AN I don't own HP or any of the characters! This is just a short little one-shot (for now) that I decided to publish. Drarry if you squint, brief mentions of torture.

Fuck. It was past one in the morning, now, and the alcohol was starting to taste less like salvation and more like regret. He'd drank too much. He knew that, and yet he couldn't stop because some part of him hoped that drinking enough of whatever the hell was in his cup make drown the memories forever. It never did, though...

"Mr. Malfoy, if you please." Draco did not please, in fact he would have rather skinned himself alive than step into the center of the classroom, but Malfoys did not show fear. He stood without a word, and took his place. The entire Defense Against the Dark Arts class was piled in, standing against the edges along the walls, but Draco was not particularly interested in their performances. They'd handled boggarts before, as a class, and many students had tried to tell Snape that but the former Potions Master couldn't care less, it seemed, and threatened house points if another word was spoken.

One last time, Draco tried to shoot a pleading look to his godfather. Snape had never been loving, but he did often show favoritism which Draco prayed would fall on his side today—but no. Half the class had already gone. It had been interesting to see how people's fears had changed since then, honestly, and Draco had spent the first hour merely waiting for the Golden Trio to step up.

Granger had apparently gotten over her fear of a failing grade. Or, at least, found something worse. Draco had watched in absolute fascination as the boggart had curled and twisted, grey wisps of smoke slowly forming and analyzing her as they worked. Her parents dead bodies had thudded on the ground like sacks of meat.

Weasley had also acquired a new fear, though everyone knew he was still terrified of spiders, because even the smallest one in the dungeons could make him scream. Snape, evidently, expected his fear to be the deaths of the rest of the Golden Trio, as he deliberately moved Potter and Granger to the back of the class where Weasley wouldn't be able to see them or reassure himself. Merely making the challenges equal, Headmaster. Instead of Harry or Granger's bodies, though, the cabinet opened to reveal the Dark Lord.

It was clear from his response time that Snape was not unaffected by that one. The Weasel managed the spell, but not without a hundred different whispers passing through the crowd as to how he knew what the Dark Lord looked like. Draco was too preoccupied to truly wonder, though. He felt his own turn creeping closer, reaching for him like death's cold embrace, but he already knew what his boggart would be. Voldemort—same as almost everyone else. No one had to know that it held a more personal connection, so long as he cast the spell fast enough. And no one would.

"Mr. Malfoy." He'd been hesitating, and Draco sucked in a breath before nodding to his godfather. They could all guess what was going to come out of the cabinet because no one gave it a second thought when the door didn't immediately slam open. Just like every other time he'd been created, the Dark Lord slowly creaked the hinges and stayed shadowed in darkness, drawing out the anticipation.

Long, snaking blonde hair. Draco felt his blood run cold but he already knew what was stepping out of the wardrobe. It wasn't the Dark Lord. He swore and felt his chest seize but he forced himself to focus. It wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't real, it wasn't—

"Draco." He knew that voice. Fuck, he knew that voice and his hand tightened around his wand. It wasn't the Dark Lord, but Draco wished that it was. Instead, gleaming leather dress shoes stepped out onto the stone floor, their master following only moments later in all black. He could feel every single pair of eyes on him, confused and waiting for some kind of reaction, but Draco merely bowed his head. It wasn't real. As long as he didn't let anyone see, it was fine. The boggart couldn't actually hurt him, and as long as Draco didn't react it would be fine, right?

"Remember the spell, Mr. Malfoy." Draco remembered it perfectly, but the thought of raising his wand at his father made his limbs freeze up. He couldn't. The last time he'd made a mistake like that...

"Draco, you've disappointed me." He heard a few snickers run through the classroom, as if his worst fear could possibly be just disappointing his father, but he couldn't breathe and he couldn't focus on them for very long. His father stepped closer, his cane thumping on the stone floor. That damn cane… Lucius held it tightly, black and silver clashing with pale skin, but Draco knew that his wand secured was at the end of it.

"The spell, Mr. Malfoy." Silently, he felt the entire classroom take in a breath, and he felt his godfather's shock from where he stood. He heard it in Snape's voice. His hand raised—he knew the spell, he could do this. It was just a boggart. Just a boggart. Hell, he'd faced the Dark Lord himself every day for months and he'd survived, he could fight a damn boggart.

"You dare raise your wand at me?" Just a boggart, just a boggart, just a boggart…. His father's face contorted into a frown, though, and Draco watched the corners of his expression twitch with rage. The boggart Lucius raised his wand, and Draco sucked in a sharp breath.

