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Chapter Three: The First Step

If it hadn't been such a foreign sensation to him, Harry was quite sure he would have laughed. Here he was, ready to talk about the utter joke his life had become, and the Universe had provided Draco Malfoy as its punch line. Harry thought that he must have been a complete bastard in a previous life to deserve this. Or, as he remembered his actions from just after the war until a few weeks before his wedding, maybe he was just one in this life. He ran his hands over his face, as if momentarily obscuring his vision would mean that Malfoy would disappear. He didn't, of course.

"Well, Potter, are you going to sit down, or not?" Malfoy said, gesturing with his hands the comfortable-looking chair which was obviously meant for his patients. Harry ignored him, and continued to stand in the doorway, staring.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" he managed eventually. That familiar, smug smirk that Harry just wanted to hex off his face sneered at him. Malfoy pointed to a square of parchment, neatly framed in a dark wood, which adorned the wall above his impeccably neat desk.

"I believe that says I am a trained therapist, specialising in grief counselling," Malfoy drawled. "I work here, Potter. Was that not obvious?"

This was a complete waste of time. Voldemort would resurrect and perform 'The Dance of the Dying Swan' in a shocking pink tutu before Harry would talk to Malfoy.

"How did a bastard like you end up in a career which requires you to have a shred of human decency?" he said, one hand on the door handle. A flicker of pure irritation flashed across Malfoy's face, but he quickly schooled it into one of indifference.

"I happen to be very good at what I do," he replied coolly. "But please feel free to leave, Potter. It's no skin off my nose. You've still paid for the full session, after all."

Harry continued to stare. Malfoy sighed.

"Look. Come and sit down, and we'll begin our session." He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a roll of parchment, bottle of ink, and a quill. "I need to get some background information from you before we can start- the type of grief you're dealing with, for example, and then we-"

"You actually think I'm prepared to discuss anything about my private life with you?" Harry yelled, suddenly fuelled by a burning anger. "No way, Malfoy." He finally turned the door handle, and all but fell through the door, back into the waiting room. He slammed the door shut behind him then stormed off, ignoring the receptionist calling after him, or the waiting man who was clearly astounded to see the famous Harry Potter emerging from a grief counselling session looking murderous.

Harry couldn't face returning home and dealing with Ginny just yet, however, so he found the hospital lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. He emerged from the lift into a quaint and quiet little tearoom, not totally unlike Madam Puddifoot's teashop in Hogsmeade. He certainly wasn't hungry, and not particularly thirsty, but a cup of tea would give his hands something to do other than throttle Malfoy, so he bought a cup and sat in an armchair next to a large window which overlooked Muggle London below. He didn't know where his boiling anger towards Malfoy had sprung from, Harry thought, as he sipped his too-hot tea and watched the Muggles below bustling around, not knowing that they were within feet of a huge building full of witches and wizards and magic. It wasn't as if he still even hated the git; Harry had barely given a thought to Malfoy at all since he returned his wand and spoke for him and his mother during the Death Eater trials, in the summer following Voldemort's defeat.

A woman came into the tearoom. She sat at a table near to Harry's, and with a horrible lurch of the stomach, Harry realised she was cradling a baby. The infant couldn't have been more than two or three months old; about the same age that Matthew would have been now. Harry felt his jaw clench as he swallowed uncomfortably, forcing himself to stare out at the mundane lives of the Muggles below him.

The baby began to fuss then, and the woman unbuttoned her blouse and began to nurse him. Harry saw this accidentally out of the corner of his eye, but then found he couldn't pull his gaze away once he'd noticed it. The baby had a huge mop of red hair. The woman held the baby's hand and rocked him as she nursed, all the time singing old wizarding nursery rhymes softly to the child. It was probably exactly how Ginny would have looked, nursing their son. Harry was suddenly hit with a jolt of sadness that was making him feel physically sick; he needed to get out of here, now, before he completely lost it in the middle of a bloody café, but he found himself unable to tear himself away.

