A one-eyed Tempus Charm revealed that it was 3:07 a.m. Harry had to be at work in less than four hours and he couldn't, for the life of him, sleep. Stretching, he decided that a glass of water might do the trick.

Harry tiptoed blindly through the darkened living room, trying his best not to make any noise to wake Malfoy. As he approached the kitchen, his bare arms encountered a draft and he shivered. It hadn't been that cold when he'd gone to bed, and he was certain that he had turned the heat on.

When he stepped in the kitchen, a blurry light in the corner of the room caught his attention. Gasping, he grabbed for his wand and felt around on the wall for the light-switch, flicking it upward and bathing the room in a yellow glow.

"Thank God," said a voice from the floor through chattering teeth.

"What the hell?" Harry asked the figure on his floor. "Malfoy?"

"What?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I," said the drawling voice with as much dignity as one could muster through aggressive shivering, "am trying to read."

Harry wondered if he had, in fact, fallen asleep and was in the midst of a very odd dream. "In the refrigerator?"

"Well," Malfoy said, haughtily, "you didn't show me how to use the lights. And since I no longer have access to a wand . . ."

As Harry walked closer, he could see that Malfoy had dragged the sheets and pillows from the living room couch into the kitchen and made a sort of nest for himself on the floor. "Aren't you freezing?"

Harry could feel, more than see, Malfoy's icy glare.

"Get up," Harry said, too tired to be polite. "I'll show you where the lights are."

Malfoy scrambled to his feet, clutching the sheet around him like a cape, teeth clacking together madly. "Thank God," he said again.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" Harry asked with a yawn, groping around for the lamp pull. Snagging it, he clicked the lamp on and a soft glow warmed a circle on the couch. A moving pile of sheets landed on the couch a moment later, huddling up into a small, blond ball.

"You try sleeping on this thing," said Malfoy, gesturing a sheet-covered limb toward the couch. "It smells like a kneazle's privates."

"Perhaps you'd prefer the accommodations in the Malfoy Family Peacock Pen?"

Malfoy grumbled something that Harry couldn't hear, but he was pretty sure the prat got the message.

"Here," said Harry, handing Malfoy another, heavier blanket. He took it and quickly wrapped it around himself. Two pale hands snaked out of an opening, bringing a battered book up to grey eyes.

"What's that?" Harry asked, squinting to try and read the title.

Malfoy shrugged and turned the cover away from him.

"Do you want a glass of water or anything?"

Malfoy huffed and lowered the book. "If you don't mind, I am trying to read."

"Fine," Harry raised him arms. "Sorry. You should really try and get some sleep, though."

"I'm not the one who has to be to work in the morning."

"True," Harry snapped, "but if you show up at the clinic looking like a bedraggled mess, McClintock might not think you're worth it."

Malfoy looked up at Harry and flashed a huge, doe-eyed smile. "But you think I'm worth it. Don't you, Potter?"

Harry sighed. "Go to bed, Malfoy."

"Besides," he called after Harry's retreating back, "I figure looking as pathetic as possible could help garner a little sympathy, you know?"

Harry rolled his eyes, but couldn't help thinking that Malfoy may have had a point.

"It always worked so well for you."

Harry turned around to scowl at him. Malfoy was still sitting, nice-as-you-please in his sheet nest. He flashed him an innocent smile.

"Sleep tight, Potter."

….

….

….

It wasn't easy to convince McClintock to let Malfoy back into the clinic. Harry had woken up exhausted and shoved the moody, bitchy professor and his Martin Miggs duffel bag into the Floo.

Malfoy looked like shit, but was repentant and polite toward McClintock. Harry vouched for him and explained that his actions the night before were a result of his condition and that, since then, he'd taken two very important steps toward recovery. McClintock was wary but, in the end, he agreed to allow Malfoy one more chance. To his dismay, however, McClintock contacted McGonagall and told her about the relapse.

"That was a part of the deal," Harry said, as they walked from McClintock's office back to Malfoy's room. "Successful completion of the program."

"But I'm not done!" Malfoy hissed.

"Yes, and relapse is not actually a step toward sobriety."

"I know, but—"

"You're in," said Harry, "so stop whining and be thankful." It was funny, Harry thought, how comfortable he felt speaking to Malfoy in such a candid manner. He would never treat another patient the same way. He wondered if Baddock and Susan would disapprove.

They opened the door to Malfoy's room and Harry dropped his duffel bag on the floor. The room was in a state of disarray after being searched for clues to his disappearance. Malfoy's eyes zeroed in on his Recovery Journal, which was lying wide open in the center of his bed.

Searching eyes locked with Harry's and narrowed, then went back to the journal.

There was no reason to be guilty, Harry knew. What he'd done had been in Malfoy's best interest, but, still. It felt like he had somehow betrayed him.

"Look." Harry sighed. "I'm sorry, but I had to read it—"

"Wait." Malfoy tensed. "You read it?" He took a step toward the journal and slammed it shut. "You read it?"

Flustered, Harry realized that Malfoy's original look had not been one of accusation-but it certainly was now. "I had to—"

"Oh, you were forced, were you?" Malfoy spat. "Someone stuck a wand to your neck and—"

"Calm down—"

"Calm down?" Malfoy was raging. "I'm not twelve years old, you arse hat. Don't tell me to calm down."

Harry'd had enough. He had just put his job and credibility on the line for the snot-nosed brat and even let him stay in his house. Not to mention the fact that Malfoy finished the last of Harry's Fruit-Blasted Wheatios, then claimed to have "never seen" the prize at the bottom of the box.

