wasn't a question and Harry pulled away, moving further into their room. He didn't want to have this conversation right then. It would be hard enough to have it later with Hermione—he certainly didn't want to have it twice. He was too conflicted, felt pulled in too many directions. Tell the truth and what? Get thrown into St. Mungo's after all? It shouldn't manifest this way, even with magic, he heard her say.
The voice in his head was quick to reply: Liar.
Lying himself, though—again—felt wrong too. He owed Hermione some sort of explanation and he knew, deep down, that she only wanted to help. She cared about him.
No. She pities you. You're disgusting.
He pushed forward, frustration mounting.
It was easy enough for Draco to stop him, however. One word—one bloody word and Harry hesitated, stopping mid-step.
"Harry."
Draco closed the distance easily, moving to stand in front of him. He gave him an expectant look, but Harry's frustration held firm.
"The library," Draco prompted, searching his face.
When Draco had managed to steal his wand—right. It felt like ages ago.
So much had happened since then, and as blue-grey eyes searched his, Harry felt his frustration give way to exhaustion.
"I have that essay," Harry tried, hoping the other would drop it. Draco lifted his eyebrows, staring at him expectantly, and Harry swallowed, bristling some under the scrutiny. "And today," he reminded him, voice lowering some, sounding more desperate, more pleading than he would have liked. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, fighting off the urge to grab at his forearm instead. "Please?"
Another question under a question. Please don't?
He knew Draco could ignore the request, of course. Just today meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Draco could change his mind at any moment, could smash his pawn with ease and drag him to the sidelines, broken and covered in dust. But Draco was nothing if not strategic, and so came a nod, quick and hard, and he turned to return to his earlier place on the couch.
The words tossed over his shoulder burned more than they should.
"Just today."
X
The distance between them hurt and Harry focused on the aching, magnetic pull from the other end of the couch. His book was in his lap again but his eyes were still, gaze bleary, text blurring in front of him. He had today, dammit, and yet he could feel the minutes slipping between his fingers, grains of sand he was too powerless to hold. He wondered if Draco was punishing him for refusing to answer, if this was a consequence for his dishonesty and deflection. Maybe Draco was forcing more distance between them, trying to ease the blow tomorrow would bring—no. That felt too considerate. Whatever this was—whatever today was—he knew, somewhere deep inside of himself, that it was part of a bigger picture, a piece carefully set and poised to move. Still, he trusted him. He trusted him to hold true to his word.
Idiot.
That thought, that voice, was wholly his own.
He looked to Draco, slow-creeping desperation crawling up his form.
Draco's eyes remained steadfast on his own book but Harry must have been obvious, so obvious, because the other boy wordlessly shifted, lifting his arm in a silent invitation.
Harry practically pounced on the opportunity, moving closer to tuck himself against his tall, lean frame again.
Draco's arm settled around his shoulders and Harry treasured the warm weight of it.
Just today, he reminded himself, the thought half-scolding.
Still, he leaned into the other, closing his eyes and relaxing despite himself.