How to Save a Life

Over the next few days, Harry’s relationship with his oldest friends descended into what could best be described as a hostile ceasefire. Ginny blanked him at every turn but also appeared to be spending every spare moment regaling the younger Gryffindor girls with stories of Harry ‘the bastard’.

Ron would barely make eye contact except to glare. Harry was relieved that at least he didn’t have to defend himself constantly against his friend’s angry tirades about snakes, Death Eaters and ungrateful friends. Harry suspected that Hermione’s ears were bearing the brunt of Ron’s barely suppressed anger instead.

It was hurtful but Harry found himself adjusting to the behaviour of the two youngest Weasley’s. They both had tempers to match their red hair and Harry had been on the receiving end of both of them on many occasions.

Only Hermione caused him to feel any real pangs of regret about the deterioration of their friendship. He would catch the bushy haired girls gaze on him from across the common room, her eyes full of confusion and, he suspected, guilt. After all, that was an emotion that Harry recognised all too easily, he saw it every time he looked in the mirror.

On a few occasions he had thought she was going to speak to him but he suspected that she was a little nervous of her boyfriend’s reaction, so kept her distance. Harry also supposed that she was a bit wary of what reception she would get, especially considering his outburst a few nights earlier.

On the positive side of things, his tentative friendship with his onetime enemies was growing daily. And Harry even caught himself wondering how different things would have been if he had just listened to the sorting hat back in first year, or even if he had accepted Draco’s hand that day on the train like he had been tempted to do.

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From a distance, Draco watched the disintegration of the Golden Trio. He tried so hard not to feel pleased because he knew how much it must be hurting Harry, but he couldn’t help the odd smirk – he was only human after all.

Then there were other times when he would catch a look on Harry’s face that made him want to kill the Weasel for how he treated his best friend. Like the time Harry sat next to him at Dinner and he just got up and moved further down the table, or the time in potions when Harry had approached his usual seat only to be dismissed by the redhead. Draco could tell that the mudb...Granger was conflicted, but the desire to please her boyfriend always seemed to win out over loyalty to her friend.

Draco had been eternally grateful to Pansy that day in potions. She had seen the hurt and confusion on Harry’s face at being turned away by his supposed friends. And before Draco had even had to suggest it, she was on her feet gently pulling Harry over to sit next to her. And that was where he had sat since, next to Pansy, behind Draco and Blaise. So close that sometimes Draco swore that he could feel the breath from the other boy’s sighs ghosting across the back of his neck.

Pansy and Harry had become firm friends, so much so that Draco still marvelled at it, and if he was honest, felt slightly jealous. Not that he thought Pansy would ever make a move on him but the ease with which they talked and laughed together pulled at Draco’s heart.

He noticed that Harry spent more time with Longbottom and Finnigan (he was still struggling with this first name business) and was relieved to see that Harry still had good friends to look out for him in Gryffindor. Draco had revised his opinion of those two boys of late, well; if he was honest it had started last year at school.

He always thought Neville was weak and a coward, but he had harboured a grudging admiration for the way he had stood up to the Carrows last year, giving hope to the other students and refusing to cowed by almost overwhelming odds. Draco had been unable to reconcile the boy who stood up and defied Voldemort during the final battle, with the bumbling idiot from potions class.

Finnigan, on the other hand, Draco had always thought was a bit of a slut. And probably even Seamus would agree that this was a fair assessment of his behaviour. He had been invited to a couple of Slytherin parties back in the 6th year, mainly because he had been screwing Blaise at the time. Draco had been too wrapped up in his secret mission that year to really pay any attention to what was going on around him. So other than Blaise’s pronouncement that the Irish boy was a ‘good fuck’; Draco knew little else about him. Although he too had played a prominent role in the resistance to the Death Eater regime at Hogwarts.

However, now that he had his sights set on Harry Potter, Draco was making the effort to get to know his friends. And he was finding himself pleasantly surprised by what he discovered.

Neville proved to be a quiet, thoughtful boy. Who, Draco noted, blushed faintly every time Blaise was anywhere near. Finnigan was still a slut, this much Draco knew. But he also found the Irish boy to be easy going and, unbelievably, quite amusing at times too.

But what really warmed Draco to the two Gryffindor’s was the way that they had been willing to brave friendship with him and his friends, simply because Harry had done so, and they trusted Harry implicitly.

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Harry was having nightmares again; they had started almost as soon as he had returned to Hogwarts. Only this time they weren’t filled with Death Eaters and Voldemort, they were full of people he loved, who had died.

Every night when he went to sleep, he would listen to those he mourned tell him that it was all his fault they were dead. He dreamed of a grown up Teddy Lupin hunting him down for killing his parents. And Harry couldn’t defend himself against their accusations, because deep down he blamed himself too. If he had just been a bit smarter, quicker, better – then he could have ended it all much sooner. He would wake up in a cold sweat; his bed sheets tangled around his shaking body, sobbing the only words he could manage, ‘I’m sorry,’ over and over again.

