Break-time at Saint Mungos was always a blessed moment in Harry's day.
It meant dragging his overworked body into the cafeteria for a burnt-tasting, yet somehow luke-cold cup of coffee and an apple, snatching up a forgotten Daily Prophet off of one of the tables and hoping that whoever had the newspaper first had left the Word Scramble section blank.
It meant Susan Bones offering him biscuits and gossip and mutual complaints about Malcolm Baddock and what a snarky little shite he was and how residency was just so very exhausting.
It also meant, once he'd finished the Word Scrambles, of course, a few minutes to catch up on the news outside of Saint Mungo's, which sometimes felt like his home away from home since he spent, on average, three nights a week sleeping in his flat. The rest of the time he was on-call, working overnight shifts or unable to remove himself from Ron and Hermione's couch. The last month had been especially difficult since he and Baddock and Susan had been doing their monthly rotation in Emergencies which meant they were nearly always on-call. Harry was counting down the days to March when he'd be put on a new rotation. He just prayed it was something with normal work hours.
That day, someone had already tried their hand at the Word Scrambles, Harry noticed with a scowl, and had inked up the entire games section with multiple cross-outs that were nowhere near the correct answers. The Daily Prophet put a special jinx on newspapers to prevent people from spelling off the ink and somehow knowing the correct answers was not as satisfying as actually writing them in, so, slightly irked, Harry flipped through the newspaper. The Daily Prophet would do anything to make a sickle.
Harry had been seeing Draco Malfoy's name in the Daily Prophet for a while now. It seemed there was always a little blurb or clipping mentioning Malfoy's success in securing additional funds for Hogwarts, in launching new Potions, in holding successful fundraisers and, in Harry's opinion, trying to better his name in the public eye.
Not that Harry had been paying attention. He had a habit of checking the papers daily to be sure that his own name hadn't been mentioned or slandered or anything, that was all.
Lately, however, Malfoy's name had been appearing in the Society section of the newspaper more often than it had been in the Local section. He'd been photographed engaging in daring escapades and appeared to be living the life of a socialite, despite the fact that the Malfoys had been forced to pay an exorbitant amount of reparation funds to avoid time in Azkaban. Many thought that the family had gotten away, literally, with murder, as they served only a two-year house arrest sentence on top of the fines.
Since the Manor was still in the Malfoy name and had been paid off for years, they were allowed to keep it; however, according to Hermione, their Gringott's vault had been nearly emptied of Galleons, gold, deeds to other Manors and anything else that the Ministry found to be a worthy retribution.
Harry suspected that, in a way, forcing the Malfoys to live together in the Manor was a form of punishment all its own. The family had no money and were stuck living together in the house that had been Voldemort's base for the last two years of the war.
Harry took another sip of coffee and glanced at the picture of Malfoy on the front cover. "Professor Malfoy Donates 2 Million Galleons to Muggle-Born Education Fund." Beneath the headline was a photo of the young blond, dressed impeccably in stylish robes, grinning wildly at the camera with a sort of manic look in his eye. He held a drink in one hand and swung an arm around a bearded man beside him, dragging the other fellow into the picture with a hearty hug. His behavior seemed a bit boisterous, in Harry's opinion, but figured it was probably due to whatever drink he was imbibing. Draco Malfoy was as slinky and waifish as he'd been in school; Harry had no doubt he was a lightweight.
"Staring at pictures of Malfoy again?" asked Susan Bones, peering over Harry's shoulder and dropping a package of opened biscuits on the table in front of him. Harry scrubbed tiredly at his eyes and gave Susan a weary grin.
"He just seems so different, is all," Harry said, reaching for a biscuit and dunking it in his luke-cold coffee. He could have cast a warming spell on it, but just didn't have the energy to reach into his pocket and grab his wand. Plus, a warming spell always made the coffee taste even worse. It was a bit of a conundrum, coffee. One never had the energy to make it until after it'd been consumed. Kind of like how glasses were the one thing a person could never find . . .
"Earth to Healer Potter," Susan said, waving a hand in front of Harry's face.
"Huh, what?"
"I just agreed with you, is all."
"Mmm." Harry swallowed the biscuit and watched Malfoy throw an arm around the bearded man—Joseph Gricharak, according to the article—for the fifth time.
"Not at all the uppity little prat he used to be, it seems," Susan said. "Though it could all be for show."
"Knowing Malfoy, that's exactly what it's for," said Harry.
"I wonder where he gets the funds, though?" Susan asked, tilting her head to the side.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the Ministry took all of the Malfoy's money, right?" Susan gestured with outstretched palms. Harry noticed that they looked dry and calloused, like his own, from the continuous cleaning spells required of Healers. "I know they don't pay Hogwarts' professors that well."
Harry hadn't thought of that. He frowned. "Yeah, you're right. According to Hermione, the Malfoys were left with next to nothing after the war."
"Serves them right," she muttered, then pushed the rest of the package towards Harry. "Here, I don't want these anymore."
Harry perused the article a bit. "Hmm, it says here that this Joseph bloke," he tapped on the face of the bearded man in the picture, "seems to have struck some sort of a deal with him. He must have fronted the money for the education fund."
Susan raised her eyebrows. "That's a heck of a deal to be making. Joseph Gricharak must care a lot about Muggle-born education, because I doubt Malfoy does."
Harry shrugged. "Well, he is a Professor now. Maybe he's changed."
Susan smirked. "Don't get your hopes up, Harry," she said with a wink. "I hear he's a bit of a heart-breaker these days."
Before Harry could protest, Susan had stood up and walked out of the cafeteria.
Sighing, Harry tore the article out, folded it into eighths and stuck it in the pocket of his lime-green robes. It couldn't hurt to keep an eye on Malfoy. Knowledge was power, after all.
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"Harry," Hermione's face popped up in the Floo as Harry tripped over himself grabbing last minute items. He snatched up a pair of gloves and began pulling them on when he realized that they were gloves for yard work. "Shite." He tore them off and began searching for his dragon-hide ones. Spotting them on the mantle, he reached up, tripped slightly on a bump on the carpet and fell face-forward into the Floo, smacking heads with Hermione, somewhere in the dimension between their two flats.
"Ow, bugger!" He popped back, and grimaced, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the Floo, rubbing his forehead and watching Hermione in the green flames do the same. "You all right?"
Hermione grumbled something and rubbed at her forehead, too. "Do you have everything you need?"
Looking down, Harry self-assessed for the millionth time. "Dress robes, check, my hair's in order, as much as it can be, um, I have my shoes—"
"The black ones?"
"Um," Harry looked at his feet. "Yup."
"And your speech?"
"My speech!" Harry popped up off the floor. "It's just in my room," he called.
"Harry, slow down!" He could hear Hermione's voice coming out of the living room as he tore through his bedroom in search of the speech that Hermione had helped him to write for the 5th Anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry had begged and pleaded with Professor McGonagall not to make him to do it, but she had insisted, and because he so respected the woman, and her tight-lipped no-nonsense stare still scared the shite out of him, Harry had agreed. So, with Hermione's help, they had put together a decent piece to read at the evening's events.
But where the hell was it?
Kreacher had visited the flat last week and tidied up what Harry considered to be an organized mess. While the room appeared spotless, Kreacher had a tendency to just shove things into drawers and closets so that Harry knew where nothing was. "Speech, speech. Where did I . . Oh!" He pulled out his wand and cast a locating spell. "Point Me!" he commanded. The wand spun and tugged him in the direction of his closet where he found himself reaching up and pulling at a tangled stack of bags, duffels, knapsacks, scarves and extra hangers that had been jammed into a sort of box shape on the top shelf.
The dusty pile of items burst forth and showered down on Harry littering the shoulders of his black dress robes in a white, powdery lint. He sneezed and dug himself out of the bags and hangers, unhooking a strap that was dangling off one of his buttons. His wand led him to one bag in particular, a nice brown, dragon-hide work satchel. Harry smacked at it a few times to clear off the dust, then peeked inside.
Sure enough, the folded papers of his speech were there along with several other boxes, quill bits and odds and ends that had found their way inside the bag over the years.
"Have you found it?"
Harry jumped and turned. Hermione had come through the Floo and was standing in the doorway of his bedroom in a long, red evening gown, shaking her head in exasperation.
"Uh—" Harry started digging inside the bag when Hermione grabbed his arm and started dragging him out of the room.
"Come on, just take the whole bag," said Hermione, clicking her heels importantly through Harry's flat. "We're going to be late. Ron's already there and McGonagall will have kittens if you don't show soon."