Without another word, Harry turned from the man and shut the door behind him with an embarrassing amount of force.

….

….

….

"You read his Recovery Journal?" Susan shook her head. "Harry!"

"I had to, Susan!" Harry thought Susan would take his side, but for the second time that week, she threw her lot in with Baddock. This time Harry was sure Baddock was opposing him just to be contrary. Reading the Recovery Journal was justifiable. It was a life or death situation.

"Told you it was an invasion of privacy," Baddock said in a singsong voice, clearly pleased to have Susan on his side again. "Tell yourself what you want, but Malfoy will never see it your way."

"I did the right thing." Harry scowled. If Hermione were here, she would have sided with him. But, to be fair, every time Hermione had tattled on Harry or Ron for "their own good" they had never given her the benefit of the doubt. In hindsight, she had done the right thing, but Harry hadn't been mature enough to see her side of things. And Malfoy, while skilled in certain areas, had always been severely lacking in maturity. He sighed heavily. "Fine," he said in defeat. "Tell me what to do."

"Why should I?" Baddock asked, crossing his legs and spreading his arms out. "I helped you before and what did I get out of it?"

"Help me this time and I swear I'll get you something good."

"Probably the mixed nuts basket." Susan laughed. Harry froze. "Oh," she said slowly, "that wasn't what you were going to get him, were you?"

"No!" Harry said too quickly.

"Potter!" Baddock scoffed. "What gave you the idea that I liked nuts in the first place?"

"You steal mine all the time!" Harry protested. Baddock was totally lying. He definitely liked nuts. "And you're always looking at it."

"I wasn't looking at the nuts."

"You were so," said Harry. "And besides, that wasn't what I was going to get you."

"Really . . ." Baddock and Susan exchanged a look. "Whatever, Potter. I'm feeling generous today, so here's my advice."

Harry signaled with his hand for Baddock to get a move on.

"Apologize." He shrugged.

"That's it?"

"Mean it," said Baddock. "Get off your self-righteous horse and think about it from Malfoy's perspective. His primary concern right now is not his own safety. He's just trying to survive this and he's navigating through it any way he knows how; trying to cope with things that he isn't capable of coping with, yet. You might be thinking about his safety, but—if I know Malfoy—his primary concern in all of this is avoiding embarrassment."

It was shocking what a terrible bedside manner Baddock had because, really, the man could write a book on stuff like this.

"He's always put way too much stock in how others see him."

Susan looked thoughtful. "You especially, Harry." She rubbed her chin. "Malfoy always wanted to look good in front of you."

….

….

….

The more Harry thought about it, the more it made sense. And as he thought about it, his respect for Malfoy began to grow. Admitting weakness, like Malfoy had, was an incredibly difficult thing for anyone to do. But admitting weakness to someone that, on some level, Malfoy had considered an enemy and had competed against for years, was on a level of bravery all its own.

There was a show Aunt Petunia used to watch about women in America getting makeovers for their high school reunion. When the camera teams filmed the parties, they were full of men and women dressed in their best outfits, bragging about their children and successful jobs and—all in all—trying to look like they had "made it" in the world.

For someone like Malfoy who had been raised with every opportunity, was intelligent, talented and had no doubt planned for a powerful life from a young age, his current situation had to feel like a downright humiliating defeat. And despite his addiction, he had appeared—to Harry at least—to have achieved all that, and now, to have the entire life he'd built for himself hedging on the completion of this program must have felt as certain a foundation as building a castle on quicksand.

To top that off, Malfoy was convinced that his success was due to Felix Felicis. In order to continue to have that success, he had to ditch the Felix. On some level, it must have seemed laughably impossible.

Harry believed he could do it.

Malfoy needed to believe he could do it. And he needed to stop caring so much about what others thought about him.

No. What he needed was to be able to see himself as a successful and talented person, independent of the Felix Felicis.

If only Malfoy could see himself the way everyone else saw him.

….

….

….

"You still haven't spoken in group."

Malfoy said nothing, instead staring at the Rubik's cube that Harry had grudgingly allowed him to hold during their session. It seemed that when Malfoy had something to occupy his hands, he tended to open up more. Even though Malfoy was slowly wrecking Harry's imagined progress on the green-sided cube, Harry told himself that it was worth it if it would help Malfoy.

Sacrifices. The story of Harry's life.

The blond turned the cube, slowly transforming Harry's work into what he suspected was an orange M.

"I'm working on it," he finally said without looking up. A lock of blond hair fell in his eyes and he shook his head slightly, tossing it out of the way.

Harry had looked in some of McClintock's old books on ways to get people with social anxiety to open up. One of the ideas that he found interesting was the use of props. Harry thought this might work for Malfoy, especially with his tendency to feel more comfortable holding objects in his hands.

The book said that the patient should bring in an object that meant something to him or her and, kind of like Primary School Show-and-Tell, talk about what the object is and explain the importance of it.

Harry had told Malfoy to bring something with him today for their one-on-one session, but he claimed to have "forgotten." With the care package that Narcissa had left, Malfoy had more than enough material to use.

"I want you to bring an object to the next group session," Harry said. "In fact," he ignored Malfoy's rude snort, "I demand that you bring one."

"Or what?" Malfoy asked in a bored drawl. "You'll tell on me to McClintock?"

"Yes," Harry snapped. "I will. One of the expectations is for you to participate in group sessions, not just sit through them."

"I have nothing to share."

"I don't believe that." Harry shuffled through Malfoy's file. "In fact, I think you have a lot to share."

"Is that so?" Malfoy asked lightly, snapping another cube into place.