The woman looked up at Harry in that moment, and noticed him staring. She shot him a look of pure loathing, mouthed, 'Pervert!' at him, and pulled her cardigan closer around her baby and bosom, clearly thinking that Harry was some disgusting voyeuristic deviant trying to stare at her chest. Abandoning his barely touched tea, Harry suddenly sound his feet, and darted from the tearoom, just making it to the toilet in time to retch and bring up the paltry breakfast he'd eaten. He wiped his mouth on a wad of toilet paper, then realised he was shaking all over. He couldn't go on like this. He felt a lump form in his throat and his eyes begin to burn. Before he even realised where he was going or what he was doing, he'd re-entered the lift, emerged on the floor Malfoy worked, and barged into the room, ignoring the protesting receptionist and pushing past her. Malfoy looked up from his desk, surprised, at the sudden intrusion.

"Merlin, you look terrible," he said, waving the worried receptionist away. "Close the door, Potter. You still have thirty minutes of your session left."

"I don't know why I'm here," Harry croaked out, as the door clicked shut. "I still don't want to talk about this. To you, especially." But then, everything suddenly crashed down on his head, and before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and broke down.

Malfoy let him. He didn't attempt to comfort Harry, or even come nearer to him for which Harry was grateful, as Harry was already going to have to bump this right to the top of the list of the Top Ten Humiliating Moments of Harry Potter's Life, without having to add being hugged by a Death Eater to that list. Harry didn't know how or why this breakdown had happened now, but all he knew was he was not in control of himself right now.

He didn't know how long it took to cry himself out. Probably most of the remaining session, Harry would guess. Malfoy still didn't say anything; he simply handed him a box of tissues, then gestured to the chair he'd asked Harry to sit in when Harry had entered the room for the first time.

"I have a free hour after your session, if you'd like to carry over," Malfoy said. He seemed utterly unfazed at Harry's meltdown. His confusion to this must have shown, because Malfoy added, "Believe it or not, Potter, I've not spent the last seven years since we last saw one another wishing I could see you at your most vulnerable and desiring for life to screw you over. I, as you have, I should imagine, have moved on past school and entered into adulthood. And you're not by the far the first person to cry in my office." He opened his drawer again and pulled out a small phial containing a blood red potion and pushed it towards Harry, who eyed it suspiciously.

"It's a maximum strength Calming Syrup," Malfoy explained. "Brewed by myself, and it is more effective than a simple Calming Draught. It will not alter your mind in any way, but it will sufficiently calm your nerves to allow you to talk. Free of charge, and optional, but I do strongly suggest you take it."

It would be a cold day in Hell before Harry willingly and knowingly drank a potion that Malfoy had brewed, just on Malfoy's say-so. He looked at Malfoy and cocked an eyebrow. Malfoy let out a blow of air in frustration.

"Fine. Look, Potter, you are protected in here. Nothing we discuss is disclosed to anyone else, either verbally or in writing. Anything I prescribe- including this potion- are for your own wellbeing. If I am to help you at all, you will need to work with me, not against me. This is a safe, confidential session, and I offer clients the chance to make the Unbreakable Vow with me to guarantee this. And this-" Malfoy indicated himself and Harry with a gesture of his hand "- will not work if you cannot trust me even one single iota."

Why Malfoy thought Harry had any reason to trust him at all was beyond him, but Harry found himself reaching for the potion anyway. Why not, he thought. Nothing could make him feel worse. He picked up the phial, toasted Malfoy in a mocking manner, and threw it back.

The potion was surprisingly warm, and reminded Harry of a mug of hot chocolate. It was sweet and tasted of strawberries, and a potion ingredient that may been lavender. He was shocked to realise that he did feel significantly calmer almost instantly. Malfoy always had been a good potioneer.

"I still can't believe that you took counselling up as a career, of all things," Harry said. "Not very you, is it?"

The impassive expression on Malfoy's face darkened.

"Potter, I will not keep reiterating the merits of my credentials with you. You need help, and I'm qualified to give it. I can help you. Why did you even come to this session, if you weren't prepared to speak with me?"

"I meant, you bloody git, that I always thought you'd go into something to do with Potions," Harry snapped. "And just how, exactly, should I have known you were the bloody counsellor? I'm not a Seer, you know."

"I assumed your wife would have told you, given I spoke with her personally when she made the appointment," Malfoy said.

That threw Harry. He was sure Ginny hadn't mentioned the name of the counsellor to him. But then again, Harry had to admit that he'd not paid close attention to his wife recently. No, he thought, he definitely would have noticed if she had told him the session was with Malfoy.