"You look nice," Harry said as he tripped over his feet to keep up with one of his oldest friends. Hermione, impervious to most things, but still a girl at heart, grinned at the compliment and gave Harry a nod.
"Thank you, Harry," she said. "So do you." She paused to regard him. "Except for this." With a smirk, Hermione reached and plucked something off of Harry's ear. It was a bookmark with picture of a cartoon Flobberworm sitting on an ice cube in a graduation cap. Underneath, it read, "Bookworms are COOL." Tiny little shooting stars sailed across the image.
Harry shrugged and Hermione giggled, tucking the bookmark inside Harry's bag.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Could've done with a Firewhisky," he muttered, wiping his sweaty palms on his trousers.
Hermione tsked. "There will be plenty at the celebration, after you've made your speech."
Harry didn't need to be reminded of the disaster at the one year anniversary when, nervous at the prospect of speaking to the entire wizarding community, Ron had thought Harry needed to relax with a few drinks beforehand. A few had turned into a few too many and Harry had barely begun his speech when his stomach started feeling not-so-good. He'd cut the speech short with a hardy and slurred, "Voldemort won't ruin this celebration, we've all seen to that. So here's to the fallen and the fighters and the few—the many and the few. Forever and ever. And ever. Cheers, Hogwarts!"
Though Hagrid had approached him with tears in his eyes, the Daily Prophet had had a field day with it and the phrase "Voldemort won't ruin this celebration," had become something of a local fad. Ron had even purchased Harry a mug from a vendor in Diagon Alley with the saying and a picture of Harry on the back with a bubble coming out of his mouth saying, "Cheers, Hogwarts!"
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Hours later, the speech had gone just fine, surprisingly, and Harry was relaxing at a table in the Great Hall with Ron, Hermione and Ginny, catching up with a few other schoolmates he hadn't seen in years. Ginny was sitting on Dean's lap, smiling. She'd been dating Dean since the end of the way, when it had become clear that Harry and Ginny just weren't going to work out. Things between them had never quite been the same as they were at Hogwarts and Harry simply wasn't in the right frame of mind to be dating anyone at the time.
And despite his improved frame of mind, Harry still hadn't managed to date anyone long term, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
As his friends talked, Harry looked around the Great Hall. It was interesting, he thought, how everyone seemed to gravitate toward the same seats that they had usually sat in as students. The Gryffindors were together at one table, as were the Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Some were mixed, such as Hannah and her fiancé, Anthony Goldstein, who were sitting together at the Hufflepuff table. Others who hadn't attended Hogwarts found room at the less-crowded Slytherin table.
"You need a refill?" Harry asked Ron, who nodded and tipped his empty glass in Harry's direction. Harry picked up both of their glasses and made his way toward the banquet set up along the side of the Great Hall. Two of Hogwarts' employed house-elves were manning (elfing?) the bar and Harry got into queue to wait his turn.
"Nice speech, Potter," said a familiar, cool voice. Harry knew who it was immediately and, instead of feeling the usual dread he'd associated with a Malfoy encounter, Harry felt a spike of excitement. He turned.
Damn.
Draco Malfoy looked good.
Really good.
The blond had grown his hair just a little bit longer than he'd worn it in school, but it was nothing like the severe, long chop that Lucius had sported. The hair looked baby soft, and curled gently behind his ears, the very back skimming the shoulders of his steel grey dress robes. They were clearly designer robes and the smooth, angled cut made Malfoy appear tall and sleek and stylish.
"Malfoy," Harry said with a nod.
"Professor Malfoy," the man corrected with a familiar, pompous smirk. His eyes were bright, the grey nearly blue and standing out boldly against his pale skin, complimented by the metallic of his robes, and surrounded by strangely flattering silver frames.
"Ah, yes," Harry said, holding back an eye-roll. "My apologies."
Malfoy extended a hand then, and baffled, Harry accepted and shook it. The last time they'd seen one another was at the Malfoy trials four years earlier and then Malfoy had been small-looking and scared. Before that had been in the Room of the Requirement . . .
"'Been a while." Malfoy handed his cup to one of the elves and gestured to a bottle of one of the finer Firewhiskies.
"Yeah," said Harry. "Um-is that any good?" He pointed at the Firewhisky that was now being poured into Malfoy's glass, emitting a soft curl of steam.
"No, Potter. It's terrible. That's why I'm drinking it."
"Fair enough." Harry snorted and turned back to the House-Elf. "Two of the same."
"So," said Malfoy, tipping his head to the side and regarding Harry with a little grin. "Decided to hold off on the drinks until after the speech this year?"
"Um, yeah," said Harry, shrugging awkwardly and taking the drinks. Malfoy laughed giddily, as though he was taking immense pleasure in making Harry uncomfortable. "So . . Hogwarts," Harry said, fishing for something to talk about. He had started heading back to the Gryffindor table and Malfoy was carrying his drink, walking alongside him. Malfoy paused by the doors of the Great Hall and Harry stopped, too.
"Yes. Hogwarts." The blond spread his hands out to the side as if to gesture to the space.
"I mean," said Harry, feeling stupid. "You're working here now?"
"Was it the 'Professor' comment that tipped you off?" Malfoy raised an eyebrow and took a sip of his Firewhisky.
"I've been following you in the papers—" Harry blurted out. An immediate blush heated his cheeks. He could only imagine what Susan would say if she'd heard him.
"Mmm," Malfoy drawled, eyes squinted in delight. He leaned forward, as if trying to get a better look at Harry. "Really?"
Harry began to protest when a brunette draped herself across Malfoy's shoulders, sending the blond stumbling back a step or two.
"Darling!" It was Pansy Parkinson and Harry couldn't help but make a face. For some reason it seemed easier to forgive Malfoy than it was to forget that Parkinson had been willing to hand him over to Voldemort. Perhaps it was because Harry had witnessed Voldemort bully a terrified Malfoy into acts of cruelty and knew he'd been miserable the entire time.
"Oh," Parkinson said, straightening up and smoothing her skirt. She gave Harry a very obvious once-over. He felt suddenly exposed. "Hmm. Not bad. Could be better."
That's rich, thought Harry, considering the woman resembled a bulldog with bangs. "Excuse me?"
"You're not excused," Parkinson said. She looked up at Malfoy. He was also making a kind of funny face and Harry noticed that beads of sweat were gathering along his brow. She began tugging on his arm. "Draco, come and sit with the Slytherins! It must be dreadfully boring up there at the staff table."
"No, actually," said Malfoy, looking distracted. "Flitwick Owl-ordered one of those Winston-Hughes 99-knut joke books. He's got everyone up there in stitches." A green, embroidered handkerchief was pulled out of Malfoy's pocket and he began to dab at his forehead. His eyes darted from the Slytherin table to the Head Table and then to the doors of the Great Hall in a skittish manner.
"Really." She sounded doubtful. Harry couldn't tell if Malfoy was being sarcastic or not. "It just isn't the same without you."
"Pansy, you know I can't," he said, shrugging her off.
"Oh, come on, Draco, bend the rules a bit."
"Pansy—"
"The Fat Friar keeps 'pretending' to drop food on the floor, but I know he's really looking up my skirt—"
Malfoy looked suddenly very irritated. "Later," he snapped. Turning to Harry he said, "Potter, if you'll excuse me, I just need to step out for a bit."
"Er, right," said Harry, scratching the back of his head. He watched as Malfoy turned quickly from him and strode from the Great Hall, his limber frame smooth and confident.
A sharp jab hit him in the side. "Ouch!" Harry yelped.
Parkinson was scowling at him. "Don't get any ideas, Potter," she snapped.
"Huh?" Harry rubbed at his ribs.
"Draco's more of a love-'em and leave-'em type." Parkinson's eyes followed Malfoy as he disappeared from sight. "I should know." She turned and sauntered away, leaving Harry baffled and alone.
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A few hours later, the celebrations were beginning to wind down. A few more speeches had been made, including Malfoy's Scholarship dedication to future Muggle-born witches and wizards. Malfoy made some sort of speech, but Harry was too fixated on his glasses to focus. He wondered when Malfoy had started needing glasses or if they were just for style.
When Malfoy finished, he received an extra hug of thanks from McGonagall, which he accepted gracefully. Dessert had been served, and now all that remained were the mostly-younger witches and wizards, burning through the alcohol, and reminiscing about their school days or catching up on life.
Any discussion of war was an unspoken faux pas that no one dared make.
Harry's speech was sitting on the table in front of him, now covered in food stains and sticky drink spills. Thinking he should probably save it for future reference, he re-folded it on the crease marks and opened up his bag to stick it inside.