"Expelliarmus!" But then his wand was on the floor. Draco couldn't breathe. Boggarts weren't supposed to be able to do actual magic, were they? It was his fear, his fantasy, but nothing should have been able to disarm him like that if it couldn't actually do magic. Lucius sneered at him, now, but Draco was already reeling.

He'd raised his wand at his father.

And it was his father now, not the damn boggart, because if anyone would take an opportunity like that and use it for a grand entrance, it would be Lucius. Fuck he was so dead. Draco already wasn't breathing and his hands were shaking uselessly at his sides, his wand forgotten. He'd raised his wand at his father… Lucius took a step closer, but Draco took a step back. Again, and again, until Draco finally collapsed to the floor and began frantically trying to scoot away as his father's cane got closer.

"Please! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry I can do better! I can do better I'm sorry I—" He was stopped by the tip of his father's cane. Cold, burning silver pressed into his windpipe and hovered, ever so slightly restricting his airway but very effectively pinning him to the ground. Draco froze. He tried to beg for forgiveness and he tried to pray for death, but he knew it was pointless. His father had that look in his eye now. The one that gleamed and darkened whenever the anger was finally sated with the promise of inflicting pain.

"I—" He choked, but his father's sadistic pleasure burned into him now and he had to do something—anything. "I— I can do better. I'm sorry! Please, please don't—"

"Crucio!"

Draco choked and nearly spat out his drink as he snapped out of it. He hated that one. Even now, sitting in a bar over four years and six hundred miles away, he could still feel the sting of the curse. It sank into his skin and ricocheted like bullets. Dammit! Why did he have to drink so much? Every time, he just couldn't stop until the memories were dead but they never were. He always just ended up here: alone, drunk, and hurting. For fuck's sake...

Harry had a very distinct, very strong sense of quiet that pervaded the air around him. Patients tended to like it, especially the children. He wasn't sure where it had come from, really, given what he'd been like at Hogwarts, but something about the war had changed him. Now, he was just… quiet. It was in the way he cushioned his steps, and the way he softened his grip, but it he was also very deliberate with his movement. No excess movement, no excess noise. Hermione and Ron had hated it, at first, because he could sneak up on them without even trying. Harry liked it, though, because it tended to draw in the more damaged souls and that was what he resonated with, even outside of St. Mungo's. He never thought it would draw in a Malfoy, though.

The blond was drunk, clearly, and Harry took the seat beside him at the bar without a word of sass or attitude. Draco looked horrific—his eyes were hard and bloodshot, his hair was so short it was almost militaristic, and his pale skin looked at least three shades too light. Harry had seen better looking patients in the terminal ward at the hospital, honestly.

"Malfoy." He said it softly, barely audible over the noise of the bar, but the blond still jumped. Normally, Harry would have been more than willing to sit in silence and just drink but he hated that inkling feeling in his gut that Malfoy didn't know it was him. As if proving his point, Malfoy's eyes widened in sudden recognition.

"Well, well, well.. Where's the rest of the Golden Trio?" Even when drunk, Draco was shockingly eloquent. The blond waved for another drink, but merely growled when the bartender denied him, pointing towards the sign that read: We don't over serve. Draco tried again, reaching into his pockets for a bribe. When Harry caught the familiar glimmer of a galleon, though, he grabbed the blond by the wrist and quickly paid, dragging them out of the bar. The muggle bar.

"What the fuck Potter?" But Harry kept dragging them, down the crowded street and away from the muggles. Draco was getting agitated and sparks were starting to jump between his palms. Harry made a mental note to ask what that was about later, because he couldn't see Draco's wand, but kept dragging them as people began to stare. Where to go? For a second, he thought about calling the Knight bus or dropping Malfoy at a shelter for the night, but the sparks were growing. They were changing colors now, and Draco was watching them like a small child. It was impulsive, but Harry grabbed a pale arm and apparated them with a crack!

The moment they landed, Draco promptly threw up all over the floor and fell to his knees. Harry would have sneered at the broken image, if he hadn't felt a stab of pity from the look on Draco's face. Instead, he merely mumbled scourgify.

"Where are we?" A direct question, but Harry still hesitated. He was caught up in the way that Draco stared at his wand and watched the cleaning spell, gawking like a first year who had just seen McGonagall transform. Why did he look so amazed? Or shocked?

"This is my apartment." Draco continued at stare at him, but those silver rings were quickly becoming unfocused and glassy. With one hand, Harry conjured a glass of water. He drank it, refilled it, and drank it again before finally offering the liquid to the man on his floor. For some reason, Harry felt like he was looking onto the eyes of one of his patient—or, at the very least, a patient.