"Well, she didn't," he said quietly. He'd think about Ginny later.

Malfoy's expression morphed back into one of neutrality. He picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well on his desk. "Are you ready to tell me why you're here?" he said gently.

"Not especially," he said. "But I've promised Ginny I would at least give this a go."

"Then let's make the Unbreakable Vow," Malfoy said. He walked to the door, opened it, and calmly spoke to his receptionist. She entered the room.

"This is Stephanie. She will be our Bonder," Malfoy explained. "And I should tell you now that she has also made an Unbreakable Vow, with me, not to reveal anything about any of my patients to anyone." He extended his hand to Harry. "Ready?"

Two minutes later, the magic of the Vow had sealed itself, and Stephanie left the room. Malfoy sat back at his desk, and gestured for Harry to retake his seat, which he did so. He still didn't want to talk about any of this, but the image of Hermione and Ron, and even Ginny, their eyes wide and frightened at Harry's behaviour swam to the surface. And it wasn't as if Malfoy could tell anyone anything now. He took a deep breath.

"We lost our baby son," Harry choked out, feeling the tears welling again, but also realising that Malfoy's potion was allowing him to finally say the words which had stuck in his throat for months. "He was stillborn, back in October. And I'm not dealing with it at all."

Malfoy stopped writing then, and looked up.

"You and your wife lost a pregnancy?" he said. "Now you say that, I remember reading something about Mrs Potter having a miscarriage. It was in the Prophet."

"It wasn't a miscarriage," Harry said, feeling his cheeks wet again, as his hand unconsciously grabbed the locket around his neck containing Matthew's lock of hair. "Ginny was about halfway through the pregnancy, and we terminated. We had a routine check-up here at St Mungo's, and it all but destroyed my world."

He explained about the tests and the diagnosis of Patau's, the decision to terminate, and how he'd felt dead inside ever since. He could see an expression he'd never seen on Malfoy's face before: sympathy. He didn't know how he felt about that.

"Do you know, he was born too early to even receive a birth certificate?" Harry croaked. "Either in the wizard or Muggle world. Only infants born after twenty-four weeks get a birth or death certificate, and Matthew was born at twenty-one weeks. But to me, and Ginny, he was our son, a little person with red lips and hair like his mum's, who I cradled in my arms. The official record will show no trace of my son as having ever existed at all, and that really, really fucking hurts." He swiped his palms over his eyes. "It's like I have a Dementor inside my head, but no Patronus will help me. I've shut everyone out. My wife, my friends, even my two godchildren. I've been told not to return to work until I'm better. I resent Ginny for getting her life back together and daring to be happy. Ron and Hermione were even frightened to tell me they were expecting another baby," he said. "My best friends, the two people I've been through more with than anyone else, and they couldn't talk to me. I owe it to them to sort myself out, even if I don't deserve to feel happy again."

Harry hadn't meant for that to come out, and immediately gave himself a huge mental slap. Bloody potion had loosened his tongue. However, to his relief, Malfoy's face didn't change at all; indeed, he looked as if this was exactly what he had expected to hear.

"We'll look at why you think that in another session," Malfoy said, jotting a few notes onto his parchment with his quill. "If there is, indeed, to be another session?" Harry nodded numbly. "OK. Look, Potter, it's obvious that there is some severe clinical depression here. If all you want is a bunch of antidepressant potions and a few mind charms to make all the pain miraculously stop, I'm the wrong person to help you. I'm a counsellor, not a Healer, and cannot prescribe such strong medication." He paused then, and Harry was certain that Malfoy was watching his reaction to see if this was indeed all he was after. Apparently satisfied, he continued. "However, those things only ever temporarily mask a problem anyway, they don't treat it. To really recover you need to work through the grief, and it will take time.

"There are five stages of grief," he said, "denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance. We all move throughout the stages differently, and at different speeds. I expect, from what you've told me, your wife has reached stage five, and has accepted Matthew's death. This doesn't mean she doesn't love him dearly, or doesn't think about him all the time, but it does mean she's trying to move on with her life. You are very much deeply within the fourth stage: depression. Your emotions, the despair, the guilt, the feeling that you deserve this- they're all prime examples of a person suffering in the fourth stage. But you can come through this. I promise you."