A long, leather pouch in the bag caught his attention. It looked like . . . No. It couldn't be . . .
Reaching in, Harry pulled out the leather pouch and opened the mouth of the drawstring bag. Sure enough, there it was. Draco Malfoy's hawthorn wand. The one Harry'd been telling himself for five years that he'd return this week. Right after he did laundry and got air in his bike tires.
"Blimey," he murmured, pulling out the wand. Resting in his hands, the wand felt as connected with him as it had years ago. Hermione managed to convince Harry to take the wand to Ollivander's right after the war and perform a Single Wand Separation Spell, to ensure that anyone who mastered the hawthorn wand would not automatically become the master of the Elder Wand. Being master of so many wands was not as re-assuring as it seemed. If one fell into the wrong hands . . .
The Single Wand Separation Spell ensured that Harry was master of all three wands only until he was disarmed. Then that wand, alone, would fall into new allegiance.
Harry looked around for Malfoy but his seat at the staff table was empty now and he appeared not to have taken up Parkinson's offer to sit at the Slytherin table.
Relaxed now and dizzy from all the Firewhisky he had consumed, Harry decided to step outside for a bit of fresh air. He stuck Malfoy's wand in the pocket of his robes, just in case.
Leaning against a pillar outside of the entrance, Harry peered across the still grounds. They were so peaceful and dark, a far cry from what Hogwarts had looked like only five short years ago. So many lives had been lost that night. Fred, Lupin, Tonks . . . young and old. Irreplaceable lives. People that might have been spared had Harry somehow done better, moved faster.
The years after the war had been trying on Harry. He'd held himself responsible for every death incurred. The defeat of Voldemort brought a modicum of relief, but any triumph had been doused by the cold reality of hundreds of funerals, and trials, and reparations . . .
A stifled giggle brought Harry back to himself. Turning slowly, his hand on his wand, he found Draco Malfoy lingering about four inches away from his right shoulder, a broad grin stretched across his face.
Harry stepped quickly back and to the side, his heart racing.
"Potter," Malfoy said, his grin growing impossibly wide. He seemed to be bouncing, almost, on the balls of his feet, looking giddy and excited. He bit his lip and looked off to the side, then back at Harry.
"You alright?" Harry asked with a frown. The look on the blond's face was starting to creep him out a bit. Also, he didn't appear to be blinking.
"Fine, yeah, fine." Malfoy raised his eyebrows and continued to smile goofily.
Harry chuckled uneasily and shrugged. "If you say so. Oh, um, a strange thing happened."
"Yes?"
"I grabbed this one bag tonight, and I was looking through it earlier and it happened to have your wand in it, funnily enough."
Malfoy let out a sharp laugh and threw his head back, then seemed to gather his wits. "Really?" He locked eyes with Harry. "That is ever so fortunate."
"Er-yeah. Here," Harry dug into the bag and pulled out the drawstring bag. Malfoy snatched it from him with a greedy look in his eyes and made a little high-pitched noise of glee. "Um. It's not that I meant not to give it back or anything, it's just, I've been so busy, what with work and—"
The blond waved him off, "Fine, fine."
"Ah. Right." Malfoy's unblinking gaze was running over every inch of the hawthorn wand and Harry, feeling like he was interrupting a very personal moment, turned to leave. "Well, I guess I'll see—"
"Want to play Quidditch?" Malfoy's eyes had switched from the wand to Harry and they held a bit of a mad gleam.
"What?" Harry blinked, startled.
"Quidditch, Potter," he said with a little laugh, gesturing his hands excessively. If Harry wasn't mistaken, he swore they were trembling. "Broomsticks, Quaffles, Snitches, Rings, you've heard of it, I'm sure?"
"Uh, yeah. What? Do you play in a weekend league or something?"
"Tah, no." Malfoy glanced in the direction of the Quidditch Pitch with a vacant look in his eye then he whipped his head back to Harry. "Come on, Potter." He gave Harry a light shove on the shoulder. "I challenge you. Seeker's game, right now. I'm an even better flyer than I was in school, I can take you."
Astonished, Harry just shook his head. Was Malfoy serious? Was he drunk? "No, thank you. I don't think that's such a good idea. We've both been drinking a lot and—"
"I haven't."
"Well," Harry was beginning to grow annoyed. "I have. And, thanks, but, no thanks. How about a rain check?"
"Scared, Potter?"
Harry paused and regarded him. While Harry had made quite a few trips up to the drinks table, he'd only seen Malfoy up there the one time. And, really, he seemed steady, he wasn't slurring . . .
So why was he acting so strangely?
"Come on, Potty. A hundred Galleons says I beat you to the Snitch. No-two hundred."
"Harry?" Harry turned away from the nearly-vibrating spectacle and looked at the entrance. Hermione was peering out with a sleepy-looking Ron at her side. "We're about to get going." She frowned and craned her neck forward. "Who were you just talking to?"
Harry looked back at where Malfoy had been standing not a minute before and saw only the empty grounds. "Um. No one?" He frowned. What the hell? Where had he gone? "I'm coming."
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"Code eleven, Code eleven." It was Healer Malone's eagle Patronus, and the signal that Harry, Susan and Baddock needed to haul their arses to the East Wing of St. Mungos. It was their last day on the emergency rotation, but that certainly didn't mean they'd get a moment's rest.
The three Resident Healers quickly snapped shut the books they had been studying from and began briskly heading toward Healer Malone in the East Wing, straightening their robes as they hurried.
"Who do you reckon gets lead on this one?" Malcolm Baddock asked, breathlessly, as they turned a corner.
"Well," said Susan, "You got the little boy with the extra arm growing from his ear last week. This one's probably on Potter."
"But," Baddock protested, "Potter got to do the joint reconstruction on Brown."
"True," said Harry, hoping he got whatever this case was, simply because he'd been feeling a bit stale at work lately, "but that was strictly routine. It wasn't anything that—"
"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF OF ME!" A voice roared from the next room. Susan and Harry raised their eyebrows, exchanging a look. "OUCH! FUCK!"
"Sir," Harry could hear Healer Malone's stern tone and knew immediately that this patient was going to be his case. Baddock, while smart and hard-working, often butted heads with patients and had a terrible bedside manner. Harry, while not much better than Baddock, in that respect, had been told that he had a face that patients could trust. At least, that's what Susan always said when Harry got stuck with the ornery ones time and again.
When they arrived in the open space, Harry hesitated only a moment before springing into action. A man was being restrained by two Aurors and a Healer's Assistant. He was covered in blood and writhing about on the floor as the H.A. attempted to calm him down and coax him onto a stretcher.
"Sir," said the Healer's Assistant, a tiny girl named Penelope with large glasses. "Sir, I need you please calm down and tell us what happened."
"I TOLD YOU, I TOLD YOU!" The man screamed, his voice tearing out raw as though he'd been at it for hours. "HE'S AFTER ME! THE BUGGERING MERLIN-HE SAW. Say, who KNOWS what he saw? All I can say is HE DID IT AND HE'LL DO IT AGAIN!"
The man then began to let out a sharp, high-pitched laugh that echoed maddeningly in the corridor.
"I know where he is," the man laughed. "I do—I know exactly—YOU'VE GOT TO LET ME GO! I can't stay-I've got to . . . I've got… Got to." He slowed down his movements and paused for a moment.
"Sir, please—"
"GET OFF ME!" The man began thrashing about again in earnest and managed to knock Penelope back against the wall. Free from restraint, he scrambled up, turning to face Harry, Bones and Baddock.
And that's when Harry's jaw dropped.
"Malfoy?" Harry and Baddock breathed together.
Draco Malfoy's enormous eyes sparked with recognition at the sight of the former Slytherin. "Little Baddock!" he gasped, doing a sort of dance. "Little Baddock, you've got to—" Malfoy looked around wildly. When he saw Harry he made a funny sort of face where he wrinkled his nose and widened his eyes. Then he turned around and started bolting toward an empty corridor, wand in hand.
Susan Bones sprang into action and apprehended Malfoy, casting an Incarcerous and quickly disarming him.
Harry snapped out of his shock and ran toward Susan, seizing the nearest floating stretcher and levitating Malfoy's twitching form onto it.
"Healer Potter," called Healer Malone. "Take lead."
"Yes, sir."
Malfoy howled and shouted profanities as they brought him into an empty room and transferred him onto a bed, hooking him up to various pieces of scanning equipment.
Harry leaned closely to him. He was sweating and trembling. "Malfoy, I need you to tell me what happened."