Harry had been dreading this part. "Yes," he said. "Also, since you haven't participated up until this point, you and another patient have been assigned to work on a creative project together."

Malfoy lowered the Rubik's cube and finally gave Harry his full attention. "Excuse me?"

"Well, everyone is going to participate, but your future in this program depends upon your ability to work cooperatively. Between you and me, I think McClintock will be watching very carefully to see if you are a "good fit for this program." You are to create a project with Chelsea that explores your role in this world without your addiction."

Scrubbing at his eyes, Malfoy let out a loud, audible sigh. "You're joking, Potter."

"I'm not."

"That creepy little girl who stares at me all the time?" he asked. "Her?"

"That's right," Harry said. "And her name is Chelsea."

….

….

….

"I was standing on this dirt road, mate . . . " Clark's thin legs were tightly crossed and the top leg kept tapping the floor as he bounced it up and down, "Didn't know how in hell I got there. Couldn't remember . . . couldn't remember nothin', man. Didn't even know my own name."

Malfoy's posture was different during the next group session. He was sitting tightly upright in his usual white, fake-leather armchair, slightly set apart from the rest of the group. His eyes kept flicking toward Chelsea, then back at the object that he had tightly clenched in his hands.

Harry was going to try and ease him into talking but, apparently, Malfoy was eager to get started—or perhaps just eager to get it over with—because as soon as Clark finished his story, he spoke up.

"How do you do." Malfoy's voice came out soft and quiet. All eyes immediately swiveled over to him in shock. If he was uncomfortable, though, he didn't show it. Malfoy cleared his voice and continued. "My name is Professor Draco Malfoy."

A few of the patients exchanged raised eyebrows at the title. Clark scoffed loudly.

"I brought something to share." Malfoy started to open his hand when he was interrupted.

"Wait a minute," Clark called out. "You haven't told us why you're here. What's your addiction?"

Malfoy looked at Harry as if he hadn't expected the question. Then he chose to ignore it. "It's a sickle." He opened up his hand and the tiny silver coin glinted in his palm.

The look on his face could only be described as smug. Heart plummeting, Harry realized that Malfoy hadn't taken the assignment seriously, after all.

"Hey," Clark snapped. "You didn't answer my question, Professor." He looked over at Joe who was glaring at Malfoy. "You've sat in here like a king on a throne the last few weeks, listening to all of our stories. So tell us, why are you here?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes and closed his fist around the sickle, pulling it back towards him. "I was told that my attendance was required."

"Don't play stupid, Death Eater—"

"Clark," Harry interrupted in a warning voice.

"No, Potter." Malfoy put a hand out to stop him, keeping his eyes pinned on Clark. "He obviously has some very important feelings and opinions to share with us all. Let's hear them."

"It isn't fair," Joe interrupted, coming to his friend's defense. "The rest of us have to follow the rules and if we break them we get kicked out of the program. You don't do shit, then you leave and you can just walk right back in?" Joe's glare moved from Malfoy to Harry.

Malfoy smirked. "Is that jealousy I sense?" He stretched and placed his hands behind his head, crossing his legs, casually.

Harry could feel the anger rising amongst the patients in the room. He wanted to stop Malfoy, but the prat was actually speaking, so Harry couldn't, in good conscience, tell him to stop.

Clark opened his mouth to reply and was cut off by Chelsea.

"Jealousy?" Chelsea asked Malfoy, her dark eyes wide. "You're sick and you aren't getting better. Why would we be jealous of that?"

Malfoy just looked at her.

Chelsea then let her eyes fall on Clark and Joe. "He is sick," she said, gesturing toward Malfoy with a thumb. "Lay off."

"But—"

"I don't need you to defend me," growled Malfoy in embarrassment. "And I'm not sick, either."

"Then why are you in here?" Chelsea asked him, looking truly curious. Malfoy just stared back at her, as if he couldn't decide whether backing down would be worse than answering.

"Tell her," Harry encouraged with a nod.

For a second, Malfoy looked like he was just going to spit it out, then he hesitated. "You people are pathetic."

"If we're pathetic, so are you," Joe said.

Malfoy stood up and pelted the sickle at Harry with enough force to cause injury. Harry's seeker reflexes kicked in, however, and he quickly snatched the coin.

As soon as he had, Harry stood. He and Malfoy faced each other for a moment, waiting for the other to speak first.

Malfoy finally opened his mouth. Then closed it. With a final scowl, he turned from the group and left, slamming his door shut when he reached his room at the end of the hall.

Harry sat down in defeat.

After a discussion with the group in which Harry threatened probation on anyone who brought up Malfoy's Death Eater past, therapy continued as usual. Malfoy's absence from the group was no difference than his usually silent presence, though Harry could sense that there was a sort of excitement in the air afterwards.

"I don't get it," Marsha said after a while. Harry cast her a weary glance. "We all know he's an addict. Who does he think he's fooling, anyway?"

….

….

….

"It isn't their business," Malfoy said, tossing the sickle into the air and catching it with his usual, practiced grace.

"This is therapy, Malfoy, not social hour," Harry said. "So, actually, it is their business. Sharing with them plays a part in their recovery and in yours."

Malfoy let out an exasperated growl. "Look, Potter," he said, his voice sounding much more annoyed than before. "That just isn't how I was raised. We—Malfoys, Slytherins, whatever—we don't go about airing our dirty laundry in public. Especially to people like that."

"People like you, you mean."

"Yes, Potter. People just like me." Malfoy rolled his eyes.

