Breaking Heaven

Chapter 8

May 21st

Session 7

Yet again we're back in that cold, depressing room. Malfoy is shackled to the table as usual, and he doesn't bother to look up at me as I enter the room. Instead, he stares studiously at the bland silver surface as he has in each session since our first. I'd expected nothing more, but I'm still irritated as I sit down across from him.

We've been at this for a month now, and I've made absolutely no progress with him. I hadn't exactly expected a drastic breakthrough, but I'd thought after our agreement the first day we'd at least be able to converse. The board had my ass yesterday when I had nothing new to report to the dean, and I'm not used to being anything less than exemplary in the eyes of those in charge.

"Mr. Malfoy," I say sharply, letting the tablet fall heavily on to the table as I sit. "I'm afraid this will be our last session."

His head snaps up, his eyes accusing. His hair still hangs limply in his eyes, and I wonder when the last time was he properly was allowed to bathe. His cheeks are still hollow, despite weeks of good food, and there are heavy circles under his eyes. And his eyes...they're dim today, as if a light behind them has gone out. There's no flash of cunning, no mirth at the idea that he can try to outsmart me in a game of wits. It's gone, replaced by dull bits of grey. I've watched it happen slowly over these weeks, watched any bit of fight in him go out. And I'm not sure how to push him out of it. Ever since that day with the food he won't speak to me, and he rarely looks at me unless I say something that catches his attention. Normally he catches himself and looks down again, but today his eyes stay locked on mine.

"You promised," he croaks, as if he hasn't spoke in days, maybe even weeks. "Six months."

"Yes, well," I say with a small growl. "This is based on the decision of people far above my pay grade."

His eyebrows knit together, his lips pursing. This has him thinking, and I can see him weighing whether or not to respond or continue to sit in silence. He studies me for a moment, then commands softly, "Explain."

"There are other patients, Mr. Malfoy," I say with a sigh. "Patients who need experienced doctors working with them. I'm one of the more knowledgeable psychiatrists working in the criminal unit, and I have a specialty in behavior analysis. If you refuse to work with me, they have to reassign me. If it matters," I add, "I disagreed with their decision."

"So if I talk, you'll stay." He doesn't say it as a question, but as a statement of understanding.

"If you talk," I assert without much confidence that it will change anything, "they may change their minds."

He doesn't say anything at first, but just studies me. His eyes begin to brighten as they lock with mine, and I force myself to maintain the contact. His eyes challenge me, and search for something I instinctively know I need to hide deep within myself. He raises an eyebrow as a bit of that sharpness in his eyes returns, as if he's aware of my moment of panic. I don't know what it is about him, but it feels like he's laying me bare when he looks at me. I haven't ever had another human being look at me with so much scrutiny before. Most people make assumptions about me and stop there, never looking for anything more than what I show them. But here he is, searching.

"Tell me, Doctor," he finally says, maintaining eye contact as he does. "What brought you to the decision to study psychiatry?"

"I'm not sure I understand your question, Mr. Malfoy," I say, aching to look away but keeping my eyes locked on his. I'm surprised at how relieved I am to see the life return to them. Of course, I didn't want these sessions to fail. But I know no one would blame me or think me incompetent if they did. So I know right away this relief is more about the man and less about the job.

"Most people who choose to study the mind do so because they witnessed a moment of deviant behavior they desire to understand," he says, his voice low and dark. "It scarred them, and they want to understand it. They're puzzle solvers."

"Indeed," I say, finally pulling my eyes away to stare at the manacles on his wrist. They make a shudder race down my spine, and a pool of dread collects in the pit of my stomach. "I've witnessed my fair share of deviant behavior in my life. And I'm certainly a puzzle addict."

"So why psychiatry?" he asks as he shifts back in his chair. "Why not psychology? Or a social worker? You're a behavior analyst, so you could have worked for a school or at a real hospital instead of a shit hole like this place. Why take it to such an extreme?"

"This session isn't about me, Mr. Malfoy," I say, my tone harsher than I intended it to be as panic races through my skin. He's talking now, and I will not let this train run off the tracks when we both need him to cooperate today. "We are not here to discuss my life. We're here to work through yours. And if you won't show me something I can help, I'm gone."

"Perhaps learning more about you would make me more comfortable with discussing my personal life," he argues, his tone condescending. I can nearly hear the sneer in his voice, and my eyes shoot up to see he indeed is looking at me like I'm a cornered mouse yet again.

Bristling, I say curtly, "I refuse to believe everything that happens to us is someone else's fault, or that everything is based on our experiences. I think sometimes people's brains are genuinely sick, and that doctors have duty to help them. That is why I went into psychiatry. Some things can't just be fixed with a few good words. Some people are just born broken, and they need medicine to fix them."

