Notes: I'm not going to pretend I know anything about psychology, because I really don't. I was an archaeology major, lol. Anxiety and panic attacks, though... Well, it has been said that authors do best when drawing from their own personal experiences, and oddly enough writing about that sort of thing has always helped me with it.
Warnings: References to PTSD in this chapter!
Chapter 7: A Much Anticipated Appointment
The rest of the week was relatively uneventful. Draco spent the mornings that he would have been in Charms class helping at the Menagerie before going to the academy. He'd given all the crup puppies names, and learned that kneazles were happiest when they had someplace high to climb on top of. He could almost remember all the different types of toads, and had been thoroughly disturbed when Hagrid told him that puffskeins liked to eat their owners' bogeys while they slept. He spent all day there on Saturday, assisting customers and setting up a display of kneazle toys. During the evenings, he cooked dinner with varying degrees of success – aside from one pot of soup so terrible that he just vanished the whole thing, pot and all.
Nothing horrible happened, Harry didn't try to get into his pants, he didn't have to see his father, and the rest of his classes were going fine. All in all, it was probably the best week of his life – with the single exception of when he won his first Quidditch match for Slytherin. It wasn't until Saturday night, when Draco realized that it was almost Sunday, that his anxiety returned in full force.
He occupied himself with research for a paper that wasn't due until the end of October, stopping only to make a completely half-arsed attempt at cooking pasta for dinner. It was horrible, but Harry ate it without comment. To be fair, Draco was very picky about food. On the other hand, he was pretty sure Harry would eat mud if he told him it was pudding.
Harry literally half dragged him to bed around midnight. Draco lay there awake, dreading the morning. He'd spend the earlier part of the day at the shop, then go to his appointment at Healer Leavitt's office, and finally be hauled to the Burrow for Sunday dinner with the Weasleys. He gave up trying to sleep around three in the morning.
"Are you awake?" Draco nudged Harry with his elbow.
"Considering you can't seem to stay in one spot for more than five minutes, yes." Harry yawned, and stretched like a cat.
"Want to go to the cafe?"
"There's a cafe open at this late? Or is it early?"
Maggie, thank Merlin, wasn't at the cafe. Sitting there with Harry, talking about that season's professional Quidditch scores and their plans for the shop, was enough to distract him until it was time to head to work. The stupid cafe, The Calico Rose, was quickly becoming Draco's home away from home. Even if he was alone there, it was a safe place full of muggles who didn't give a shit that he was sleeping with Harry Potter, or that he was the son of an infamous death eater. The owner of the shop even had a little grey tabby cat called Pitty Pat that liked nothing more than to curl up on his lap, in or any empty place near him.
Before Draco knew it, it was time for him to head to London for the dreaded appointment. He let Harry pull him into a ridiculous bear hug and kiss him goodbye. There was a gaggle of teenage girls in the shop looking at the puffskeins, and they all giggled at the sight of it. One of them actually swooned. Draco wasn't sure if that put him in a slightly better mood, or if he wanted to hex the lot of them.
Deciding that stalling would only prolong the inevitable, Draco apparated to Healer Leavitt's office in Muggle London. To his surprise, he didn't find himself standing in front of a magically concealed building like any of the other Wizarding medical facilities he'd been to in the past. Instead, he looked up at a three story building that seemed to be made of glass with a minimalist geometric design. Lettering above the front door read 'London Center for Psychiatric Health'.
"Is this a muggle psychiatrist's office?" Draco asked himself in horror. He steeled himself and walked in the front door. The lobby was empty aside from a few comfy looking sofas, some potted houseplants, and a few small tables full of muggle magazines. "Bloody hell. It is." He shook his head and made for the stairs. Healer Leavitt's office was on the third floor, suite number 9. He remembered that, at least. Thankfully, he hadn't worn robes – only a pair of black dress slacks, a white button-up, and a grey silk vest. He just looked like a well-dressed muggle, which he supposed might save him from being hauled off to the loony bin.
There was one other patient in the waiting room when Draco found the correct office. She was obviously a witch, judging by her mismatched clothing that looked horribly out of place and the way she scoffed at a gossip magazine she was reading. Draco ignored her and went to to receptionist, who handed him paperwork and a pen. He sat on the opposite side of the room from the woman with her magazine and skimmed over the papers. Wonderful, he thought. It was full of muggle terminology. Luckily, his research into muggle medicine gave a decent enough understanding of what he was reading. He supposed he should probably leave Dragonpox out of his family medical history. When he got up to give the papers to the receptionist, the other woman called out to him.