"You were concerned that you'd never regain the ability to speak publicly. My assumption is that your trouble with group therapy is not that those people know you're an addict—they do, by the way—but it's with the anxiety you have over public speaking."

Malfoy turned to look at the door, then back at Harry. He crossed his arms. "So?"

"If you ever want your job back—"

"Oh, back at this, are we?"

"—then you need to do what I ask you to do and—Goddammit!—take it seriously." Harry smacked a hand against his desk and Malfoy jumped slightly. "If these people don't matter to you, then why should their opinion matter?"

"It doesn't."

"Then what is the problem?" Harry recalled Susan saying it was Harry's opinion that mattered. "I already know you're an addict. And so do they. Yet, you insist upon hiding your feelings."

Swallowing tightly, Malfoy made a face.

"Which, really, kind of makes you a pussy."

Mafoy nearly choked and his eyes bulged. "What?"

"You heard me." Harry raised an eyebrow and, to his surprise, Malfoy started laughing.

"I should report you," he said.

"Please do," Harry replied. "In the meantime, stop being such a twat."

Malfoy tried to hide a grin behind a shocked offense. "You're foul."

"And tomorrow you're going to take the exercise seriously. You will tell the group why you are here."

"I hate the group."

"I know."

"And I hate you even more."

Harry smirked. "I know."

….

….

….

"Why are you here?" Clark asked him straight out at the start of the next session.

"Because I have an addiction." Malfoy was standing with as much dignity as he could muster, despite the two circles of color high on his cheeks. He gave a challenging look to Clark and then turned his gaze onto every other member of the group, as if daring them to say anything about it.

"Finally," Clark muttered, sitting back in his seat.

"About ruddy time," said Joe.

Marsha gave Malfoy a sharp nod of approval. Harry could see the tension drain from his shoulders.

"What are you addicted to?" Joe asked.

"Bet it's Muggle drugs," Clark said with a smirk. Harry could see his eyes linger on Malfoy's left arm. "Figures why he'd try and hide it."

Being on Muggle Drugs must have seemed worse than the truth because Malfoy immediately jumped to his own defense. "I am not," he said in a haughty voice.

"Then what are you on?"

"I'm telling you, Joe," Clark said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "That's why he's been hiding it. It's got to be one of those Muggle—"

"Felix." Malfoy crossed his arms tightly over his chest and looked at the floor. The paper object he'd brought with him was getting crumpled in his hand.

"Felix?" Joe asked after a moment, leaning forward. "Felix Felicis?"

Swallowing, Malfoy gave a nod.

"You utter liar," snapped Clark. He turned to Harry. "This is such bullshite."

"It isn't." Flashing grey eyes pinned themselves on Clark. "It's the truth."

"Come on, mate! No one's addicted to Felix Felicis." Joe shook his head. "You can't even get your hands on stuff like that."

"Is Felix Felicis even real?" Chelsea asked. She tilted her head to the side, letting her long, brown hair fall softly over her shoulder. "I always thought it was an urban legend."

"It's not." Malfoy sounded uncomfortable.

"Yeah? How did you get it, then?" Clark demanded. Malfoy looked over at Harry. There was a vulnerability there but it was currently outshined by a bold look of determination. Harry was about to tell Malfoy that he didn't have to answer the question, but Malfoy looked away from him.

"I made it."

Joe and Clark exchanged a look. "You brew?" Joe asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You're a Potions Master," Marsha said, slowly, her eyes lighting with recognition. "Of course. Malfoy." She shook her head slightly. "You teach my nephew at Hogwarts."

Malfoy was now blushing furiously.

"Everything said in here is confidential," Harry felt the need to add.

"Oh, I wouldn't say anything." Marsha flipped a dismissive hand. "You have more than enough leverage on me to humiliate me right back, anyway."

Deeming this true, Malfoy lifted his chin just slightly.

"So," Harry interrupted, taking pity on him. "What did you bring to share with us today?"

Malfoy relaxed his hand where a crumpled photo lay. He smoothed it out and held it in his hands, just looking at it.

"Malfoy?"

Harry noticed that he now looked frozen, his eyes glued to the photograph.

"This was a bad idea," Malfoy finally said in a strained voice. Harry noticed that his hands were shaking.

"What is it?" Clark taunted. "A picture of your Death Eater friends?"

Before Harry could tell Clark he was on probation, Malfoy's eyes snapped up. The anger radiating from them was tangible. "Yes, actually. Got a problem with it?"

That seemed to get everyone's attention, Harry included. He slightly lifted his head, trying to peek at the picture, but Malfoy kept it tightly pressed against the chest of his red St. Mungos hoodie.

Finally, Malfoy turned the picture around, still keeping it close to his chest. Everyone leaned forward to get a better look.

In the middle of the picture was a young Malfoy, about eleven years old, bright eyed and blond-haired in his impeccable Slytherin robes. He looked just the way Harry had remembered him in school except his usual sneer was replaced by an excited grin. On one side of him stood Goyle with an orange Celebird flapping about in his hands that kept squawking out mouthfuls of confetti. Crabbe's eyes were comically widened in distress as he got blasted in the face by the choked-up confetti chunks while struggling to push Malfoy away from him. A hat in the shape of a grizzly bear flashed the words "BEAR-THDAY BOY!" and was forced onto Crabbe's head by the blond. The scene ended with Malfoy collapsing against Crabbe in laughter and thumping him on the chest.

"That's me," Malfoy whispered, pointing unnecessarily to the jumping blond. "And these were my best friends in school. Vince Crabbe," he pointed to the Bear-thday Boy and his voice cracked, "and Greg Goyle."

Harry got a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He suspected he knew where this story was going.