He stood then, and walked to his Potions cabinet. He retrieved seven small phials containing an amber liquid. Malfoy pushed them towards Harry, and he pocketed them.

"This is a special potion to help you get the sleep you're obviously lacking," he explained. "It's not Dreamless Sleep, nor is it a Sleeping Draught. It just aids natural sleep, which is what our bodies need. It will control your dreams and prevent nightmares. An exhausted mind plagued with nightmares every night cannot begin to heal. It's not addictive and you cannot overdose on it, but one phial will be sufficient per night." He glanced to the clock on the wall. "I have another patient in five minutes. Here's what I want you to do for next week. I want you to take the sleeping potions, one each night just before you go to bed. I want you to think about why you feel guilty, as we'll be discussing that next time. And please accept that there is no quick fix. This will take time, Potter." He held out his hand, which Harry found himself taking, wondering just how many snowballs were currently prevailing in Hell.

He stood and walked Harry to the door, reaching out for the door handle. Harry stopped him.

"Just one thing," he said. "I'm just genuinely interested. Why did you become a grief counsellor?"

He wasn't actually expecting Malfoy to answer, so was surprised when he did.

"My wife died," he said quietly. "Four years ago. And I didn't deal with it very well. After I had help myself, I decided to try and help others. Do some actual good with my life for once."

Harry felt his mouth fall open in surprise. Malfoy had lost his wife? He had been made a widower at just twenty-one?

"How did she die?" he asked, before he could stop himself. Malfoy's eyebrow raised.

"I, as the counsellor, ask the questions in here, Potter," he said, refusing to answer Harry directly. This time he did open the door. "I shall see you next week."

"Yeah, next week," Harry replied, and he made his way out of the office and down the corridor, towards the lifts. As he pushed the button for the ground floor, his mind went back over and over the words Malfoy had said to him. Because how was Harry supposed to explain that he had plenty of reasons to feel guilty, and not one of them was just in his head?


Harry's entire body was thrumming with arousal and glistening with a fine film of sweat as he kissed his lover deeply, their tongues entwined and battling one another. His hands reached up and tangled in his lover's hair as he began to thrust, eliciting a delighted gasp of pleasure from them.

"God," Harry rasped. His hands left his lover's hair and stroked his lover's arms, starting at the shoulder and ending up at their fingers, which he laced with his own. He pressed forward: stronger, deeper, desperate, until the fingers grasping his own squeezed impossibly tight and Harry felt their orgasm tear through them. It was enough to push him over the edge too and he felt his entire body tense as the ember in his stomach suddenly flamed, and white-hot delicious heat and joy flooded him. Panting, he pulled out of his lover, and rolled next to them, pulling them close to his body.

"I'm glad my first time was with you," he whispered, his breathing still laboured. "That was amazing." His lover grinned and captured Harry's mouth once more in a bruising kiss.

"I don't know if my sister would share that same sentiment," they replied with a small, humourless laugh. "I'm quite sure she was expecting to be your first."

"Please, don't talk about Ginny right now," Harry said. "I just want to lie here with you and think about us." He reached up with a hand, which he realised was still trembling, and ran it through his lover's fiery hair, brushing a damp strand of it out of his eyes. "I love you."

After another passionate kiss, which became extremely heated and resulted in them both coming for a second time, his lover gently nipped Harry's lip for one last time and replied, "I love you too."


Harry didn't feel like there was any rush to return home, especially when he was feeling rather angry at Ginny for not telling him who the counsellor was. Given his and Malfoy's history, the scene in Malfoy's office could have been extremely ugly. He decided to walk home, despite the rain, and set off north, away from the hustle and bustle of central London and headed for Islington.

He was drenched by the time he arrived home: his hair was matted to his head, the charm he'd placed on his glasses to repel water had given up several times, and his blue denim jeans were clinging soggily to his legs, but the walk had actually cleared his head somewhat. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his key, and unlocked the door. Three bodies instantly appeared in the hallway, all looking extremely anxious.

"Harry!" Ginny exclaimed. "I was expecting you back over two hours ago!"

"I wasn't aware I was on a timetable," Harry replied coolly. He sighed. "I stayed for an additional session, then decided to walk home." He noticed Ginny's face was still white and anxious, not relieved, and he knew exactly what was agitating her. Malfoy.

