I.

When Draco threw his arms back, emotion ripping through him, he felt the very life within him being shaken.

His mouth was open, his jaw locked, tremors rising through him. He felt every heartbeat, aware of the rush it caused in his ears. He wanted to sink his nails and his teeth into something—anything. He had to hold on, to be in control, but everything was being taken from him all at once. Bare, lost, screaming with no idea who might be listening, Draco somehow managed to keep existing. If he didn't hold on, he might drift away. The moment was elusive, fleeting, just beyond his grasp.

His skin was on fire, sharp sparks darting underneath the surface, pushing and pulling until he couldn't remember what reality was. His breath was stolen, his voice another's.

Beneath him was coolness, inside him only heat, and everything else fell away. Nothing else mattered. This was everything and this was nothing. It was being ripped in half, into pieces. It was being turned inside out.

There was abandon. The carnal need to claim, remember, and experience. But he was nothing, he couldn't remember, and every nerve ending was burned out.

There was comfort in losing his mind.

He could only shut his eyes against everything else and scream.

II.

57 days after the final battle at Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy's name was cleared of all charges. His youth and a testimony from Harry Potter sealed the case in a few short hours, after which he was let free.

58 days after the final battle at Hogwarts and, inexplicably, for the following 700-and-a-few days—not that anyone was counting—Draco Malfoy disappeared entirely from the face of Wizarding Britain. In the beginning, the Prophet theorized, the public panicked, and Harry followed the story to the letter.

Of course, as with everything else, the chaos of the war reparations soon overshadowed the small question of the Malfoy heir's whereabouts.

For that reason, by the time Draco Malfoy emerged from hiding two days before Harry's twentieth birthday, his name had been forgotten, wiped from dinner-table conversations completely.

Where Diagon Alley had once shied away from the Malfoys' imposing name and status, it finally arrived that Draco was the outsider. He hid in the shadows, safely tucked away from the passers-by on the quiet street.

That anonymity was removed shortly, as Draco Malfoy had never liked to be ignored. The day after Harry Potter's birthday, Draco was apprehended by Aurors at nightfall in Madam Malkin's shop for causing a "public disturbance".

She'd been illuminating her shop with some slight candles as dusk's heavy hand tangled the sun in tendrils of inky darkness. Draco had frozen in place, stillness of body belayed horrifically by the garbled shouts that were torn from his lips.

III.

Harry looked at the files that he held tightly in his hands, staring down at the information with only dim understanding.

Of course the hospital's newest patient had to fall onto him just after his birthday. Of course the other Healer with his level of clearance and history with prolific figures was away on holiday.

Harry found himself thinking that he always had the worst luck.

It was approaching midnight, Malfoy had finally calmed down in one of the mental ward's rooms, but Harry's job hadn't even begun. He had to make a formal assessment and the report in his hands, bound to an overly-thick sheaf of papers, was the first step in organizing all the documentation needed to discharge Malfoy—or, Harry gulped, to admit him.

Unresponsive. Incomprehensible shouting. Resistance only to being touched.

Immobilization by magic was the only option.

Personal effects include: wand, photograph, 25 Galleons,13 Sickles, vial of dreamless sleep.

Investigated: In possession of ice cubes—charmed not to melt. Deemed safe.

All items have been delivered with this report.

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. Trying to gauge Malfoy's mental state from inexperienced, tight-lipped Aurors' reports wasn't encouraging any sort of confidence in him. Worry coursed through him as he realized that his assessment had to be done—successfully.

But when did anything with Draco Malfoy and him ever go well?

The minutes that separated their meeting dwindled until a knock sounded out at Harry's door. He glared at it, composed himself, and then called out for Malfoy to enter.

"Good evening, Draco," Harry said, engineering a calm and commanding tone for the sake of the situation. The name rolled easily from his tongue. It hardly tasted bitter, which was surprising. Inside, he was hot with accusations and questions until the childhood anger froze and dissipated when he took in the sight before him.

The thin, frail man sitting on the plush chair looked far too weak. Harry doubted, for a moment, that he was facing the same Draco Malfoy as he had been for a decade.

This Malfoy's gaze didn't rise from the floor, though, and the defiance was typical.

Harry cleared his throat before speaking. "Do you remember the incident? I'd like you to describe it to me to the best of your ability."

Again, no reaction. Harry scribbled something onto his paper, noting retroactively that Malfoy had flinched from Harry's use of his first name.

"I need something from you, Draco, or neither of us will be able to leave this office." Harry's voice rose rather quickly, but he pushed down on the past and tried to fall into the mindset of a Healer, as he was supposed to. Then again, there was nothing "supposed to" about treating patients with whom he shared a connection as deep as the one he had with Malfoy.

Silence. Stillness. The spacious office that belonged to Harry suddenly seemed stifling and he ran a hand through his hair in uncertainty.

Harry wondered if Malfoy was as easy to taunt as he had once been. "I could return your wand."

For the second time, Malfoy, stop losing it.

Infuriatingly enough, there was no response.

"I have some of your possessions, but to release you completely, I need to know what you're thinking."