"Were?" Chelsea asked. Harry had also picked up on Malfoy's use of past tense. "What happened?"

Malfoy let out a mirthless laugh. "Well, it is rather difficult to maintain a friendship when you're responsible for this one's death," he pointed at Crabbe, "and this one's Azkaban sentence."

"You killed someone?" Joe asked, looking suddenly uneasy.

Malfoy turned to Harry, his eyes now pleading. He shook his head slightly.

Harry gave him what he hoped was an encouraging nod, but Malfoy positively crumpled in response. His lips were pressed tightly together and he was still shaking his head back and forth. Then, like he had before, Malfoy fled.

When he reached the end of the hallway, though, he turned about-face and began stomping right back to his chair. He stopped behind it and braced himself against the backrest, allowing his eyes to sweep over every person in the room. "I didn't kill him," he said quickly, his voice higher-pitcher than usual.

"Then—"

Still gripping the picture in his left hand, Malfoy reached for his sleeve, yanking it up and flashing the Dark Mark to the room of stunned patients. "This did." He quickly pulled the sleeve back down and leaned heavily against the chair with one hand on his forehead. "Or I did. I don't know." Malfoy turned away from everyone, then quickly turned back. "Yes," he growled. "I do know. He joined because of me. Crabbe." He opened his hand and thumbed Crabbe's image. "And he died because I was supposed to watch out for him. I was supposed to protect him and I didn't."

"Malfoy—" Harry felt obligated to say something. "Crabbe died because he was trying to kill me!"

"You don't know anything about it, Potter."

"I was there!"

This seemed to elicit a reaction from the room, but Harry was too fired up to notice.

"You were there for, what?" Malfoy ran a hand through his hair in agitation, "ten minutes? I was with him that whole year. It wasn't what it looked like."

"So, what?" Harry knew enough about self-blame to notice the signs. "You had him under Imperius, did you? You forced him to conjure Fiendfyre?"

"No," Malfoy growled, pounding a fist against the chair, "but I . . ." his voice trailed off. "There's more to it. You don't know the half of it. Crabbe was—" he paused, searching for a word, "impressionable. He didn't know any better. He —"

"Yes. He. Did. For God's sakes, Malfoy. Crabbe was stupid but he wasn't that stupid."

"You shouldn't speak ill of the dead, Potter." Malfoy gave him a funny look.

Harry just stared at him.

"I'm going," Malfoy finally whispered. His look dared Harry to stop him.

Harry didn't.

….

….

….

That night, Malfoy didn't come to dinner.

Harry knocked on his door, carrying a plate. When Malfoy didn't answer, Harry used his wand to let himself in. The shades were drawn and a towel had been thrown over the magical light orb in the corner of the room. The light orbs had been charmed to turn off during sleeping hours only.

Malfoy was curled up in bed, the scant light casting a weak glow over his face as he stared vacantly at his exposed Dark Mark.

"Hey," said Harry, softly, helping himself to the chair beside Malfoy's bed and setting the leftovers onto the bedside table. Dirty tissues drifted from the table to the floor, adding to an impressive pile. "I brought you dinner."

"Not hungry."

"You have to eat something," Harry said. "Or it will affect the rate of your healing."

"I don't care anymore." He dropped his arm to the side and looked up at Harry. "I can't do it."

"Can't do what?"

Malfoy's face contorted and he turn it downward, burying it in the crook of his arm. "What am I going to do?" he asked, sounding helpless. "I just want to give up but I can't. I just want to go on taking the potion but I can't because there's no way for me to get the bloody ingredients now that everyone knows and is watching."

"Malfoy—"

"It isn't fair." His voice cracked. "I wasn't hurting anyone."

"Just yourself."

"So what?" Malfoy sniffled and then coughed. "I should be allowed to hurt myself if I want to."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I don't have a choice."

"That's right," Harry snapped, annoyed at seeing Malfoy like this. "You don't. Not anymore. Your only choice now is recovery."

"But—"

"You said yourself that you didn't want to use anymore."

"Well, now I do."

"So—"

"Just, SHUT UP, Potter!" Malfoy yelled, pounding a fist against the mattress. "It doesn't mean I don't want to get better, I just hate this so much. It's just so hard. I don't want to do it anymore! Any of it!"

"Any of what?"

"Anything. Life shouldn't be this hard."

Harry scowled. "Is that what you think? What gave you that rubbish idea?"

Malfoy shrugged.

"Life is hard."

"Yours isn't," Malfoy grumbled. "Yours is perfect."

That was it. Yes, Harry understood that Malfoy was in a very selfish state of mind, but this was just too far. "You can't be that stupid!" Harry stood up and began pacing. "Or, I don't know. Maybe you are."

"I should really report you."

Harry ignored him. "I had a Dark Wizard after my life from the age of two! I had a—"

"Well, I had a Dark Wizard living in my home—"

"I had one living in my head, Malfoy!" Harry tried to steady his breathing. "Reading my thoughts, controlling my emotions."

"What are you talking about, Potter?" Malfoy looked uncomfortable.

"You've heard of Horcruxes, yes?"

Malfoy just stared at him. "Obviously. The whole world has read of your great and heroic defeat."

"Did you know that I was a Horcrux?"

Malfoy frowned. "That's impossible. A Horcrux has to be an object."

"Nagini was a Horcrux."

Malfoy's eyes drifted warily up to Harry's scar and locked themselves there. "What are you saying, Potter?" His voice shook uneasily. "You're—? He's still . . ."

