A/N/MAY23/; ohmygod birth defects, I dunno. GO AWAI. I'm updating!! I can't believe I wrote so much today… it makes me tired. TTATT;

Chapter 4
Birth Defects

Psychiatric Summary of MALFOY, DRACO, 154-AKQ
Age 26. Male. White. Single. Received at Mattewan Institute in 1999, AUGUST 23 after a sentence of life support for multiple counts of Manslaughter in New York and Wiltshire. No transfers to date.
Prenatal: Father died at 62. Mother died at 59, client killed both at age 17.
Natal: Born in Wiltshire, England, June 5, 1980. Normal birth.
Preschool: Only child.
School: Completed Grade 12.
Occupation: None; used family savings after the death of his mother and father to live for two years before being sentenced.
Physical: Ht 6'1" Wt 154lbs. Thin, but well fed. No records of doctoral sicknesses albeit for a fever three years ago. Healthy. Denies use of substances and drugs. No organ failure.
Mental: Properly oriented, alert, shows no signs of delusions or neurotic manifestations. Absence of irrational thinking is noted. Shows curiosity and intellect. IQ 141
Diagnosis: Psychopathic Personality Disorder, strain PCL-R FACTOR 2
Names of previous doctors attached below.
Criminal Record: Attached—General Grade of Crime is: S

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Harry closed the file with a tinge of antipathy. Malfoy. One of the more twisted patients he was beginning to treat. He was, of course, a very stereotypical psychopath, but his criminal record made him one of the smarter, more cunning and more bloodthirsty than many of his previous clients. The doctor's eyes lingered on his parents' fate. 17… He had been so young, but without a doubt, he knew that Malfoy had known what he was doing.

The folder that contained his police report and summary did not, to Harry's chagrin; mention his vindictive and manipulative nature. It was only day two, and the doctor found he could not concentrate on the psychopath's rap sheet, despite the fact it was almost fifteen pages long, without any in-depth on any of the cases. His mind flickered back to Malfoy, sitting in the cell contently, a pacific look in those pale irises, worrying a tuft of hair as he stared blankly at his nails. The two images didn't mesh very well.

The doctor sighed with resignation. He couldn't build any resignation now, it was only day two. How long had Malfoy been here? Harry stared at the date, subconsciously zoning out slightly. 1999. It was 2007 now. Eight years.

Eight years... Had Malfoy been here this long? In the same cell, doing the same things everyday? Essentially... Wasting away? The doctor bit his lip, looking at the hospital label across the small file. The psychopath had nothing against it either; he didn't have a problem with staying in the cell for the rest of his life. However, Harry did. He hated to see anyone; even a monster like Malfoy waste away. The blond was almost like a child, who was simply content with doing nothing and conforming to their parent's expectations. Or in this case, his own.

Harry frowned, placing the document on top of the mahogany drawers, next to a picture of his parents and a novel he had put aside. He was still in his pajamas, well,the ones that he wore on trips—if he were at home, the doctor would have stripped down to his verdant boxers and that would have been it. But nope, this was a ward; he decided to keep it sanitary. Light green with darker stripes, it fit rather well on him, and was very comfortable. He was feeling a bit gutsy today, and so, he pulled on a pair of slippers, grabbing a few papers and slipped down to the ward; ready to face Draco Malfoy and everything he had to offer.

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2nd Session
May 10th
Mattewan Psychiatric Institute
Client: Draco Malfoy
Diagnosed with: Psychopathy

Harry's strange attire was only met with mild surprise as the doctor walked in, looking very much like he had just gotten out of bed. Bedhead. Although, the messy locks didn't differ much from his usual hairstyle, Draco could only smile when he saw him. The pinstriped pajamas added an unusual flair to Potter too; the blond appreciated it. Less drab than the usual suit and labcoat for sure.

Harry yawned, stretching, rearranging his documents briskly before looking up at his patient.

Oh... shit.

Malfoy apparently had no problems with sanitary conditions in his room, as he was lying on the wooden palate clad in only black boxers, the thin gray blanket thrown on the floor with the rest of his clothes, which resulted in a large monochromatic heap of fabric. He enjoyed mornings; the early rays would stream in through the small window near the top of the wall, resulting in a little warmth, and Draco appreciated it. He found things looked better in light too.