"Potter!" he snarled, writhing in his magical restraints. "You sent Aurors after me, didn't you? Didn't you? You did! Can't even trust me, never could!"
Harry exchanged glances with Baddock.
Susan began to administer quick checks on Malfoy's basic stats.
"Blood pressure?" Baddock asked, scribbling on a clipboard.
"One-eighty over a hundred."
"Heart rate?" asked Baddock.
"One-twenty."
"Merlin," said Harry. Starting to suspect that something more than fear and physical injury was at play here, Harry quickly ordered Susan to administer a heart-slowing potion and then sent her to fetch a Calming Draught.
Malfoy's grey eyes were wide and his face was pulled tightly into a grimace. Harry shined a Lumos into Malfoy's eyes. His pupils were enormous.
"Malfoy," Harry said, carefully, "have you ingested anything today? Potions, drugs, chemicals of any sort?"
"Potty, I told you," Malfoy moaned, then hissed in pain, squinting his eyes shut. "It's the Aurors. They're looking for my . . . they're after. Gricharak. I promised—" He hissed again and began moaning. "Owwwaaaaaahhh . . ."
"Where's the pain?"
Baddock had cast a magical sensor over Malfoy and Harry could see an angry, red throbbing aura over Malfoy's right side. "It's his liver," Baddock said, shaking his head in exasperation. Harry felt his stomach sink. That could only mean one thing.
"Malfoy," Harry's voice was insistent as Baddock searched the cabinet for an overdose kit. "You need to tell me what you took."
Malfoy shook his head fervently, whipping his chin from side to side, lips pressed tightly together. His hair was matted against his forehead with sweat. Grey eyes widened suddenly and Malfoy heaved once, twice—
Harry thrust a bin under his chin and Malfoy vomited. A glowing, golden liquid splashed against the metal bin and Harry and Baddock exchanged a look.
"Holy shite," Harry muttered.
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Once Malfoy had been forced to ingest a bottle of Potion-Expunger, the three Resident Healers sat down and waited, taking turns helping Malfoy to hold the bucket under his chin as he continued to sick-up copious amounts of what they'd quickly determined was regurgitated Felix Felicis-a deadly and insane amount of Felix Felicis that only a person with a raging tolerance and definite addiction to the substance could ingest without incurring immediate death.
And for the time being, it appeared as though Malfoy was going to be lucky. Harry ordered that the Calming Draught not be used, due to the state of his liver. Instead, Harry had used a less-effective Calming Charm to bring down his heart-rate and blood pressure and Susan had cast a series of spells to reduce the internal pain that Malfoy was experiencing, without subjecting his liver to additional abuse.
The blond shook and swore and sweated and puked as the three continued to take shifts, replace lost fluids and electrolytes and, in the case of Harry, wonder what the hell had possessed Malfoy to get into such a state.
During the last of visiting hours, Harry was surprised, though he shouldn't have been, to see Narcissa Malfoy in the waiting room, clutching a handkerchief and begging to see her son.
"I'm sorry," said Penelope, "but you cannot go in there right now."
"I am certain that someone here can tell me something," Narcissa hissed, her red eyes turning away from Penelope and falling onto Harry. "Healer Potter." Her voice was strained and eyes weary. "Where is my son? Tell me what is happening." She looked desperate and seemed to just barely stop herself from clinging onto Harry's robes.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said carefully, taking pity on the woman whom he knew had risked her own life for her son before and would do anything for him. "Malfoy—er, Draco, I mean. It looks like he's going to make it."
Her eyes shone with relief but she looked no less tense. "I understand he was," she frowned, "attacked?"
Harry nodded. "Yes. But the injuries sustained in the attack are secondary to another more serious situation."
"Tell me."
"What do you know about Felix Felicis?" Harry asked with a sigh.
Narcissa laughed, looking abashed. "Pardon me? Felix Felicis?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She frowned. "You want to give my son a luck potion? What for?"
"Er, no." Harry said, quickly assessing that Mrs. Malfoy was not aware of what her son had been up to. "Draco has consumed an excessive amount of the potion and—"
"He was poisoned?" Her eyes widened.
"Mrs. Malfoy," Harry said, keeping his voice slow and even. "At this point, we believe that the potion was self-administered—"
"Mr. Potter," she snapped, her eyes growing icy. "My son is a Potion's Master. Are you suggesting that he accidentally—"
"Not an accident," Harry said, holding up a hand to prevent Narcissa Malfoy from interrupting him again. "From the sheer amount of potion in his system, it is my professional opinion that your son has been intentionally consuming Felix Felicis and that this has been going on for quite some time."
Narcissa said nothing, just shook her head.
"The amount of Felix Felicis in Draco's system should have killed him instantly—"
She gasped, covering her mouth with one hand.
"—but, it didn't. Which means he has built up a tolerance to the potion, suggesting, unfortunately, a very serious problem."
"No," she breathed, looking at the floor. She snapped her eyes back up to Harry. "You are wrong, Healer Potter. Draco would never . . . check him again. I want to see him."
"You can't—"
"Check. Him. Again."
Harry shook his head softly and turned from the waiting room leaving Narcissa Malfoy clutching a handkerchief.
….
….
….
So hot. He was so hot. And itchy. And God.
Death, anything, death would be better than this… pain.
Like the searing burn of the Dark Mark, Draco could feel his blood boiling through him, his body, changing, he needed-
God, no.
Draco snapped open his eyes and found himself in a dim room, the incessant beeping crawled up his spine like spiders, nesting on his neck, trickling through his ears.
Help me, he thought, and let out a loud, keening moan as thoughts swirled through his mind.
Useless. Failure. He deserved the pain. He'd never be happy again.
He needed to die because he would never, ever achieve anything.
Draco tried to reach up to wipe itchy tears off of his face but found his arms bound, unable to do anything to remove the hot trickle sliding down his cheeks towards the spiders in his ears.
Someone was crying and screaming and it sounded like his father's voice but it was so far away, so distant from the tearing in his throat and the other voice whispering to him, "You're okay. You're okay. You're going to get through this."
Draco could hear that faraway voice begging for death and somewhere in the corner of his mind he agreed that, yes, death, would be better than this, and he started pleading for it, too.
"Stop it, Malfoy," the gentle voice said. "You're not going to die. You're going to live. You are going to be okay and you are in safe hands now."
"I don't want to live." Draco was certain that was his own voice.
"Well, Malfoy, living is your only option right now."
Draco squinted at the person holding his hand. "Potter?" he grated, his voice hoarse.
The pressure on his hand increased and then Potter reached up a towel and wiped at Draco's face, the scratchy fibers soothing the flaming itch of his crawling skin.
"Yeah, Malfoy, it's me."
In too much pain to be embarrassed, Draco tried to steady his breathing, stop his sweating, control the rolling nausea that stormed through him in waves. "I'm going to be sick."
Potter held a bin up under him and, shame now added to the mix, Draco vomited into the dustbin as Potter rubbed soothing circles on his back.
….
….
….
Unable to sleep, Harry sat in his London flat, thinking about the state of his former enemy. It was frightening to see Malfoy, who had always been so fastidious, so proper, so much better that everyone else, reduced to the desperation of an addict.
Harry had been reassigned that evening to continue with Malfoy's case under the direction of Healer McClintock in the Medical Addictions and Rehabilitation Ward. Harry had done a bit of work with McClintock in the past and had received high marks in counseling which, he was sure, was partially due to his soothing nature.
Narcissa Malfoy had eventually been convinced that her son had, indeed, been using Felix Felicis. Because Aurors had been involved when Malfoy initially reported an attack in his state of Felix-induced psychosis, an investigation had been opened. Questions began to arise as to where Malfoy had obtained the ingredients for Felix. A quick check of the payroll ledgers made it all too clear that he had used his position at Hogwarts to obtain mass quantities of the drug. McGonagall had been notified immediately.
Most individuals in Malfoy's situation would be sacked for such a scandal, so Harry was shocked when McGonagall offered to hold Malfoy's position for him, upon successful completion of the rehabilitation program and proof of sobriety.
He must have been really good at his job, Harry thought.
Still, Harry felt unnerved that he would now be working to rehabilitate Malfoy. While he'd been certain before that the man had changed, Harry felt now that Malfoy's generous boisterousness and friendly nature had just been a fabricated result of the gross overconfidence associated with Felix Felicis. More than likely, Malfoy would be the same git to Harry that he had always been.
And he was, no doubt, destined to be a defensive and difficult patient.
Harry remembered Malfoy's whinging in Pomfrey's office with a little laugh as he poured himself a generous, and much needed, glass of wine.