Harry sighed and plopped back down in the chair. Malfoy drew away from him, very slightly. "No." Harry shook his head. "No, I killed it. Him."

The blond shook his head back and forth, one hand clawing at his sheets. "I saw Longbottom kill that snake, Potter. He had to chop it to bits."

"Not 'bits." What a dramatic ninny. "He had to kill it."

"And you are? What? A ghost?"

Harry hadn't anticipated getting into all of this. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's a long story."

"Well, you brought it up," Malfoy pointed out.

"True enough," said Harry. "Are you sure you want to hear it?"

Malfoy's eyes lit up, and he nodded warily.

"Fine." Harry looked over his curled up form. It felt as though he was about to read Teddy a bedtime story. "Hmm. I rather like you like this," he mused.

That snapped Malfoy out of it. "Just get on with it."

Harry told Malfoy the whole story of the Deathly Hallows and how he had to sacrifice himself, of how his mother's own sacrifice protected his life more than once and the role Malfoy's mother played in his survival. Malfoy had obviously heard that part before, but that didn't stop him from paying rapt attention as Harry described how she'd whispered to him, her voice barely more than a breath, and lied to the monster that she'd grudgingly called her master.

"You realize you're the most important thing in her life," Harry said.

Malfoy nodded. His eyes were sad.

"Things happened for a reason," said Harry. "I know you probably live with the regret of Crabbe's death every day but, I'm telling you, there was nothing else you could have done. You tried to stop him."

"It was my fault they were even in there." Malfoy swallowed. "It should have been me."

"Well, it wasn't!" Harry cried. "It wasn't meant to be you. If it had been you, your mum would've turned me over to Voldemort and the war would have been lost. Would that have been better?"

Malfoy shook his head.

"You were meant to live," Harry said, "and you have an incredible amount of potential, Malfoy, but you'll never reach it if you don't let go of the past. Yes, you've made mistakes, but the war is over. It's not helping anything to punish yourself like this. It isn't going to undo what you did. It isn't going to bring Crabbe back. It won't change any of it."

"I was never punished at all."

"Perhaps not so much by the Ministry, but you've been punished."

"But I was helping." Malfoy pulled his glasses off and rubbed at his eyes, rolling over onto his back.

"What?" Harry didn't know what he meant.

Malfoy sighed and sat up, leaning against a folded pillow as a backrest. "I was trying to help," he said, putting his glasses back on. "That's why I took the damn Felix in the first place."

Harry just looked at him.

"Retribution." Malfoy waved a hand in the air and then dropped it in his lap. "I know everyone thinks I was taking it to get ahead, but I wasn't. Not at first." A pale hand rubbed along his left forearm as he spoke. "I wanted to help others. So I did. That's why I started with the charities." He looked up at Harry. "People thought I was doing it to clear my name and, I suppose, on some level I was, but," he shrugged, "I really just thought if I could do good, do enough to help the families of the people I— you know. That. That it would be enough."

"You were trying to help them?"

"Sort of." Malfoy snorted. "I suppose it was selfish, in a way. I thought that if I did enough, that I'd be able to move on."

He looked at Harry. "But I couldn't. It was never enough." Malfoy crinkled his forehead together. "It had to be more. Always more. And then-things got out of hand so fast and by that point I just didn't want to stop. Because I was helping, you know? Or, so I told myself. And then, of course, I couldn't stop."

"How pathetic though, right?" Malfoy continued with a slight frown, "That I can't even do a good deed on my own. It's like I don't even know how. It's not in a Slytherin's nature to be selfless, I suppose." Malfoy gestured to the expanse of the room. "This is the world's way of punishing me for thinking I could ever be better than I am."

"Oh, that's rubbish, Malfoy, and you know it."

"Do I?" There was a hardness in his eyes. He reached over and grabbed one of the balled up tissues off the bed table and wiped at his nose.

"You're better than you think you are." And as Harry said it, he realized it was true.

"Yeah," said Malfoy in disgust, "I hoped I was, too. And look how that one played out."

Harry frowned. "You aren't the first person to make a mistake and you aren't the first with an addiction. It doesn't make you a bad person or a weak person. It makes you a person." Harry pointed a finger in the direction of the hallway. "Those people out there are suffering, just like you are. That doesn't make them bad or pathetic. They're here because they're trying. They're going to get better. And so are you."

Malfoy gave him a grim smile.

"You know," said Harry, "Susan Bones thought I should give up your case. Have you work with Healer McClintock, instead."

Malfoy's look of outrage was almost comical. He didn't hold McClintock in such high regard after he had threatened to remove him from the program.

"But," Harry continued, "I didn't. I know I'm not supposed to say this to a patient but, I really want to get to know you—as you are today." At Malfoy's raised eyebrow, Harry blushed and blundered on. "And maybe it's selfish that I kept your case when I knew our history made it impossible for me to be impartial but-I did. And I can't explain why. But it just seems like-I don't know. It just isn't right that you're afraid to speak up in a group and—" Harry closed his eyes for a moment, inexplicably frustrated. "You need to get your job back so I can be pissed off and jealous of you every time I visit Hogwarts."

Malfoy was giving him a very strange look.

"What?" Harry bit out.

"I think you may be a bit unbalanced."

"I very well may be," Harry said. He thumped Malfoy on the shoulder and made the blond jump. "But I need you to get better because that's just the way things are supposed to be."

Harry gave Malfoy a hard look and waited for an answer.

"Um," Malfoy said, finally. "Okay?"

"Wonderful." Harry was hesitant to go, but he had probably bothered Malfoy enough for the evening, "Now, eat your peas and get some sleep."