Harry felt the blood rush to his cheeks for a split second, but he recovered quickly. Well, this was interesting.

"Mr. Malfoy... please put on some clothes." said Harry, and he frowned as the voice that came out sounded a little more high-pitched than he would've liked. The brunet cleared his throat to drive out the slight panic he felt. There were quiet chuckles from his client as he heard the shuffle of material against skin and fabric, and when Harry turned around again, Malfoy was at least half clothed. He had pulled on the pair of dull bottoms, but hadn't picked up the top that accompanied it.

The doctor bit his lip and tried to glare, but it came out as a weak, watery scowl. Fantastic. Not the menacing professional look he had thought he had perfected.

"Mr. Malfoy, I won't tell you again. Please put on some clothes."

Draco sighed and cast a disinterested glance at his doctor, "Don't feel like it. It's warm right now, I'll put it on when I feel cooler."

The raven-haired man sighed, but felt his eyes stray towards the pale man again. The convict was humming gently, eyes closed with his arms behind his head. He had good genes. Harry promised to himself he'd pull up a photo of Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy for later… They must have been beautiful people to conceive Draco Malfoy.

Curious irises traced his client's jaw line, down the elegant neck and down the long limbs and faintly muscled torso. There may have been a sculpted body, long ago before Malfoy started to waste away here. But the blond had a swimmer's body, lithe and lean, and nowhere as thickset as Harry was, even though, the doctor was slightly gangly as well.

The humming stopped.

"Doctor, are you checking me out?" chimed the psychopath, an amused smirk pulling on his lips, one pale eye opened.

"You wish." Replied Harry coolly.

"Hmmm, what was all that staring then?"

"Careful analyzation."

"Really? So you do it with all patients, then?"

"Yes."

Draco shook his head. Denial. He closed his eyes again, "Are we going to start?"

"I was just going to suggest it." Answered Harry with a professional smile, though it was lost on Malfoy. "Glad to see you're so eager."

The blond grunted.

He flipped through the papers, looking for the tell-tale red file. Locating it, the doctor pulled out Malfoy's summary and browsed it quickly, looking for something he could ask.

"Do you remember your parents?"

A pause.

"Not really."

"Do you miss them?"

"Not really."

Harry scowled.

"Could you elaborate?"

"Not really."

The doctor pushed up the thin spectacles, giving an cool glower at the convict on the bed, not that he could see it or anything behind lidded eyes. Was he just feeling more uncooperative today than usual? The spectrum for Malfoy's emotional range didn't exactly exist. Harry frowned, gazing at the Draco, who was simply smiling impassively, not even moving. Harry realized subconsciously that it was sort of infuriating that the blond wasn't even paying attention to him anymore; the rapt absorption he had taken on Harry was gone, replaced by some sort of blasé boredom.

"You can't use that for everything," said the doctor, his patient psychiatrist façade wearing thin.

"Not really."

Malfoy smirked. This was too easy.

"What do you need, Malfoy?"

"Sit next to me, Doctor."

Something or someone moved, the sound of the chair scraping as it shifted making the psychopath open his eyes, his interest piqued. A shuffle of papers. Draco looked up, and found his eyes staring back into bright green. He smiled lazily.

"Happy?" asked Harry. The palate was extremely uncomfortable. He was used to his King-sized back home in New York.

"Very." replied the blond, his smile blossoming into a satisfied smirk. He had closed his eyes again; Harry frowned faintly, but decided not to press on it. Why did this seem so similar to giving a spoiled child exactly what he wanted? Anyways, Malfoy seemed to be in a better mood now, there was no point in ruining it since he had moved over here.

The doctor watched calmly as Draco moved slightly onto his side, trying not to radiate distress. The fact that he was treating Malfoy, a convicted murderer and all around menace in his own cell and his own grounds was a little frightening. Most of the time, they were in his office on his territory, and he could call the guards without delay. It was extremely unlikely that Malfoy would hurt him so early on, but it was always alarming that a nurse or a guard would take minutes to arrive.

What would Malfoy gain from keeping him here? He couldn't figure it out. He didn't know what the convict wanted from this strained relationship.