Addictions, he'd learned, were generally a physical manifestation of an underlying emotional issue. No doubt, Malfoy had a lot of issues to work through and Harry suspected, as with many recent addicts at St Mungos, that most of these were going to stem from the war. Malfoy had witnessed and partaken in countless acts of violence, not to mention lived with Voldemort in his home.
Harry had his own share of issues after the War, namely a problem with rage, and had worked with Healer McClintock as a patient himself before deciding to change his career path from Auror, which only fueled his rage, to Healer, where he could do what McClintock and so many others were doing and continue to help people in need.
….
….
….
For the next three days, Harry, Susan and Baddock helped Malfoy through a very nasty de-tox. Malfoy trembled and vomited, shook and shouted and swore, screamed and pleaded and begged for his Potion, for his death, and for help.
Harry tried his best to keep Malfoy comfortable with Sleeping Charms and Pain Relief Spells, but there was only so much he could do to alleviate the pain of withdrawal. Malfoy had to go through it. Not only that, but experiencing it was an important part of the recovery process. Patients were able to see that they lived through the agony without their drug of choice and learn that the pain of it was not something they ever wanted to go through again.
At least, that was what Healers hoped.
On one particularly difficult night, Malfoy had been in a state of semi-delirium. He was crying uncontrollably and clenching his teeth and his fists and, based on the fragmented words that he'd managed to utter, Harry felt certain that he was having flashbacks to the war.
Thankfully, the wizard's wand had been seized upon his arrival, because when he began to choke out words like "Crucio," Harry started to fear for his own safety.
Moments after he'd performed the Cruciatus Curse on an imaginary someone, Malfoy had buried his head in his clenched fists and wept, thrashing about on the bed and saying, "I'm sorry," over and over again.
Wanting to comfort him, Harry was oddly reminded of his godson, Teddy, and, for some strange reason, Harry felt compelled to transfigure one of Malfoy's pillows into a large, plush, gray gorilla. He had never been all that good at Transfiguration, so the gorilla still had the delicate floral print of the hospital bed-sheets, but the toy was soft and clutch-able and sometimes patients liked to hold onto things that were comforting and reminded them of the safety of childhood.
"Here." Harry held out the stuffed gorilla for Malfoy to take. Malfoy paused, seeming to regain a brief moment of lucidity. He glanced up from his hands, his face gaunt, red and tear-stained. His eyes, weary and wild, fixed on the proffered toy.
Feeling a bit foolish, Harry was about to Transfigure it back into a pillow, when Malfoy wiped a hand across his face and sniffled.
"Er—" Harry started.
Ignoring Harry completely, the blond reached out a hand and took the stuffed gorilla. He tilted his head and regarded it curiously, then flipped it over so he could see the gorilla's face. Noticing its goofy-looking mug and one-toothed grin, Malfoy actually cracked a tiny, sad-looking smile. Then, sighing deeply, he wrapped his arms tightly around the toy and rolled over onto his side.
….
….
….
Patients in the Magical Addictions and Rehabilitation clinic of St Mungos typically followed a six-week program that consisted of one-on-one talk therapy, group therapy, art and music therapy and a regimented diet that was closely inspected to ensure that patients were receiving an appropriate amount of nutrients for their health. Potion-supplements were typically not given to patients with a history of overdose. Patients' livers were treated with a series of ongoing healing spells to try and undo damage that had been done over long periods of abuse. It was really an incredible spell, one that had only been invented about ten years prior and could have worked wonders in the Muggle world, but could still only be administered to patients magically, and thus, remained a Wizarding World secret despite its potential benefits, like so many other things.
Harry had done a rotation in the Rehab clinic in the past and felt that he was well-suited to talk therapy. He tended to understand patients with addictions, though he'd never specifically had an addiction to anything physical. He knew what it was like to feel out of control, though, and to feel as though one needed something in one's life in order to function, in order to hide and defend oneself. He got it. And he felt like he was making a difference when he was able to help others.
But Malfoy. Merlin, almighty. The spoiled git had already skipped his first session of group therapy. If he missed another, he'd be put on probation. A third, and he'd be out of the program and out of a job. Harry shook his head and made a note of the missed session in Malfoy's file.
While it made sense—Draco Malfoy suffering an addiction—it just boggled Harry's mind. And it wasn't just the fact that Malfoy had an addiction that boggled Harry's mind, but it was also what he was addicted to.
Felix Felicis?
It was an incredibly dangerous, not to mention greedy and selfish, addiction. Fitting, really, Harry thought with a scowl. Malfoy always did have to have the best of everything.
But how had it started? Perhaps his bout of bad luck after the war made him nostalgic for his days of being the richest and snobbiest student at Hogwarts?
Harry wasn't sure. But he did know that it wasn't fair of him to approach this situation by immediately placing judgment on Malfoy and his addiction.
But it was Draco Malfoy. He just couldn't seem to help it.
Harry would try to approach Malfoy's case with an open mind. He really would.
….
….
….
"Good morning, Professor Malfoy." Harry had knocked twice on the door and entered when he'd gotten no response. Malfoy was sitting up in his bed, cross-legged, and looking more like a sullen fourteen year-old boy than the handsome well-to-do bloke he'd appeared to be at the anniversary. A flowery arm hung off the bottom of the bed where Harry assumed the gorilla toy had ended up.
Malfoy had his head propped up on one fist and his elbows balanced on his knees as he turned the pages in a large photo album. His mum had dropped off a ridiculously large gift basket for him earlier that day. Harry had to inspect each item to be sure that it wasn't harboring anything that could cause potential harm to Malfoy's recovery.
Narcissa and her house-elf had brought the photo album, various chocolates and sweets (some of which Harry was forced to toss due to serotonin-boosting additives that were not legal in Britain), a bottle of sparkling water, a Quentin Ross' 8-Color Quill Set, a green light orb that resembled a lava lamp and books #4-7 of the Bobby the Beater children's mystery novel series— book number four, China Smackdown!, book number five, A Russian Elf-Air, book number six, Bulgarian Bludger Bludgeoned and book number seven, The Snitch from the South.
Curious about the odd addition, Harry had flipped through these to make sure they weren't hollowed out and filled with illegal items but, surprisingly, they appeared to be nothing more than spell and potion-free books written for a pre-teen boy audience.
"Don't." Malfoy's hair was tangled, hanging in his face and he hadn't looked up. He turned another page and the sheen, sticky photo-coverings crackled as he pulled.
"Don't . . . ?" Harry pulled out his wand to run a quick series of diagnostics to ensure that Malfoy had remained stabilized.
"Don't call me Professor Malfoy."
Harry frowned. "Um, okay. I thought—" he hesitated, remembering that the conversation had likely happened while Malfoy was using. "What would you like me to call you, then?"
Malfoy looked up with scowl, still not meeting Harry's gaze. "I would like it, Potter," he spat his name, "if you didn't call me anything at all."
"Mister Malfoy—"
"Ah-no! Not," Malfoy winced and held up a hand. "Just. Stop, Potter. Just-call me Malfoy, if you must." He swallowed and looked back at the photo album. "No need for false and patronizing pretenses."
Harry nodded and spread his hands out. "Okay, fine. Malfoy, then. May I ask why you dropped the 'Professor'?"
Malfoy snorted rudely, then crossed his arms and leaned back against the bed. "Sure. That's the funny thing about free will, Potter. You can do whatever you want."
Sensing that Malfoy wasn't going to answer, Harry avoided the temptation of moving closer to get a look at the photo album and instead set a cup of pumpkin juice on Malfoy's bedside table and began casting the diagnostic spells.
Malfoy scowled and rolled his eyes the entire time, but didn't say anything else, obliging when he was told to raise and lower his arms and to turn this way and that, so Harry figured he wouldn't press the issue. It wasn't that important, anyway. It was likely that Malfoy just wanted to regain some sense of normalcy, as well as refuse to allow Harry control of the situation. That was normal. Harry could understand that.
"By the way, group session is at 3:00," Harry said, turning to leave. "See to it that you're there this time."
Malfoy grumbled a response and Harry shut the door behind him.
….
….
….
Group sessions always made Harry feel a bit awkward. They were supposed to encourage camaraderie amongst patients and help others to learn and understand more about their own recovery process by witnessing others' struggles and successes.
However, group sessions always left Harry feeling as exposed as his patients likely did. Uneasy patients often shot Harry's own questions back at him and, unable to resist a challenge, he usually tried to answer them, just because he hated doing it so much.
Honesty with oneself wasn't one of those things that got easier over time.