Malfoy gave him a tired grin. "Yes, Healer."

Harry left Malfoy to his leftovers and walked from the room. As he did, he replayed every stupid desperate-sounding thing he'd just said to him. Embarrassing though the words were, the startling truth to them was what was really frightening.

….

….

….

The Leaky Cauldron was bustling with witches and wizards, as it always was on Fridays, transitioning from the Happy Hour to the After Hour Crowd. Harry sipped on an Amber Butterbeer, listening to whatever pop group was currently playing on the WWN as he waited for his friends to show.

Ron arrived first, ducking into the men's loo to quickly change out of his Auror uniform. Even though he primarily conducted research for the Auror department, he was still outfitted in the same uniform as the other Aurors—and, Harry suspected—he enjoyed wearing it whenever he had the chance.

"Ron," Harry grinned with a nod as his best friend slipped into the seat at the booth beside him. Ron nodded to the waitress and motioned for an Amber Butterbeer. He smiled back at Harry, his eyes more alive than usual. "What's up? Harry asked.

"Well," Ron said, casting a look to the left and to the right, "I was planning on waiting til the others got here and—crikey—Hermione's going to kill me but, what the hell, right?" Ron was practically bouncing up and down in his seat.

"What is it?" The excitement was contagious and Harry felt himself grinning back.

"Well, Harry," Ron placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'm going to be a father."

"What?" Harry nearly jumped out of his seat, then reached forward and grabbed Ron in a very manly embrace. "That's fantastic!"

"I know!" Ron was positively oozing happiness. "Don't tell Hermione I told you, mate!"

"She's going to know," Harry said. "She knows everything."

"Well, just act surprised, then."

Harry agreed but, he knew that there was no fooling Hermione Granger-Weasley, especially when it came to news like this.

Hermione, a mother and Ron, a father. He couldn't believe it.

"You're going to make an amazing father," Harry said, sincerely.

"You think so?" asked Ron, his eyes slightly worried.

"Absolutely, mate!" Harry nodded. "You'll be just like your parents—and they're the best. Plus, you're great with Teddy."

"This'll be my own, though," Ron mused.

They discussed the details of the pregnancy for a bit. After about ten minutes, every person in the Leaky knew that Ron was going to become a father.

Harry hated to burst the bubble of excitement, but he had to ask. "So, did you get a chance to look up Gricharak this week?"

"I told you I would, didn't I?" Ron said, producing an entire file out of his bag.

"Woah," said Harry. "That's his Ministry record?" The file was nearly an inch thick.

Ron nodded. "Malfoy may have had a point on this one. The bloke's been linked to a million different things, but the Ministry has never been able to catch him at it. Plus he fronts a lot of charities—probably to stay on their good side." He let out a disgusted snort. "Wankers."

Harry wasn't sure if Ron meant Gricharak's people or the Ministry or both, but he echoed the sentiment. "So, what's it say he's been into?"

"Oh, tons of stuff," said Ron. "Gambling, bribery," he flipped through the papers, "Potions dealing."

Harry frowned and peered at the file, but it provided no further information.

"Say," Ron murmured, "maybe that's why he was hooking up with Malfoy. They probably had some unsettled Potions debt or something."

"You think Malfoy was in on it?" Harry asked, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as the pieces seemed to fall into place.

Ron gave him a pointed look. "It's Malfoy. He's on Potions. Yes, Harry. I do." Ron took a sip of his drink. "To be honest, Harry, I'll bet if I did a bit more digging on this one, I'd find enough on both of them to have them locked away."

Harry just looked at him. Ron raised an eyebrow.

"But you don't want Malfoy locked away," Ron said slowly, "do you?"

"He's my patient," Harry said, knowing the excuse was even lamer out loud than it had been in his head. "And if he did do something, it was because of his addiction. Azkaban doesn't help rehabilitate people. It should be reserved for—" Harry became flustered as he began the anti-Azkaban rant for which he was now famous, "murderers and insane people like Bellatrix LeStrange. Not for some Potions Professor who couldn't keep his hands off his own stock."

Ron gave him a funny look. "But if Malfoy was selling it or brewing it for sale . . . that's five years, right off the bat. You know that."

Harry sighed and dropped his hands. "I know." It was one of the most difficult things about working in the rehabilitation clinic. The fact was, most of the people there had committed serious crimes to support their lifestyle. Regardless of their intentions or desperation, the law was the law.

It was that sort of rigidity that had driven Harry away from Auror training and into the medical field. Rounding up Death Eaters, like Greg Goyle, and locking them away for war crimes seemed like cruel and unnecessary punishment. What Goyle probably needed more than anything was counseling and psychological attention for whatever horrors he had witnessed or inflicted under the threat of death and torture. Instead, barely more than a child, he was thrown into the most miserable place in the world, locked behind bars and forgotten by society.

It was wrong.

It served no purpose but to breed more contempt between "criminals" and the Ministry.

And it was the kind of thing that had landed Harry on the front page of the Daily Prophet time and again for letting his anger run away with him in the middle of Ministry-sponsored events.

At the beginning, Hermione had actually supported his outbursts, having agreed with Harry that the treatment of some of the convicted Death Eaters after the war was deplorable. She continued to side with Harry until one night when he had publicly exploded over the cost of a ten-Galleon per person plate at the Ministry Peace Gala a year after the war.

Harry had grumbled audibly about the price throughout all of the speeches and then, upon tasting his undeniably burned steak, he'd thrown his utensils down, tore the napkin from the neck of his dress robes and declared that "the steak would be more useful as coal." Then, to the embarrassment of everyone except Harry, he emptied his plate into the hands of a baffled house-elf, and told it to "go stoke the fires."