"Ron, Hermione, I need to talk with my wife alone," he said. Hermione looked like she was dying to ask about fifty questions, but Ron placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her, and the pair quickly disappeared through the fireplace. Harry drew his wand, cast a series of spells at it to close the Floo connection, then turned to Ginny.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he snarled. Ginny paled further and swallowed anxiously, but replied, "Tell you what?"

"Don't play this game with me. You know bloody well what," he said. "Why didn't you tell me that the person you'd made an appointment with, the person you expect me to open my heart to and trust, the person that you sent me to completely unaware, was Draco fucking Malfoy?"

"You needed to see someone!" Ginny yelled back defiantly. Harry snorted.

"See someone, yes, but he's not the only bloody counsellor in the world you know," he said. "So, answer me again, why Draco Malfoy?"

Ginny breathed deeply and sank into the armchair she was standing next to, burying her face in her hands for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was a forced calm.

"Because, Harry, I know that if there was one person in the world you couldn't ignore, if there was one person who would get your attention, it would be him."

Harry stared at her. He'd gone very still.

"Look at you, Harry," Ginny continued, and Harry could hear a slight wobble in her voice now. "For months you've barely said a word. You come back from one session with Malfoy, and you're more alive, more animated than you've been in a long time. He always did manage to get under your skin like no one else could, and I knew if anyone could help you, who could get through to your head, he could." Her face softened. "And if I had told you who the counsellor was, there was no way you would have gone, was there?" Harry had to concede that this was absolutely true. "Harry, I genuinely didn't know it was going to be him when I first contacted St Mungo's. And I almost did say no. But then I got thinking. I am sorry you got a massive shock, but I'm not sorry I did it." She paused, looking at him tentatively. "So, how was the session?"

"Not as bad as I thought it was going to be," Harry admitted. "I did storm out as soon as I realised who it was with-" Ginny gasped "-but I returned after a bit and I, er, talked. And I'm going to keep going back."

Ginny's face cracked into a genuine smile. She stood from the sofa and pulled Harry into a hug.

"Thank you," she said. "I just want my Harry back." Harry hugged her back automatically, swallowing down the bubble of guilt that was rising up in his throat.


If someone had told Harry twenty-four hours ago that by this time tonight he would be voluntarily drinking a potion that Draco Malfoy had brewed, he'd have hexed them on the spot. He still wasn't sure it was that great of an idea, but Harry knew the Unbreakable Vow prevented Malfoy from actually poisoning or otherwise harming Harry. Besides, he was so desperate for sleep, to just not have that nightmare, the one where Matthew comes to him and tells Harry that this is all his fault, that it's Harry's fault he died, that Harry didn't much care anyway. He picked up one of the phials that was on his bedside table, uncorked it, and downed it.

Like the Calming Syrup Malfoy had given him earlier that day, the potion was deliciously warm as it slipped down Harry's throat, and had a sweet, almost coconut taste to it. Harry slipped into bed, pounded his pillows into a comfortable position, took off his glasses and closed his eyes. He fell asleep before Ginny came up to bed, an hour later, and for the first time in six months he had managed to drift off without the harrowing images of Matthew's death, or his funeral, or the knowledge that he had lost his son because he was a selfish bastard at the forefront of his mind.

If, as Harry had said to Malfoy, there was a Dementor of sorts in Harry's head, then the potion Malfoy had given him was a Patronus. For eight hours straight, the potion helped Harry recall his happiest, most treasured memories as he slept, memories which had been locked away for weeks upon weeks, and kept the nightmares and despair out of Harry's head. Winning the Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts, qualifying from Auror training, even simple roast dinners at The Burrow on a Sunday afternoon while Arthur Weasley asked Harry to explain some mundane Muggle thing to him.

It was the potion keeping the dreams at bay, but in a few hours' time, when Harry would wake, he would feel that he'd had a good night's sleep for the first time in months. His mind had rested, had been given some desperately-needed time to switch off. And, had Harry been conscious and aware, he'd have been incredibly shocked to see his sleeping self even smile at the memories his subconscious was reliving.

Malfoy had said it was going to take a long time to recover, and indeed it would, but Harry had finally made the first step in the right direction.