He eyes me carefully, then says, "You saw something horrible, but you don't want to think it was their fault. You want to blame it on an illness."

"Wasn't that your defense in court?" I ask, noting the way his eyes flash at my words. I swipe harshly on the tablet, pulling up his intake paperwork. "Borderline Personality Disorder, I believe, was the official diagnosis of the court-appointed doctor who performed your assessment."

He smiles widely, all of his teeth white, straight, and perfect. They don't seem to fit in the face of a man whose skin is drawn over his cheekbones, his hair unkempt. They belong to a man who has never wanted for anything, a man used to living in luxury. The man I'm certain he used to be.

"Precisely," he says coyly, raising an eyebrow. "The voices made me do it."

"Care to tell me about those?" I ask, fighting to keep the hope out of my voice. "You've led your doctors down several different paths of treatment, but I somehow doubt anyone's hit on what will really help you."

"That," he says, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, "is you operating in the assumption there's something actually wrong with me that needs to be fixed."

"You've hurt people without remorse," I say, leaning forward and jabbing a finger firmly into the table. "The average human possesses a firmer grasp on the value of human life."

"So your leading diagnosis is antisocial personality disorder," he says with a snap, his eyes flashing accusingly. "How original. You make a lot of assumptions about my past, Doctor Granger."

I fight a growl of frustration, hit with a wave of surprise and apprehension. Not many people are aware of the variety of mental illnesses beyond the usual bipolar, OCD, and schizophrenia. Clearly Malfoy has done his research, which concerns me. Why would someone like him need to be able to understand and identify a variety of mental illnesses? Or is it just that one he's familiar with?

"Then talk to me, Malfoy. Tell me something I can tell the board so they don't reassign me. Because I can promise you, if they remove me from your care, you're done. You'll be in a cell, drugged out of your mind. They're done playing your games."

He huffs, then leans forward and braces his forearms on the table between us. "My childhood was perfect. My parents doted on me as their only son, their only child at all. My mother almost died giving birth to me, and it ruined any chances of me having any siblings. My family is wealthy, and I didn't lack for anything. I was spoiled beyond your wildest dreams. My father taught me I was better than everyone else, and my mother taught me I could do no wrong. I went to private school with children from families who knew and respected mine. I was the leader of my pack of friends, and we terrorized anyone who got in our way. I went to the best college my parents could buy my way in to, and I studied business. Legal business, on the books and everything. Which worked out well when my father decided it was time for me to join the family business."

"The Death Eaters," I say, relieved I started the recording on my tablet before I entered the room. I put my hands under the table to hide the way they shake with anticipation. Now we're getting somewhere. "So they sent you to business school so you could be a productive member of anti-society."

Malfoy frowns, his mouth going flat at my words. "Despite what you think, my mother fought for me to stay out of my father's line of business, which is why she insisted I go to college. She didn't want that life for me, even though she knew it was too late for my father to get himself out. And she got her wish for a while, because Voldemort didn't have any interest in a young kid. I didn't have anything good to offer him, so I wasn't worth his energy. But when those agents in McGonagall's office started playing dirty, Voldemort started demanding more from his followers, and his temper got worse. My father had been in his good graces for a long time, but a few years ago things started to wrong. A deal my father was in charge of securing went off the rails, and we lost a lot of money and a lot of merchandise. A few peons even died when it went bad."

I remember Harry and Ron telling me about the big bust they did last summer. A few Death Eaters died, and they were able to arrest two and get them in for questioning. It was the first time they'd had any concrete evidence on the Malfoy family, even though they'd been on their tails for years. And it was the moment that they started to unravel the carefully woven cloth of the Death Eater's empire.

"Voldemort wasn't happy with him," Malfoy continues, "and things began to get rocky for us. Voldemort started to realize it was time to get some new blood in, that the next generation needed to be trained to keep up with the fresh feds. My father convinced me it was my duty to the family, and I was initiated in at night before my mother could know. She was furious, she screamed and yelled at us for hours the next day until she was sick."

He trails off a bit, his mind wandering to recall that day. I take a moment to absorb what he told me. It's not at all what I expected as far as his origin story with the Death Eaters. But he's verbally confirmed a few things we haven't been able to verify about the NCA officer's statements in court, and I feel victorious to know it's probably enough to keep me on his case.

"And how exactly did they initiate you in?" I ask, my voice breathy with exhilaration.

He chuckles darkly. "Envisioning me beaten to a pulp? Hardly. It's something much more horrible, and far more lasting. But I won't tell you that today."

Scowling, I lean over and press my fingertips to my forehead. It's enough, but I'm greedy. I want more now that he's opening up and given me a nugget of that golden information. I glance up, and I can tell he's well aware of my frustration at his sudden silence on the matter. But it is enough.