When the woman at the ticket booth told Harry that the plate was non-refundable, a burst of untamed magic had shot through him and caused all of the potted Abyssinian Shrivelfigs to explode up and down the hallways. This created a massive headache for St Mungos when over twenty Ministry officials were rushed to the hospital with a variety of shrunken body parts.

A picture of Harry scowling at his steak and slamming his fist down on the table appeared in the Daily Prophet the next day, accompanied by the headline, "Boy Who Lived: Millionaire Hero Flies into Rage over Food Cost; Shrinks Ministry Officials."

After that, Hermione began looking at Harry with sad, knowing eyes and slipping him a variety of cards "in case he ever needed to talk with someone."

At work, Shacklebolt flat out told Harry that he needed to get psychological help or walk away from Auror training. Harry had almost bitten off his own tongue trying not to tell Shacklebolt where he could go stick his ruddy training. Then, when he'd rounded a corner of the hallway and flashed Shacklebolt two very identical rude gestures, he'd almost been relieved to be escorted from the premises by two security guards.

Upon further reflection that night, Harry had decided to phone one of the numbers that Hermione had left him. He'd made his first appointment with Healer McClintock a week later and, after extensive therapy, had realized that walking out on Kingsley was the best thing he had ever done. He was sorry to have abandoned Ron, but it was for the best. Being at St Mungos had opened Harry's eyes to the kind of hero that he truly wanted to be: an actual life-saver, not a "savior," and certainly not a "vanquisher."

Harry still got inexplicably angry every now and again and took it hard when he failed to save a life, but, overall, working at St Mungos had helped Harry to come to peace with the fact that so many things in the world were truly out of his hands. Some things were just destined—meant to be—and dwelling on losses was a disrespectful way to honor those who had died.

As for the rest of it—the burned steaks, long lines in the grocery stores, crowds asking for autographs, noisy neighbors—it just wasn't that serious.

….

….

….

"PSTKNSIA"

Harry had rearranged the letters for the third time on his folded up bit of the Daily Prophet, but this particular Word Scramble continued to elude him. He looked up briefly to make sure that McClintock wasn't nearby since, technically, Harry was supposed to be watching the patients while they worked on their collaborative projects. Aside from Clark and Marsha who were arguing in whispered tones over whether "endless tunnel of darkness" was too cliché a phrase for their poem, everyone else was sealed up in their own private sound bubble and didn't really need Harry for anything.

"Two vowels," he muttered, reaching beside him for his coffee. "It shouldn't be that difficult."

Harry's fingers grasped thin air. Confused, he turned to look at the table where his coffee had been. Looking up, he saw Malfoy standing mere inches away, grinning cheekily, the scent of coffee on his breath.

Harry eyes widened as Malfoy tipped the cup over, demonstrating its emptiness.

"You bastard!" Harry hissed, then looked around quickly to make sure he hadn't been overhead.

Malfoy waggled his eyebrows twice, then tossed the empty paper cup into the bin behind him.

Harry reached forward and shoved Malfoy in the chest before he could register that You. Can't. Do. That. To. Patients.

Malfoy stumbled back from Harry's shove, then grinned even wider. "Just another item to add to my long list of personal offenses at the loving hands of Healer Potter."

"Just another stolen item to add to your long list of thievery," growled Harry.

The grin disappeared from Malfoy's back and he stepped back as if stung.

Immediately, Harry regretted opening his big mouth "I'm sorry," he cringed. "I shouldn't have pushed you and I should not have said that."

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't," Harry snapped. "It was too far. And-and I'm your Healer, for Christ's sakes."

Harry was pretty sure Malfoy had been making a joke about the list of offenses, but the truth was, if such a list ever ended up on Healer Malone's lap, Harry would be sacked faster than he could say "but I meant well!"

"Get over it, Potter," Malfoy said, giving him a funny look. "If there's one thing I look forward to after getting out of here, it's you being your normal dick self to me and not apologizing every ten seconds."

All Harry heard was that Malfoy was looking forward to seeing him outside of here, and something about dick.

Harry frowned.

"God, Potter. What's happened to you?" asked Malfoy. "You always used to give as good as you got."

"What are you talking about?"

Malfoy looked frustrated. He let out a growl. "Never-mind." Then his eyes lit back up with a mischievous glow. "Oh yeah. And just to make sure I take all the fun out of your little 'break,'" he nodded towards the Daily Prophet in Harry's hand, "I believe the word you're looking for is 'Stinksap.'" His smile was beyond smug.

Not only did Malfoy drink Harry's bloody coffee, but he ruined his Word Scrambles fun, too—on purpose! "You absolute shite," Harry hissed.

Malfoy took a step back and held his hands up, mockingly, as if to protect himself. "Don't hit me again, Potter. Patient abuse has very severe consequences, I'll wager."

It did.

"Look," Harry sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He glanced to the side to make sure no one overhead their conversation. "I get that you're joking, but seriously? Stop threatening me."

"Oh, but I love threatening you," Malfoy bit back with a sneer. "And who says I'm joking?"

Harry swallowed his dry and coffee-less saliva. "Get back to work and finish the project with Chelsea—"

"Or what?" Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "You'll tell McGonagall? You'll tell McClintock? My parents? Or all three?" This time his scowl was real and there was no more mischievous glint in his eye. "Now who's threatening whom?"

"Malfoy—"

"Piss off, Potter," Malfoy snapped, turning from Harry and sauntering back to Chelsea. "I have work to do."

….

….

….