Sometimes it would take a couple of hours for him to calm down enough to fall back to sleep. Other nights he would just lay there, haunted by his memories until it was time to get up. He was permanently tired but he had managed to acquire a secret stash of pepper up potion, which carried him through the school day. A glamour on his face hid the more obvious signs of his exhaustion, allowing him to keep up the facade of being the ‘Golden Boy’.

Every night he would religiously cast a silencing charm around his bed so as not to disturb his roommates. But when he woke, scared and alone, he wished that just one of them would wake and tell him it was ok. Sometimes he was tempted to forget the charm, to allow his cries to alert his friends to his distress. But a lifetime of depending on only himself caused Harry to bear the burden alone, like he always had.

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On Friday night Harry woke from a particularly unpleasant dream. Not even wanting to try and go back to sleep, he slipped out of his bed, pulled on some clothes and decided to go for a night time walk around the school. He delved into his trunk and retrieved the map and his cloak.

As he made his way out of Gryffindor tower, he ran his eyes over the map, making sure that Filch was nowhere around. The rest of the Wizarding world might treat Harry like he was a prince, but Filch held him in the same disregard that he did all the other pupils; which, in a strange way, Harry found rather refreshing.

He couldn’t help but flick his eyes to the Astronomy Tower in the vain hope that he might see Draco’s name there again. Sadly he didn’t, but what he did see made his heart leap in his mouth. Two dots, labelled Seamus Finnigan and Terry Boot were moving towards the tower.

All Harry could think about were Pansy’s words, ‘rutting like dog’s’ she had put it. Before he knew what he was doing, he was heading for the tower under the cover of his invisibility cloak. He had to know, to see for himself.

It was dark in the Astronomy Tower and neither of its occupants noticed when the door opened slightly as if by itself. The only light was from the coming from the moon outside, which was streaming through the windows and illuminated the two boys.

Harry slipped into the room and had to cover his mouth with his hand to prevent the gasp that almost escaped him. Terry Boot was standing, his trousers round his ankles, while Seamus knelt in front of him. Harry slipped down against the wall silently, ensuring the cloak was covering him. His eyes transfixed on the sight of Seamus’ mouth wrapped around Terry Boot’s hard cock. He could just make out how his friends cheeks hollowed as he took that thick shaft deep in his mouth.

Harry could feel his own erection pressing hard against his trousers and instinctively reached his hand down to stroke it lightly through the fabric. He had always thought that gay sex was seedy and dirty, never had he imagined it could be as erotic as this.

When Terry Boot pulled Seamus over to a table and bent him over it, Harry thought he was going to cum in his pants. The sight of the Irish boy reaching behind and spreading his arse cheeks, while the other boy slowly inserted his fingers into the tight puckered opening, was almost too much for Harry.

Finally, as he watched Boot’s thick cock penetrate his friends arse, Harry’s own hand slowly tugged down the zip on his trousers and freed his own erection. He ran his thumb over the head, smearing his precum down his length. Then, wrapping his fingers round his throbbing shaft, he timed the strokes of his hand to the strokes that pounded into Seamus and before long he was shooting his seed all over his hand.

No sooner had he cum, than a feeling of horror swept over Harry. He had just watched his friend have sex, and worse still he had gotten off on it. Trying to swallow the bile that threatened to rise in his throat, Harry quickly wiped his hand on his jumper and tucked his limp cock back in his trousers. Easing himself up of the floor, he headed towards the door without another glance at the two boys who were still busy fucking behind him. Once he was outside the tower, he ran down the stairs and didn’t stop till he reached the portrait of the fat lady.

He crept into his dormitory and headed straight for the bathroom. He cast the strongest wards he could on the door and added a silencing charm for good measure. He stripped off his clothes as fast as his shaking hands would allow and then turned on the nearest shower.

Using his wand, he transfigured his comb into a small scrubbing brush which he then took into the shower with him. Stepping under the hot water he began to scrub fiercely at his skin, as if to wash away his shame at what he had just done.

The water was almost scalding him but Harry barely noticed. His uncle had been right about him all along, Harry decided. He was a freak, he must be. What normal person would do what he had just done? He deserved to be locked up for being some kind of pervert.

His skin was red raw by now, but Harry simply continued to scrub the imagined filth off his body. It was only when he noticed, with some satisfaction, that he had actually broken the skin and drawn blood that he allowed himself to stop and turn off the shower.

He wrapped a towel cautiously around his waist and disposed of the clothing he had been wearing in the nearest bin. Heading back into the dorm room he noticed with relief that Seamus had still not returned. He slipped, naked, into his bed, feeling the sheets cool against his tender flesh. He lay there, unable to sleep, hot tears running down his cheeks.

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