Actually, Harry was having a hard time trying to figure out what Malfoy wanted, if anything at all. He seemed disinterested and apathetic about his surroundings, about treatments, and to Harry's disdain, about the doctor; himself. He wasn't looking for a way out of the Institute, he wasn't looking for a probation, or even to see the sights outside the Mattewan Psychiatric Institute—Draco Malfoy had no aspirations, no goals. Nothing.

He was essentially dead.

The fact was rather frightening really, as it gave Harry no tools or weapons to help the blond at all, which left him rather naked and bare in terms of ability. He might as well confirm it.

"Do you feel unsatisfied with being here? Like there's something else you'd like to do?"

I'd like to sleep with you, thought Malfoy, the silent and rather blunt innuendo lost on Potter as he feigned an introspective look.

"Well... actually... I'd like something."

Harry's brows raised, and he hung on the psychopath's word hungrily. Was this a breakthrough?

"Tom Jones' sex bomb track? Oldies are awesome stuff."

The doctor frowned and relented. Really… what was he expecting?

Draco felt his insides split with internal laughter and tried to contain it, suppressing his snickers. What the hell did Potter think he was going to say? Oh, I feel like I want to get out of here, sometimes I start to cry about my dead parents and I try to find something to ease my pain...!! Sometimes I wish someone would just hug me!!

"Malfoy, if you're not taking this seriously, I'm leaving."

"Oh, but I am." replied the blond airily, opening one pale eye to give a meaningful glance at his doctor.

Harry caught it sceptically. "Alright, shall we proceed?"

There was a slight 'mmh' sound that he took for a yes.

"You're just like all of my old doctors." Draco's tone was calm and carefree, both eyes open now, analyzing Potter carefully. The man was certainly very interesting, at least face-value anyways. Harry noticed his stare and scowled faintly.

"Really? How many doctors have you had?"

Changing the subject was always a good idea.

Draco shrugged carelessly, watching the doctor look at him curiously. "I don't know... A lot. Maybe thirty or so?"

"In 8 years?"

"Yeah."

There was a moment of silence where Harry processed this information. Around 30 psychiatrists in 8 years? That was harsh. Provided Draco hadn't driven out or killed all of them, the doctor almost felt a smidgen of sympathy for him. Of course, it was gone in a few seconds, happily replaced with the correct feeling of disgust.

"I should start compiling now," he said, pushing up his glasses up onto the thin nose, "it'll help me deal with insight and connecting with you."

Draco shrugged. He wouldn't be answering anyways.

Harry noticed that he, himself was actually perspiring a little, though if it was from the heat of the cell (as the sun rays were hitting him dead on) or if he was stressed... wasn't discernible. He fumbled with a few papers and drew out a blank sheet.

"Do you remember the first person you killed?"

Silence.

Draco shrugged again, and Harry fumed slightly.

"Malfoy?"

The doctor waited.

"…Draco?"

Silence. This time, no shrug, no movement. Just a small, languid smile and... warmth.

"Draco, answer please, or at least tell me why you're avoiding the questions." A pause. "I did move over here for you."

Oh yeah, you moved about two feet for me, thanks doctor. Such an incredible effort. The blond sighed, musing the thought of replying in his head. If he just continued to be passive, Potter would leave. He knew he would. Pushing his buttons could get him slightly frustrated; that was fun to see and all, but would just result in wonderful pissyness that the doctor exudes when embarrassed. Hmm. What to do?

"Yes. You probably know it's my parents, right? You've read the file."

Harry looked faintly surprised. "You've read your own summary? Is that even allowed?"

"I do believe Doctor Granger was the one who compiled the document; she presented it to me before her resignation."

Just another one of his 30 doctors then, thought Harry with sarcasm.

"Alright. So your parents were the first people you killed. What… were they like?"

Draco scowled. What did Potter expect? That his parents were some nutters who raised him this way? Not likely.

"Apathetic. They knew I was intelligent, had no concern that I didn't really seem to know wrong from right. They were good parents. I wasn't angry when I killed them, if that's what you're asking." He replied candidly, tone jaded. Again, with that cool, bland tone, like he was reading from a textbook, or reciting for a class. It was a chore.