"I know you," She said slyly, the words rolling off her tongue like poison. "Malfoy."
"I'm sorry. You must be confusing me for someone else," Draco drawled and took his seat, picking up a magazine about cooking to use a means to ignore her.
"No, I know who you are," She growled. "It wasn't good enough, serving Voldemort, was it? I bet you're the brains behind the Reaper's Folly too, you scum."
Draco glanced toward the receptionist. There was no way she could hear them with the door to her little glass window shut tight. "I have no bloody idea what you are talking about."
She glared daggers at him, but turned back to her magazine. Draco tried to distract himself by reading about how to make a decent pot roast, but now he was more nervous than ever. He only looked up when he heard the door beside the receptionist's station open, and a sullen looking teenage girl walked out.
"Mum, your magazine is upside down," She muttered darkly and swept out of the office. The witch who'd accused Draco of being involved with the Reaper's Folly scrambled to her feet, and bolted out of the office after her, dropping the magazine on the floor. Draco made sure the receptionist wasn't looking, and moved the magazine back to the table with a careless flick of his fingers.
Finally, some peace and quiet, Draco thought and yawned. He just hoped he didn't fall asleep in his chair. He was dead tired. He didn't get the chance, though. A few moments later he was called into the office, and followed the receptionist who ushered him into the room at the very end of the hall. She told him to have a seat, and that 'Doctor' Leavitt would be with him shortly. Draco wondered just the hell he'd gotten into as he sat on the large, plush sofa in the center of the room.
It was a cozy looking place, at least. Bookshelves lined the two walls of the office that weren't just huge panels of glass. The view was beautiful, and Draco imagined it must be nice to sit in here and listen to the rain on days when the weather was bad. The only furniture in the room was the sofa that Draco was sitting on, an armchair that matched it, and a handsome mahogany desk in the corner that was similar to the one Leavitt had in his office at the academy. Draco nearly jumped out of his skin as he heard the door open.
"Good afternoon," Healer Leavitt said kindly and sat in the armchair that was facing the sofa. "I'm glad you decided to come."
"It's not like I have much of a choice or, trust me, I would not be here," Draco replied icily. "...This is a muggle facility," Draco added, curiously and noticed that Leavitt was wearing muggle clothes, albeit tasteful professional looking ones.
"My work does not require magic. In fact I was a regular muggle psychiatrist long before I became a professor at Loxley," He told Draco with a warm smile. "I'm a squib, and a pure-blood – ironically enough. I didn't have much involvement with your world until the previous Headmaster at Loxley contacted me about teaching there about five years ago. My staff here simply believes I'm semi-retired. Now then; this isn't about me, so let's get started."
"Yes, let's get this nonsense over with," Draco replied, hoping it wouldn't take the entire two hours he was scheduled for.
"First of all, I want you to be aware that no magic will be used here for any reason. Anything you tell me, will be of your own free will. I'm not going to make you drink veritaserum or use legimency on you," Leavitt explained. "Nothing we discuss here will leave this room for any reason - I believe my receptionist had you sign a form about that. Lastly, I will not force you to stay here. You can leave at any time. Any questions?"
"No." Draco wished he had another magazine about baking to read.
"Good. So, tell me about yourself."
Draco rolled his eyes. "I'm sure you know all about me."
"I know what others say about you, but not what you would."
"I'm a Cleric at Loxley academy. I'm shagging Harry Potter. My father was, maybe still is, a death eater piece of shit. I'm a textbook Slytherin. That's all, really." Draco picked at the hem of his sleeve and fidgeted uncomfortably.
"And what hobbies do you have?"
"I really don't have time for trivial rubbish like that, but I'm not terrible at cooking."
"Nothing at all? Alright. What was your family life like when you were growing up?" Leavitt asked, watching him closely. Draco fought to sit still.
"So, are we done? I really don't have time for this," Draco drawled in irritation and glared daggers at Healer Leavitt, who was taking notes in a handsome leather journal.
"We are not done," Healer Leavitt said sternly. "Draco, you do have time for this. You wouldn't be here otherwise, and you are free to leave if you feel the need to."
"Then let's talk about something else," Draco complained. Something about the room suddenly felt like a prison, despite its cozy appearance. "I don't see what this has to do with me being able to cast healing charms properly."