But, as for building camaraderie, group session was fairly effective in doing so. Harry got to know and care about his patients and they got to know and care about each other, once they opened themselves up enough to allow others in and allow themselves to heal.
This group session consisted of several alcoholic patients, a young girl named Chelsea who had been in the rehab clinic before for addiction to a Potion called Loofsnaarp, or "Loof,' for short, a man Harry remembered from Hogwarts as an older Ravenclaw, who was hooked on a variety of uppers, and a rather zippy fellow named Clark who had an addiction to Self-Modified Cheering Charms. Addiction to charms was one of the more difficult addictions to treat since a Wizard need only have his wand to access his high.
It was 3:07 and Marsha, an older woman with a kindly and weather-worn face was describing her rock-bottom experience when Malfoy, wearing a black silk robe tied over the same hospital gown he'd had on for days, and a pair of scratchy hospital slip-proof socks, shuffled into the room. He was hunched slightly with his hands wrapped tightly around his stomach, a steaming, Falmouth Falcons traveling mug clutched in one. His hair had been pulled back into a sloppy, snarled lump and he was wearing his glasses.
Necessity, then.
"Nice of you to join us, Malfoy," Harry greeted him coolly. Malfoy ignored him and crawled into an empty armchair, pulling his knees up and tucking them underneath himself.
When Malfoy chose to focus on sipping from his mug instead of looking at a single person in the group, Harry turned away from him and gestured for Marsha to continue. Marsha shot Malfoy an uneasy look when his silk robe sleeve slipped to his elbow, revealing the Dark Mark, as stark and livid black as if Voldemort had just burned it into the blond's flesh that morning.
Noticing her staring, Malfoy quickly pulled the sleeve to his wrist and gripped the fabric tightly in his fist. His cheeks and ears turned a deep shade of pink. Harry could see that his hands were trembling.
Marsha began speaking, then, and Harry and the others turned their attention back to the woman. They offered her supportive applause when she finished her story and Harry gave her a Valour Sticker to add to the chart on the back of her Recovery Journal.
The only person who didn't clap was the platinum blond professor. He'd fallen asleep, empty mug hanging loosely from his hands.
….
….
….
"Hey," Harry poked Malfoy on the back and he sucked in a deep, startled breath, blinking rapidly. "Get up."
Malfoy relaxed back and yawned, punctuating the action with little smacky post-nap mouth sounds like a five year old. Then he wrinkled his nose up. "Bluegh." More smacky sounds. Harry was reminded of the stirring noises made by yellow macaroni and cheese product from the blue box that he used to cook for the Dursleys. "Kah." Malfoy lifted the mug up to his mouth and tried to sip from it, taking in a mouthful of empty air, instead.
Malfoy swallowed anyway, Harry noticed, likely trying to play it cool. He was obviously unaware that the mug had been lying completely on its side for twenty minutes and would have surely spilled if there had been anything left in it.
"Wake up," Harry snapped. Malfoy turned bleary eyes toward him and frowned.
"I am." Malfoy yawned again, patting his mouth with his hand. "Obviously."
"This is the second session you've missed. The first one, you slept through. The second one, you came to the room, but you still slept through. Malfoy, you're officially on probation. You miss one more session or break any other clinic rule, you're out of here, I notify McGonagall, and your job is gone."
"God, I didn't mean to, you sanctimonious shite—"
"Watch it—"
"Ship. Shipbuilder." Malfoy scowled and crossed his arms. "Merlin, you're not even going to let me curse? For God's sakes, Potter. I fell asleep. I'm sick."
"The other patients—"
"Are absolute losers, Potter. Even you can't deny that."
"The other patients are sick, too, Malfoy, yet they've still managed to attend every session, on time and fully conscious."
Harry watched as the blond fiddled with the lid of his mug. "So. Probation, is it?"
"Yes."
"And what does that mean?"
"That means that if you mess up one more time, you are out of here." Harry was hoping his words would scare Malfoy into positive action and not provoke him into trying to challenge Harry.
"So," he drawled, sleepy grey eyes finally meeting Harry's, "in other words, it means nothing. Three strikes and I'm out, I get that. But Probation doesn't actually mean anything new?"
Harry frowned. "Um. No, I guess not. Not really."
"I see." Malfoy smiled up at Harry. "It won't happen again, Healer Potter."
"If it does—"
"My word is my bond," Malfoy said. "Have you ever known me to lie?"
With that, Malfoy peeled himself out of the chair, stretched like a cat and began shuffling back to his room. Malfoy stumbled once—those slip-proof socks were always just a bit too grippy, in Harry's opinion—and continued down the corridor.
….
….
….
"You are required to keep a Recovery Journal," Harry said during their first one-on-one meeting. Malfoy was predictably silent throughout the entire session as Harry explained to him more about the ins and outs and rules of the clinic. "It is anonymous, unless you should wish for me to read it, but you are required to write in it at least once a day."
Malfoy reached forward and took the little parchment-bound book by the cover, allowing the pages to dangle opened gracelessly in front of him.
"Also, it is charmed to sense if you have written anything indicating harm to yourself or to others. Only then would it notify me."
Rolling his eyes Malfoy prodded at the empty sticker chart on the back of the book. "I would really like to fill this up," he said, speaking for the first time in a half an hour.
Harry couldn't tell if Malfoy was being facetious or not, so he just ignored the remark and continued.
"What's this?" Malfoy had leaned forward and grabbed something off of Harry's desk. Resisting the urge to blast it out of his hands, Harry reminded himself to stay calm and choose his battles.
"What's what?" he asked through gritted teeth, eyeing Malfoy's tightly clenched fist warily.
Malfoy opened up his hand. Sitting on his palm was the Rubik's Cube that Arthur had given to him a few birthdays ago. It was one of the strange possessions that seemed to make it into transition from temporary office to temporary office without getting the axe. Included in that short list were two framed wizarding photos of himself, Ron and Hermione and a picture of Harry and his parents that Hagrid had given to him years ago. These items were placed on the interim desk with the Rubik's cube, a self-watering plant from Neville and Ginny and a deck of playing cards with a picture of a polar bear wearing sunglasses on the back from Dudley. Harry wasn't particularly sure why he kept something from Dudley close at hand. He told himself it was simply because non-magical playing cards were a useful thing to have around.
Malfoy began to tap at the Rubik's cube with his pointer finger as though it were a wand. Harry swore he could see him mouthing the words "Revelio." But, as Malfoy could not actually do wandless magic, this motion was useless and the scrambled up color cube with one solid side of greens, remained as such in Malfoy's hand.
"What does this do?" he asked, squinting at it. Catching on quickly, Malfoy began to twist the cubes.
"No!"
Malfoy paused with a mischievous grin. "Why not?" He began tossing the cube casually up into the air and catching it.
"Um," feeling flustered, Harry finally pulled out his wand and Accioed the toy back. "Because. You're going to mess it all up." Harry set the Rubik's cube back on his desk, a bit closer to himself this time.
"Whatever."
"Anyway," Harry said, "it's time you stop beating round the bush and start answering some tough questions about how you came to be addicted to Felix Felicis in the first place."
"Not an addiction," Malfoy mumbled, picking at invisible lint on his sleeve. He'd managed to dress himself in a mint green Muggle sweater and khakis, looking every bit the professional that McGonagall insisted he was.
"Oh, come off it, Malfoy. If it's an not an addiction, then what is it?"
"It's just something I do. You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
"I'd rather not, if it's all the same to you."
"Well, it isn't all the same to me," Harry snapped. "Nor should it be all the same to you. I sign your papers at the end of all this, you know. If I don't say you're recovered, then you aren't. McGonagall takes you back only upon successful completion of the program. This isn't a spa or a six-week getaway. If you want your recovery, you need to work for it."
"I don't need to recover if I don't have an addiction," Malfoy pointed out, calm as can be. "Why don't you write that in your little file you're keeping on me, there." He nodded towards the folder of information spread out before Harry.
"The first step toward—"
"Toward recovery is admitting you have a problem," he interrupted in a singsong voice. "Spare me, Potter. I've heard it before."
"Then—"
"The problem here is that there is no problem." Malfoy raised his chin just slightly.
"Oh, no?"
"No." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms with a smug look on his face. "And now that we've established that, why don't you let me out of here today so that I can get back to my students who are depending on me to help them to pass their OWLS and NEWTS and University entrance exams?"
Ignoring his question, Harry continued to probe. "So, why are you here?"
"I was attacked."
"No, why are you here? In the Rehabilitation clinic?"