"Eat this." The crackers appeared without a sound, but Draco still flinched. Slowly, he accepted them. As he began to nibble, Harry set to organizing the room and trying incredibly hard not to examine the blond. Still, he looked awful. Six years, and Draco looked even more broken than he had at his trial, after watching his parents die. Something stabbed in Harry's gut. He hated the idea of anyone having to watch their parents die, even if it was via executioner rather than via Voldemort. Regardless, the idea hit a little too close to home. He'd been against that particular punishment and had abolished it, but not in time for the Malfoys, it seemed. Shame.

"You still don't want to speak to me, after all these years? Am I that disgusting?" Harry frowned, but he doubted that the blond saw it because his eyes were scrunched tight in a pained expression.

"No, I just don't have anything to say." Silver settled on him again, dark with something that wasn't alcohol.

"At all? Or just not to me?" Harry smiled a bit and finally joined Draco on the floor, taking one of the crackers.

"At all. Why do you want me to talk so badly?" Draco shrugged. The blond looked at his hands, and crumbled one of the crackers into dust before lapping it from his palm. The whole act was incredibly childlike, and yet the way Draco dragged his tongue along his fingers was incredibly sexual. Harry cursed himself for thinking such a thing, and yet that didn't make it any less true. Draco looked embarrassed, almost, and it was amusing to see him so uncomfortable over such a mild conversation.

"Because I like your voice, scarface." He would have gaped at the compliment, but he had to laugh because, even now, the former Slytherin had to hide behind half-hearted insults. It was more of a joke, now, than it was truly vicious.

"Why?" Draco shrugged again, but kept his eyes on the floor. He was stalling, crushing another cracker in his hand, but Harry was content to just watch until he got his answer.

"It's calming," the blond finally mumbled. "I don't know why." Harry just nodded. It was far from the first time he'd been told that. Gradually, after the war, he'd taken on the habit of speaking very softly and very gently. He accentuated vowels, and softened consonants. The result was vaguely similar to how Luna spoke, but with a bit more seriousness than the former Ravenclaw. He considered just walking away, ignoring the blond, but he couldn't. Something about the way Draco was nibbling at the crackers, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks, made Harry want to stay. Clearly, Draco was embarrassed that he'd called Harry's voice calming.

"Okay, I'll keep talking. But I want information if I'm going to tell you anything. I became a healer after the war and I enjoy it a lot more than I thought I would. What have you been up to?" Draco scowled at him, as if displeased by the amount of speech, but Harry wasn't going to budge until he knew that this little deal had been agreed to.

"Was in Azkaban for a while. Sold the estate, sold everything, and had a few jobs but none of them stuck." Harry hummed. He summoned some more water, and some peanut butter for the crackers, but his mind was spinning. Draco had gone to Azkaban… Even with his testimony, even with the execution of Lucius and Narcissa, Draco had still gone to Azkaban. For how long? Was that what had put that empty bitterness in those silver eyes? Harry desperately wanted to ask but he thought better of it. The blond had asked him to talk.

"Yeah, I get the job thing. I trained for two years as an Auror before I dropped the program. It wasn't bad, per se, and I liked chasing people down and making them face the consequences of their actions, but we… My SA and I were on a case. We raided a house in muggle London and didn't find the guy but there were kids. Four kids, all under the age of six. They were locked in a room with no windows, and there were marks clawed into the door from the inside, and I just... couldn't." Harry bit his lip, but Draco was still listening very intently so he took a breath and continued.

"I dropped the program that night and accompanied the kids to St. Mungo's. They liked me, not sure why. The four of them refused to speak to anyone but me, and so I stayed with them until we could locate their parents. They'd been missing for over two years…. Watching them finally get to go home, to be safe, that was when I decided to become a healer. Why have none of the jobs stuck?" Draco was watching him now, very carefully, but his posture had begun to relax. As soon as Harry looked up, Draco looked down. And yet, it was progress so Harry didn't push it or repeat the question, he just waited.

"Not many people want to hire a deatheater."

"Ex-deatheater," Harry corrected, but Draco merely shrugged. "That's unfortunate, I'm sorry. You could always become a healer, if you wanted, because we're always short staffed and desperate for help. I know that was never your thing, though, so I won't hold my breath for shorter shifts any time soon." The blond just stared at the ground, crumbling another cracker between his fingers. He was making a mess, but Harry had yet to see him reach for his wand, so he doubted crumbs would make him do it. Did Draco have his wand? Harry hadn't even stopped to consider that he wouldn't have it, but he hadn't pulled it out—even when he'd thought Harry was a threat. Interesting…

"Have you kept in contact with anyone from school?" Draco shook his head. He looked almost sad, for a split second, but then it was gone.