"None of this has anything to do with it; you know that," Leavitt reminded him calmly. "This is about you; the rest will follow."
"I swear I am going to hex the shit out of Fairfax," Draco grumbled and buried his face in the arm of the couch he was sitting on. "This is so stupid."
"Whinging and making excuses is is only going to make this take longer," He replied in the same calm tone that irritated Draco a thousand times more than it would have if he'd just get angry or something. "Just take a deep breath, and answer the question. I can't help you, if you won't let me. Once again, what kind of relationship do you have with your parents?"
Draco sighed and picked at his silver cufflink. "My mother and I are close, and always have been. My father... I always admired my father, until he decided to go running back to Voldemort when returned before the war. He thinks he can make amends with me, but I wish he was still rotting in Azkaban where he belongs. That won't change, no matter how much Harry and my mother think I should give him a second chance."
"What did he do to earn your ire? Was it his alliance to Voldemort, or something else?" Leavitt pressed.
"I was sixteen years old, and he expected me to become a bloody death eater – which I did because I was desperate for his approval, and he'd never once told me that he was proud of me. He still never has. I'm sure you know how that turned out." Draco fought the urge to just get up and walk out. He didn't want to talk about Voldemort, or his arsehole father. He wanted to forget it, only no one would bloody let him.
"Enlighten me."
"No."
"Then, by all means, leave."
Draco laid on the sofa and stared at the overcast sky through the skylight in the ceiling. "I was a shit death eater. I never wanted to be one. I didn't want to kill anyone. I never did. I was constantly being punished for cocking up nearly every job they gave me."
"How were you punished?"
"Usually the cruciatus curse," Draco said. "My father, he just stood there and watched. He never intervened. He just let it happen, and he expects me to forgive him. What kind of father does that?" He added hesitantly.
"Does his approval still matter to you?"
"No," Draco snapped, before he even finished the sentence.
"Let's try that again, Draco. Does Lucius' approval still matter to you?"
"Sometimes," He admitted miserably.
"When?" Leavitt insisted.
Draco thought of Monday night, and the several other times he'd managed to avoid being too intimate with Harry. It wasn't because he didn't want to, but he couldn't really put words to it. Harry understood, Draco assumed. They'd had that conversation. Sort of. But, what if he couldn't give Harry what he obviously wanted? How long would he put up with it?
"Whenever I..." His voice died on his lips and his screwed his eyes shut. "No. I don't want to talk about it. Not that."
"Remember, nothing we discuss leaves this room."
"I hate the fact that I'm gay." It was barely a whisper, but he said it. "I was raised to despise everything that I am, and I would give anything to not be this way. Except, that I am this way and I honestly hate myself for it. ...And the fucking Prophet, oh my God the absolute rubbish they write in the fucking Prophet..."
"What is your relationship with Harry like? Have you told him any of this?" Leavitt asked.
"He is... I don't deserve him, really. He can be an absolute wanker, but I think he'd do anything to make me happy," Draco told him, wondering if he really could just get up and leave. "I haven't told you anything that I haven't told him. He's patient with me. Mostly. Probably too patient."
"Are you intimate?"
Draco listened to the sound of healer Leavitt's quill scratching as he wrote in his journal. Definitely time to leave. He opened his eyes and glanced in the direction of the exit. Would he be allowed to come crawling back if he left? He'd had enough for one day, but he didn't want to ruin his career.
"Draco?" Healer Leavitt's voice was calm, soothing.
"...Not as much as we should be," He relented. "I have a tendency to panic if it goes too far. I don't know why. I can't let go of the idea that it's wrong and I shouldn't be doing it, but I really want to do it."
"How did your father react to your relationship?" Leavitt asked, furiously taking notes now that he was actually getting somewhere.
"He seems to tolerate it, but probably only because my mother told him to. He won't say anything, but I know he's furious that I'm sharing a bed with Harry bloody Potter and not some hand-picked pure-blood bint," Draco replied sourly. "I don't care about what he thinks, but for some reason I still hate myself for it."
"Do you have any interest in women at all?" Leavitt inquired.
"None whatsoever," Draco said firmly.
"Okay. What made you quit being an Auror?"