"I'm going to vote on conspiracy." His eyes lit up as he said it.
"Conspiracy?" Harry repeated in a doubtful voice.
"That's right, Potter." His left hand trembled violently and he jerked back both of his hands and sat on them. "Conspiracy." Malfoy shrugged his shoulders as though he were still trying to animate the conversation with the movement of his hands.
"Explain this to me, Malfoy," Harry picked up a quill and a paper from Malfoy's file. "I'd love to hear your theory."
"Well, you see," he began. "I may have made a bit of a bad deal you see, and," his right hand crept out from underneath him and began waving dramatically in the air, "and this, bloke he . . . he demanded I return something to him and when I didn't," Malfoy tapped three times on the arm of his chair, "he sent his men after me and they attacked me, robbed me and poisoned me, Potter."
"With Felix Felicis."
"Yes."
"They decided to give you a luck potion in an attempt to hurt you."
"Yes."
"Why not use an actual poison?"
Malfoy widened his eyes. "Too obvious, you see? Then it wouldn't look like I had an addiction. Yes, see! I wouldn't be locked up in here, out of their hair for six weeks so they could go back for the rest of—" he began to grow more and more excited as if he couldn't believe what a great story he had come up with.
"And the three days of withdrawal?"
"I'd ingested a Calming Draught earlier in the day. It was a bad combination." His eyes lit up. "Which, I'm sure, the criminals knew, and chose Felix for just that reason."
Harry just stared at the man. He couldn't believe he had the guts—or stupidity—to try and make believe he had been poisoned after three days of begging for Felix Felicis to stop the pain.
"This is the story you'd like me to relay to McGonagall."
"Yes."
"So you can go back to work and continue stealing from the one woman who gave you a chance after the War? Continue to betray her trust in you and waste precious resources on yourself, is that it?"
Malfoy looked taken aback and his eyes dropped. "I would never steal from her," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. He shook his head softly then raised his eyes back up to Harry, glaring. "How dare you?" he hissed. "You think—you think that just because I'm a—just because of my past—that I would do that to her? McGonagall trusts me. She knows I would never—"
"Save it, Malfoy." Harry pulled out a sheet from the file and passed it to him. Malfoy took the sheet in trembling hands, his ghostly ill pallor growing even whiter.
Malfoy swallowed. "What's this?" he asked, his voice cracking slightly. He peered at the paper through his glasses and adjusted them on his nose in a nervous gesture, as if to see better, though Harry guessed he was just stalling for time.
"The payroll scrolls from Hogwarts." Harry said. He knew Malfoy was currently looking at a list of orders with the repeated "D. Malfoy" signature scrawled after each. His eyes roved over the paper, from the top to the bottom which indicated that the funds came from the student Potion stock supply. "Well?" Harry said finally. Something in his gut made him feel guilty as he did it, knowing how terrible Malfoy was feeling, being faced with the impact of what he had done.
Malfoy looked sick. "I was going to pay it back," he murmured. Then, "I am. I am going to pay it back." Suddenly, he threw the paper onto Harry's desk. "This is absolute bullshite. I am a Potions Master, Potter. It is expected that I have things on hand that go above and beyond the call of classroom needs."
"Malfoy—"
"Do you think everything Snape had in his storeroom was on the up and up, Potter?" Malfoy asked, hands trembling more violently than ever, rivaling the shake of his own voice, which was rising in pitch and growing hysterical. "Well, let me tell you. I'd been in his storeroom hundreds of times and it wasn't. In fact, I'm sure you and your little crew had broken into there once or twice, if I'm not mistaken, to steal Boomslang Skin. Isn't that right?"
"That's just it, Malfoy," Harry sighed. "None of the items ordered here were found in the storeroom. In fact, everything used to manufacture Felix Felicis was missing and, according to Preston Bancroft, it has been for a while."
"Bancroft," Mafoy said, looking distraught and hooking his two index fingers together.
"The Seventh Year—"
"I know who bloody Bancroft is," Malfoy growled. His eyes were shadowed and strangely misty. In a softer voice he said, "He's bloody brilliant at Potions."
"Fairly observant, too," Harry added, his tone regretful.
Malfoy dropped his head into his hands. Harry could hear him sniff and wondered if he was crying. Sure, he'd wailed during detox, but Magical detox was so harsh it would have reduced even Voldemort to a quivering mess. Harry almost laughed aloud at the idea, but Malfoy's apparent distress was enough to keep him straight.
"You need to face facts, Malfoy, and stop running from the truth," Harry said, his voice soft. "You have an addiction. You've stolen from Hogwarts to support it. And you owe a lot of people a lot of—"
"I never stole from her," Malfoy said helplessly, his voice thick.
"Denying it—"
Malfoy's head shot up and his eyes were puffy and red. "Listen here, Potter." He gripped his hands tightly along the worn oak armrests of the chair. "I've changed. Unlike you and everyone else, McGonagall could see that. She gave me a chance! Even after I— she's the only one who ever—" his voice caught and he coughed, blinking rapidly, then squeezing his eyes shut. "I would never do something like that to her."
Harry was quiet for a moment and resisted handing Malfoy a tissue. He knew how embarrassing it was when the last thing you wanted was for someone to notice that you were crying and then draw attention to it by holding out a tissue like your own white flag of defeat. Malfoy wouldn't appreciate it.
And, God, Harry's heart just ached for him, arse that he was, sitting in that chair and having to face up to what he had done. Addicts often stole from and abused those closest to them. Harry never would have thought of Malfoy and McGonagall's relationship being anything more than a simple working camaraderie, but after witnessing Malfoy's defense of himself and of her, he believed that Malfoy never had wanted to hurt the woman, and being faced with the fact that he had was too overwhelmingly shameful for him.
"I believe that you'd never want to do something like that to her."
Malfoy grew suddenly cold, his face hardening. He twisted his mouth up into a sneer. "No, you don't," he spat, jumping up from his chair. "You don't believe a word I've said about anything. You think I'm a Potions addict, for Merlin's sakes!"
"You—"
"Like them." He pointed at the door in the direction of where the group therapy session had taken place. "Those pathetic lowlifes."
"Your addiction of choice is different," Harry stood and rose to meet Malfoy, "but I think you'll find you have more in common with those—pathetic lowlifes, as you like to call them—than you think you do."
"Well, you're a bigger idiot than I thought, Potter, if you believe that."
Harry could feel his own rage rising up within him and had a brief mental vision of slamming Malfoy up against the wall by his collar and just knocking some damn sense into him. And shutting up his stupid mouth with—
"Why don't you use fucking magic and set that stupid toy to rights?" Before Harry could figure out that he was talking about his Rubik's cube, Malfoy had snatched up his Recovery Journal and left.
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Susan Bones was able to come round for a bit to help Harry out during Creative Therapy, which, admittedly, was not his strongest suit. Generally, Healer McClintock, who had a smidgeon of artistic talent, led the self-expression sessions, but today he had taken a day off to tend to family business and Harry was on his own.
Susan, at least, had a pretty singing voice and little shame. She related well with the patients and shared her own story of her struggles with overeating. Then she demonstrated how music therapy could be both calming and entertaining or, at the very least, was good for a laugh—and there were definitely too few laughs around the clinic these days.
Susan had unlocked the cabinet of instruments—several acoustic guitars, a keyboard, a coutriment, which was like a magical version of xylophone whose musical notes responded to both mallet pressure and blowing, creating a very tribal-esque harmony, a few broken recorder pieces that reminded Harry of Dudley's Primary School concerts, a fish and several maracas made from gourds.
Susan picked up the guitar and handed a maraca to Joe, the Ravenclaw, and the fish to Clark, telling them to keep the beat. They exchanged amused glances and Harry noticed Malfoy lift his chin slightly and look down the tip of his nose to inspect the fish.
Susan then began strumming the same chord over and over again and singing:
"Healer Bones, a lover of treats
Healer Bones, an eater of sweets,
I'd indulge in all chocolates, puddings and pies
And lament when I'd find extra weight on my thighs"
The patients snickered and Susan continued.
"Healer Bones, a lover of treats
Healer Bones, an eater of sweets
The boys used to laugh and they'd all called me names
"Can't See Her Bones" and something . . . that rhymes with names"
At this point, Clark began furiously scratching the stick over the fish's rippled gills and Joe began shaking out a beat. Marsha was in hysterics and Harry couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Malfoy, whom he knew had used to call Susan "Can't See Her Bones," and found him staring at Susan with a sort of impressed awe—eyebrows raised, eyes crinkled just slightly, lips pressed tightly together.