"No, most of them are dead. Pansy lives in Japan, now. She met a wizard at work, somehow, and they have a few kids last I heard. No one's heard from Theo in years—not sure if he's still alive." Again, Harry felt that pang of something in his chest, something that didn't sit well with his conscience. They were all dead… Draco quite literally had no one and, if his suspicions were correct, he didn't even have a wand anymore. He would understandably feel alone and vulnerable, which Harry knew were never good things for a patient. Maybe they weren't in St. Mungo's, but that didn't mean that Harry wasn't analyzing the blond—even unintentionally. He needed stability, somehow, and Harry could at least try to give him some.

"I don't really talk to anyone anymore either. Ron and 'Mione invite me over for dinner every now and then, but they're busy with the kids. Luna and I chat sometimes, but that's about it. Do you go out drinking like this a lot?" Harry couldn't help it. His mind kept searching, trying to diagnose him or at least understand the state of his instability. It wasn't his responsibility and yet…

"I keep to myself, usually. What's it to you?" Under any other circumstances, Harry would have laughed at the blond's slip. Just for a moment, he spoke like that bratty eleven-year-old from Hogwarts and not a distinguished aristocrat. But Draco raised an interesting question. What was it to him? He wasn't sure, honestly, but, looking at Draco he felt that familiar tug at his hands and that familiar weight on his shoulders—his body ached to heal. Even if Draco wasn't his patient, let alone his usual patient type….

Harry was a strong healer—he'd been told that hundreds of times—and he had more of an instinctive approach than most healers, who preferred knowledge and research. He was rarely ever wrong, though. His magic was strong, too, and he has an uncanny ability to let it leach out into the air around a patient and search. This was what made him so good with children, he thought. They rarely ever had to tell him where the injuries were or how bad—he could feel them. Usually, he had to be very intentional about it.

With Draco, however, he hadn't even realized he was feeling the air, searching, until he got an answer in return. A sharp, bitter feeling that stung his fingertips. Maybe it was their history, or the fact that they were in his apartment rather than the hospital, but Harry was also a little bit intoxicated and he hates that feeling. It felt like salt or lemon juice seeping into hundreds of cuts all over his skin. He wasn't going to pry or inspect the blond without his consent, of course, so he didn't search for injuries or pain hot spots, but he still grit his teeth. Harry got the very strong, very toxic sense that the pain he was feeling from the blond wasn't external or something he could easily fix. It made his head swim, though he blamed the alcohol, and he wanted a distraction.

"Merely curious. Are you allergic to cats, Malfoy?" Draco shook his head. Standing, he went to his bedroom and brought out the black cat that had been sleeping on his bed, ignoring the fact that they had company.

"This is Meow." The blond raised his eyebrow, both at the name and at the squishy blob of black fluff in his lap.

"You named your cat Meow?" Disdain dripped from those pale lips, but Harry merely rolled his eyes. Clearly, the alcohol was wearing off enough for Draco's usual snark to resurface—shame, Harry thought, and yet he didn't feel disappointed. Before either of them could snap at the other, though, the blob of fluff heard its name. Meow stirred, nudging Harry's hand to protest the lack of petting. He'd heard his name, though, from an unfamiliar voice, so Meow straightened and lazily approached the blond. Draco glared at him, but Meow quickly wriggled into his lap. Harry wanted to laugh—Draco looked as if the black fluff had offended him by daring to touch his clothes—but he held it back and tried to look elsewhere. Meow would break Draco's resolve as easily as he'd broken Harry's.

"Ginny and I broke up during eighth year, in case you were wondering. She and Krum have been dating for a while. No kids, yet, but she's the youngest Weasley so I'm not really surprised. What happened with Astoria?" Harry could guess what had happened, given that neither of them had returned for eighth year, but he wanted to hear Draco say it. He risked a glance at the blond, who was now grudgingly petting Meow.

"Azkaban happened." Even if he was expected it, Harry still sighed a bit. Meow rumbled, and Draco nearly jumped out of his skin but Harry recognized the sound all too well. He was picking up on Draco's bitterness.

"He thinks you're angry," Harry explained. "He's trying to distract you before something explodes." That got Draco to look up, finally, though he kept running his thumb gently beneath the cat's chin. Evidently, Draco had relaxed enough for the fluffball to relax too. Draco raised an eyebrow at him.

"Why would he think that something would explode?" Harry smiled a bit.

"Because that's what happens when I'm angry."

Thanks so much for reading! Please review!