And it certainly looked like Malfoy was thinking, nose scrunched just slightly. Those thin, white lips were pressed tightly together. Harry wondered if the silence was wearing him down or giving him time to raise more defences.

Heavy robes that did not quite befit the hot August night trailed along the floor as Malfoy shifted his weight. Harry noted his discomfort.

"Do you need me to bring you something else to wear?" Perhaps a kinder tactic would work.

Harry froze when Malfoy pinned him with an icy gaze. "I don't need anything from you, Potter. Just do your job."

It was with mild satisfaction that Harry picked up his quill, dipped it carefully in the inkwell, and scribbled some more words onto the report. He felt a glee that threw him back into his childhood rivalry with Malfoy.

Malfoy looked suspicious.

"What are you writing?"

"My questions came first," Harry commented neutrally.

Draco shook his head firmly. Harry bit down on a frustrated sigh, jaw working to suppress it. Malfoy was quite the same brat he'd been as a child, it seemed. He glanced quickly at the timepiece on his desk.

"If we both want to leave," Malfoy said, "can't we both go? No one needs to know. Fake the report, tell them I'm fine."

The offer he suggested was one Harry wished he could take, but his responsibility to the hospital ran too deep—or perhaps his Gryffindor loyalty was finally coming around to bite his arse. Maybe he was just crazy.

Malfoy'd always made him crazy.

"If I did that, would I be lying?"

Malfoy didn't respond.

"This report has to be done before we go."

"I'm tired."

Harry wrote it down but it rang with insincerity. Though Malfoy had dark smears under his eyes, though he looked gaunt and pallid, Harry reckoned his Healer's intuition and history with Malfoy were more reliable. Fatigue, though present, was not the reason for his stubbornness.

"If you'd prefer to continue this in the morning, we'll have to keep you here."

Malfoy sneered, lifting his chin defiantly. "That's ridiculous. I demand my freedom."

Harry shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, but there are regulations and procedures in place for this kind of thing. Your magic exploded rather dangerously in Diagon Alley. If that was reason to call me in for extra hours, it's reason enough to keep you here. Especially if you don't remember it."

"And if I do remember it?"

Finally. Harry snapped around the prey he'd been taunting, realizing with dread that every concession he might get from Malfoy that night would have to be fought for tooth and nail.

"If you're saying you remember, then we return to my questions. Retell the events to me."

Malfoy's eyes shifted to the wall directly behind Harry's left ear. He pretended not to notice. He also pretended he didn't see the nervous twitch Malfoy gave when Harry picked up his quill to write something again.

"I remember your Aurors manhandling me." Malfoy announced primly.

"Before that?"

Malfoy's bottom lip jutted out. There was a heavy pause during which Malfoy made a decision—to withhold something, probably.

"I don't remember. I was in the shop and then I wasn't, and now I'm here."

Harry engaged in a drawn-out staring contest for long seconds, knee shaking under his desk from the tension. The silence grew thick and heavy, and Harry thought he could identify the very moment Draco's determination became set in stone.

Something in the grey eyes changed—solidified. Perhaps it came with the quirk of an eyebrow.

Still, Harry had the upper hand. He hated to play his power into Healer-patient relationships most of the time, but with Draco Malfoy, it was sweet.

"If that's the case, we'll have to keep you here for care until we identify the trigger and apply the appropriate treatment to avoid the same thing happening in the future."

He took some notes at Malfoy's eyes closing in defeat, knowing full well that Malfoy had been withholding the truth and that Malfoy knew he'd been caught right in the middle of it.

The Slytherin had never known when to shut up.

Harry closed the file with a snap and stood. Pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose, he extended a hand to his patient out of habit. It must have been particularly late because Harry looked down at his arm with as much surprise as Malfoy, as though it had moved without his mind's instruction.

He always ended sessions with a handshake. It was perfunctory, but following the simple tradition with Malfoy seemed wrong.

Still more surprise rooted him to the floor when Draco let out a strange sound like a whimper, turned on his heel, and marched out of the room. Harry didn't drop his arm as the door slammed shut behind billowing robes.

Instead, he pressed the palm to his forehead, wondering how far back he'd just set them, knowing that his upcoming weeks were going to be filled with not only an angry, troubled Malfoy, but an offended one at that.

Unfortunately, his professional duty demanded that he file the report honestly. Malfoy would have to stay because he was clearly struggling with something.

He'd survived six years with Malfoy, experienced various moments of Malfoy's power and anger, and had made it out alive.

The standard length of retention was two weeks.

Harry cast a look down at the paperwork on his desk, the forms that had yet to be filled, and let out a very deep breath. The reports were the least favourite part of his job. He loved helping, using his time to heal others, but it all went mind-numbing when he had to fill out form J385-17 for every patient at every session.

His heart sank, knowing that it had to be done—properly filed and submitted—by the morning, or Hermione would kill him through the floo from her honeymoon. She loved paperwork that much.

He roughly sat down, pushing aside the watch that mocked him with its steady countdown, and broke the tip of his quill on his first attempt at writing Draco Malfoy on the form.

Pushing up his glasses with the back of his hand, Harry knew he was in for a long night.