She looked over at Malfoy and winked. He responded with a sort of sheepish shrug and, to Harry's absolute shock, joined in singing on the next round of "Healer Bones, a lover of treats."
After Susan had finished the demonstration, she helped the patients pick out instruments and cast optional sound filtering spells on them, so that only they could hear their own music. Most of the patients wanted to play with the instruments, Malfoy included, who picked up an acoustic guitar and took it to the corner of the room where he faced the window, plucking away. A few students refused to do the activity. The Loof addict, Chelsea, drew away from the others and opted to pull out her Recovery Journal.
Harry crouched down beside her and saw that she was sketching. Quite well, actually. "Not interested in music, Chels?"
She shrugged and tucked a loose strand of brown hair behind her ear. "It'll never be quite the same," she murmured. "You know?"
Harry didn't know, not really, and hadn't had much experience with treating Loof addicts, but he knew that a part of the Loofsnaark high was that it made everything—colors, sounds, music, the world—more intense and interesting and beautiful. Recovering patients were often withdrawn and depressed, and expressed deep feelings of loss, as if the world would never be the same again.
"Tell me," Harry said, and slouched down beside her.
She gave an uneasy laugh and shook her head. Then she pointed to her sketch-pad. "Healer Potter, will you charm this for me?"
"What kind of charm?" He hoped she wasn't about to trick him into doing something against code.
"Just a visual charm," she said softly. The lilt of her voice reminded Harry a bit of Luna. "It's called "Oratos Defacto."
Not sure if he was making a mistake, Harry raised his wand and uttered the charm, directing the spell at the journal. Expecting the journal to explode into smithereens or catch fire, he was shocked when dazzling colors and auras filled every corner of the abstract sketch she had created. It had been a drawing of the room, but suddenly it appeared to be so much more. The people in the drawing glowed, but it was more than that. It was as if Harry could see Chelsea's own impression of their personalities. The images seemed to float off of the paper, animated in their stillness. He could sense Susan's boisterous buoyant nature, the corner with Clark and the fish seemed to vibrate on it's own wavelength to the point that Harry could swear he was hearing it, though he wasn't. Then he noticed that Chelsea's own representation of herself seemed doubled— it was there on one side of the room and then a similar melancholy coolness was mirrored on the other side.
It wasn't her though. It was Malfoy. And for some reason, Chelsea found something relatable in him, though he hadn't shared a single word in any of the group sessions.
"Chelsea, this is incredible."
Chelsea's eyes were wide and he could see the reflection of the visual spell in her dark irises. "It's the closest thing," her voice was breathless and she reached a hand forward and touched the page. "This is what everything is like on Loof. So much more."
Sensing that this was not a healthy exercise for Chelsea, Harry quickly ended the charm. Chelsea winced slightly then stared, dejected, at the black and white sketch of the room and its occupants, which had returned to normal.
"It must be difficult, adjusting to life without it," Harry offered.
Chelsea just shook her head with a sad smile and resumed sketching. Harry continued around the room, checking in on each patient and entering their invisible sound bubble when permitted.
When he got to Malfoy, he could see that the blond was laughing in silent hysterics. Curious, Harry waved from the side of the bubble. Malfoy's eyes lit up and he motioned for Harry to come in.
Weird, thought Harry. He usually doesn't look so pleased to see me.
Well, except for at the Battle Anniversary, but then he'd been high . . . or lucky . . or something.
Scratching his head, Harry ducked into the bubble to catch the end of Malfoy's laughter.
"I'm happy to see you're taking this exercise seriously, Malfoy," Harry said, dropping beside him and crossing his legs. Malfoy stretched his legs out for a moment and kicked Harry when he did.
"Sorry," Harry said automatically, even though it wasn't his fault.
Malfoy ignored him and began strumming on the guitar, playing out actual chords.
"You play the guitar?" Harry asked, surprised.
"I am a musical composer and lyricist," Malfoy sniffed.
"Right," said Harry. "Why weren't you in Flitwick's choir?"
"Ha!" he scoffed so loudly Harry jumped and Malfoy began coughing. It sounded as though he had dislodged something important in his chest. "Flitwick's choir," he rasped. "What a joke."
"Alright," said Harry. "Let's hear it."
Malfoy continued strumming what sounded like a very familiar tune. And then he began to sing.
"Weasley was born in a bin," he sang.
Harry froze.
Malfoy looked quickly at Harry to gauge his reaction before looking back at the guitar. "He always let's the quaffle in. That's why the Slytherins all sing, Weasley is our king!"
Patience thinning fast, Harry reached out and covered Malfoy's hand in his own, tightening his fingers around the pale skin and slowly, but forcefully, removing his hand front the instrument. "Don't," Harry warned. "That is my family. Do not go there."
"Temper, temper." Malfoy waggled his eyebrows. "Strike a chord there, did I Potter?"
"I like to believe you've changed, Malfoy. And that you won't resort to attacking others when you're feeling boxed in."
"Well," he drawled. "I like to believe so, too. And that's why I wanted to play you something a bit more complimentary." He shook off Harry's hand, adjusted his grasp on the guitar and began to play something a bit twangy, that also sounded oddly familiar.
"His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, his hair is as dark as a chalkboard," Malfoy was looking right at Harry this time as he sang and Harry felt something flip-flop in his chest as he did. "He's really diviiiiiiine!" Malfoy held the note at as Harry, embarrassed for himself all over again, tried to stop him by grabbing his hand on the guitar again. He did it with too much force, though, and ended up knocking Malfoy back and pinning him on the floor with the guitar between them.
"Stop!"
"Our hero," Malfoy wailed, grinning widely, "who conquered the Dark Lord!" Reaching up between them, Malfoy gave the guitar one last, punctuating twang, before throwing his head back and laughing.
Flustered, Harry stuttered, "You didn't even write that! Ginny Weasley did!"
Malfoy paused in his laughing to look affronted. "The hell she did! I wrote that."
Realizing the compromising nature of their position, Harry quickly scrambled off of Malfoy and the guitar and scooted back a few safe feet. "That was a Valentine from her!"
"You think Ginny Weasley wrote that your hair was the color of a chalkboard? As a love poem? You've got to be kidding me."
"It was from her!" Harry couldn't even believe they were having this conversation, but was so shocked that he just couldn't think straight. He felt himself getting sucked into the usual back-and-forth bickering he'd always done with his rival. "She was there when I got it!"
"Right!" Malfoy sat up, his eyes wild. "She ran away in embarrassment! I can't believe you didn't know that I wrote that." He frowned. "I think I'm a bit hurt. I really thought my creative touches were all over that one."
"Why in the hell would you have written me a Valentine?" Harry yelled.
Harry noticed that Malfoy's cheeks had gone bright red and he was mumbling something.
"Sorry?" Harry asked, rudely.
The blond looked up at him and rolled his eyes dramatically. "Professor Lockhart made me write all the Valentine poems during detention. He seemed to think it'd be fun for me, or something."
"But Ginny—"
"Ordered one for you. And I wrote it. And some little dwarf sang it. And not the way it was written, mind you, because I'm sure you heard the way that I held out the word 'divine' and also 'hero' which the little wanker didn't do even though I—"
"Just be quiet for a second." Harry waved his hands around trying to make sense of things. "You're telling me that you actually wrote that ridiculous song?"
Malfoy smirked. "Yes, I did. How about a little recognition?"
Unable to help himself, Harry burst out laughing. Harry couldn't believe Ginny had never told him that. Though, when he thought about it now, he supposed it made sense. She was probably so humiliated that the poem turned out as wretched as it had that she never wanted to speak of it.
When he had finally calmed down and Malfoy looked inordinately proud of himself, Harry asked, "So, have you actually taken this assignment seriously?"
Malfoy shrugged, the smile fading off his face.
"I think this would be a really good outlet for you, Malfoy," said Harry, missing Malfoy's smile almost immediately and wanting it back. "You seem to have some talent for it, anyway," Harry joked.
Malfoy's smile had not returned, though, as Harry had hoped. Instead, he stared vacantly out the window, watching as the rain spiraled in rivulets down the warped glass panes.
"Malfoy?" Harry prompted.
Malfoy shook his head, softly. His voice was barely more than a whisper. "I don't have it in me."
"What do you mean?" asked Harry.
"I mean—" His pale eyebrows drew together over his glasses. He reached up a hand and pulled them off, scrubbing at his eyes with his other hand. He inhaled sharply and then sighed deeply. "I don't know what I mean." Without warning, Malfoy climbed to his feet, stepped over the guitar and around Harry and walked from the room, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.
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