"Then why did you do it?"

"I felt like it."

"You just felt like killing your parents?" The doctor looked perplexed by this. He had thought Malfoy had been spurred angrily by something his parents said; perhaps his ability or schoolwork hadn't risen to their standards, and he had just lost control. However, this apparently wasn't so.

"Yeah, no reason. Is there something wrong?"

"So you had no conscience to start out with?"

Draco shook his head and said rather lazily, "Not that I can remember."

See, this was weird. Psychopathy was developed by social and parental problems and corruptions. It was very, very rare, perhaps even non-existent that a child was born and raised without a conscience, as a conscience and a knowledge of wrong and right came from the specific niche in society that you were born into. Psychopathy wasn't supposed to be a birth defect—that made no sense.

Harry reminded himself to ask Dumbledore about this later and proceeded to the next question, feeling considerably better than Malfoy had finally told him something.

"Have you ever felt guilty or remorseful? Any regrets?"

Malfoy threw him an exasperated look, "No." If he never had a conscience, how the hell would he ever feel guilty?

"Have you ever considered leaving Mattewan?"

Hmm. That was an interesting question. Did he really want to leave? Yes, this institute wasn't exactly the most livable place ever—he despised most of the people who worked here, and the other morons who howled or made a racket at night.

But it felt oddly like home.

"Yes." replied the Malfoy after an inquisitive glance from his doctor. He had. He maybe thought about it once a year, leaving the small chamber and feeling more sunlight than just a block on a part of his body, seeing more than just gray and white. It wasn't like he missed the outside world, he couldn't even remember leaving it. It was just simple curiosity.

"What aspects of the outside world do you want to see or do?"

"I don't know,"—simple responses were best. At least he wasn't lying yet. "Probably find something to do. I get bored easily, but I've lived with it, obviously."

Harry felt a pang of sympathy. Caged for 8 years here, no doctors that were useful enough to help him, or even care. No doubt he'd be just like the previous ones too. Obviously he was a cold-blooded killer... But he got the feeling that Malfoy was being kept like an animal. Not to say that Draco didn't enjoy it—he seem to relish the small cell and everything in it.

"…Is there anything you'd want to do out there? That you can think of?"

Draco paused. He didn't really know, and could neither think of anything or had any specific wants.

"I guess… play a tune on the piano? I haven't even touched keys… in so long."

The doctor felt a pang of sympathy. He attempted to shove it down, but it was starting to grow like a tumour.

Damnit.

"What if I brought a piano in here?"

The silver eyes flickered to him. What was it in those irises? Was it bewilderment? It certainly wasn't the mild, infuriating surprise that he usually saw, but something softer... Harry filed it away in his brain to analyze later.

"Why would you do that Potter? You don't gain anything from it, unless you think my strokes on chromatic keys helps you understand me. No, that's something completely alienated from your case on me."

Harry scowled for what seemed like the umpteenth time. "Yeah, because I'm a heartless wench of a doctor that only wants to exploit this case and rip money from Dumbledore and sell the movie rights."

"That's what I thought." Replied Malfoy with a small smile.

"Anyways." Said Harry definitively, "I'll go to Dumbledore with the piano idea, but I don't know if a nice one will fit in this goddamn cell… I think I'll conclude this session for today, Malfoy. We'll continue tomorrow."

How abrupt, thought Draco with a slight pout. Didn't even let me get a look at anything. Harry, Harry, why are you so boring?

The doctor started to compile his many documents, scowling as one fluttered to the ground. Draco reached for it, but Harry pulled it away sharply before smiling at Draco in an unflattering way.

"Thank you, Malfoy." He said with perhaps a bit too much effort.

"Bye," replied Draco softly, a small smile curling on his lips as Harry exited. He had done good today, despite the fact he had relinquished some information. Not prominent ones, but it still vexed him slightly that he had given anything up. But still, the trade was good—the chance of playing the piano again for some well-used facts.

Harry frowned as he closed the door with a dull click, looking at the leaflet in his hand. Why had he jerked? He had instinctively pulled away from Malfoy because his brain had sent warnings already—Malfoy could not be trusted.

This certainly couldn't be good for someone who was trying to crack him.