"A number of things. I hated it, for one. I only did because I felt that I needed to redeem myself. And the..." He stared hard at the clouds through the skylight. "...The nightmares and panic attacks. One of the Aurors who trained me used to joke about it. She told me that she'd bet good money on me getting killed because I panicked over something stupid, rather than getting cursed or something. ...She wasn't wrong."
"What did you have nightmares of?" Leavitt inquired, watching him intently.
"Mostly writhing on the floor of drawing room while my lovely aunt practiced her curses on me, or the battle in the room of requirement." Draco cringed. It had been a while since he'd had that particular nightmare.
"What happened there?"
"I watched one of my best friends die for nothing, burnt alive by fiendfyre, and I would have been killed myself if Harry hadn't saved my miserable hide." He hid his face in his hands and felt his heart beat a little faster just thinking of it. He could still hear Vincent screaming – still smell the putrid stench of burnt flesh. He choked on a breath he didn't know he was holding and shoved his hands in his pockets to make it somewhat less obvious that he was trembling like a startled mouse. He felt a scrap of parchment slip between his fingers and rolled his eyes. How had he not caught Harry sticking things in his pockets? What would this one say?
Reasons Draco is worth it #6: He sometimes makes mistakes, but he always does the right thing in the end.
Draco smiled in spite of his horrible mood. "Wanker," He mumbled to himself.
"What is it?" Leavitt asked curiously.
"I sort of lost my shit the other night, and told Harry to stop trying to save me because I'm not worth it," Draco explained and handed him the note. "This was his response. I've been finding them everywhere."
"He understands your struggle more than you think," Leavitt said with a chuckle and returned the slip of parchment to him.
"Maybe, but I don't know how long he'll put up with my shit."
"That's enough for today, I think." Healer Leavitt closed his journal and laid it on the table beside him. "We're going to talk more next week. In the meantime, I want you to pay attention to what you feel, not what you think when you're with Harry. Every now and then take note of how you feel. Are you content? Anxious? Happy? Just be aware of it."
"Okay," Draco said, feeling both numb and overwhelmed at the same time. How had he managed to make him talk? He wouldn't even mention half of what had come out of his mouth to his own mother. It was what he'd wanted, though. Wasn't it? Maybe if he'd just seen a mind healer instead of trying to hook up with Blaise... He dashed the thoughts from his head and sat up. None of that bore thinking about. It would only make him feel worse.
"I want you to keep a journal of your thoughts and experiences – anything that you may think is significant. If there's anything you want to tell me, but don't feel comfortable talking about, write that down too."
"Okay," Draco repeated, wanting nothing more than to go home and sleep. ...Except that he knew damn well that there would be no more avoiding dinner with the Weasleys.
"One last thing," Leavitt said gently. "Every time you start thinking that there's something wrong with you, take a step back and think about it. Ask yourself why you feel that way, and why it matters so much to you."
"So, what's your diagnosis?" Draco inquired, curiously.
"That doesn't matter. You're a person, not a research project that can be described with simple terms."
"Tell me anyway," Draco demanded. "I'm a Cleric, after all."
"Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and severe anxiety. Possibly depression, but I think that's more of a result of your your untreated PTSD," Leavitt replied. "Well talk about ways to deal with that next week. For now, I just want you to be aware of what's going on in your head so we can address it properly."
On the way back to the Menagerie, Draco stopped in Flourish and Blots and picked up a plain journal with a green leather cover. He might as well do as he was told. It seemed like rebelling would only make the whole affair take longer, and make him look like an idiot.
"Fuck's sake," Draco whinged as he paid the clerk at the bookstore and found another slip of parchment tucked in his wallet. He read it as he left the shop.
'Reasons Draco is worth it #3: Kissing him is the best feeling in the world.'
He could only imagine how pink his cheeks must have been as he stashed the bit of parchment in the back page of the journal he was carrying.
Max ran to him, barking excitedly when Draco made it back to the Menagerie. He and Princess were at the shop to keep them out of the way. Harry had hired a carpenter to redo the floors at Grimmauld place starting tomorrow. Most of Draco's school things were also upstairs in Harry's office, so he would have some place quiet to work.
"You're getting big," Draco said fondly and scooped Max up into his arms. He licked his face, and Draco laughed as he ruffled his fur.
"You're in a better mood than I thought you would be," Harry said as he caught sight of him. "Did it help, then?"
"I still think the whole thing is stupid," Draco said dismally. "What time is dinner?"
"As soon as we close up," Harry told him cheerfully.