Just then, the door to our room swings open with a bang, revealing Dr. Lockhart followed by the dean. Lockhart looks victorious, and the dean looks concerned. Lockhart glances from me to the dean to Malfoy and back, a wild look in his eyes as a wide, charming, slimy grin covers his face.

"Ah, Miss Granger. You'll see, Rupert, it's just as I feared. This young lady is taking dangerous liberties with the patient. Guards posted outside instead of watching over them inside the room? It's a travesty. And it hasn't even produced the results she insisted it would. Clearly the board has made the right decision to remove her from his care. I can promise you I won't make the same mistake." His voice is clipped and entitled, and I want to punch that smile right off his face.

Horror washes over me as the implications of his words register. They mean to place Lockhart on Malfoy's care. He'll be dead in a week once Lockhart gets his hands on Malfoy and gets to call the shots of the treatments he receives. And while I'm sure the board and the dean would follow Lockhart's plans closely, I know they won't intervene. Not if they plan to use him as their last ditch effort to profit off of breaking open Malfoy's mind. After all, supposedly Lockhart's genius breakthroughs have led to some real money coming in the doors. Why stop him now?

"Actually, Doctors," Malfoy says, leaning back in his chair casually as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened. "I must admit, I've been feeling very comfortable with Doctor Granger lately. We've had a lovely chat today, and I would like her to stay on as my doctor."

Lockhart's face falls, his expression completely shattered as my heart jumps in my chest. He glances at the dean, who looks guardedly thrilled at Malfoy's words. He turns back to look at me, and I lift up my tablet to show it to him.

"It's true," I say. "I have recordings."

Lockhart eyes my tablet for a moment at if it's a venomous snake, then grabs the arm holding the tablet to pull me toward him. He places the other hand on my tablet, attempting to pull it from my grip. A gold ring with an intricate L is carved into it glints in the light of the room from its place on his index finger, and the pompousness of it makes me want to firmly slam my tablet into his perfect nose.

"Perhaps you should let me review the session, Miss Granger," he says firmly, still trying to remove the tablet from my hand.

I clamp down even harder on it with both hands now, and I grit my teeth in frustration. Malfoy has shot to his feet and is glaring at Lockhart with a murderous look that has me quaking in my shoes even though it's not directed at me.

But Lockhart doesn't notice, continuing, "I will sit with him as well, and see if perhaps we have any more luck between us men."

And I know immediately what he plans to do with the tablet he's so dedicated to removing from me. He's going to copy and then erase the recording from our session, and make it seem like Malfoy's confession was given to him instead of me. I absolutely cannot allow that to happen, for both Malfoy's sake and my own. I pull away from him sharply, dislodging my arm and tablet from his grip.

"It is Doctor Granger," I say with a snap, glaring at him. "And I'll thank you to no put your hands on me again."

The dean is glancing between the three of us nervously, paying extra attention to Malfoy's menacing stance. He reaches over and frantically pushes the button to signal the guards to enter. Lockhart sputters, but the dean puts his hand on Lockhart's shoulder. The dean shakes his head at Lockhart disapprovingly as the door behind him clicks with the release of a lock and bursts open with a bang. Two guards enter, looking about with their control guns drawn. Seeing Malfoy still shackled they visibly relax, shifting to a more defensive stance as they survey us with interest.

"Dr. Lockhart," the dean says firmly. "Dr. Granger's conduct is sound. The patient is restrained properly, although we do recommend guards are in the room. Considering Mr. Malfoy's preferences and her success with him today, the board will review their decision." He turns to me, his eyes hard as he looks from me to Malfoy. "Dr. Granger, you and Mr. Malfoy are done for today. Please come see me in my office before you go today. Guards, if I could have a moment-"

I blanch, not liking how ominous that sounds as I watch Lockhart, the dean, and the guards exit the room, leaving the door open behind them. I glance to Malfoy, who is still staring down Lockhart. If looks could kill, he would be a bloody pulp on the floor. And I have to fight the urge to reach across the table and pat Malfoy's still shackled hands reassuringly.

"It's fine, Mr. Malfoy," I say as the dean and Lockhart disappear from sight. "I'll see you at our session next week."

"I'll kill him," Malfoy spits, his voice all the more menacing with the grit of disuse. "He fucking grabbed you. I'll rip his hand right off his arm for it."

I hastily glance down, relieved to see the tablet's microphone is pressed into my stomach and hopefully muffled enough it didn't catch that last comment from him. I quickly press the button on the screen to end the recording, then look back into the eyes staring at me with a look I can't decipher.

"It's fine," I say again, more passionately than before. "Everything will be fine. Thank you for talking with me today."

He sighs as the guards come back into the room to secure his cuffs to a long chain from his wrists to his ankles, where another set of cuffs restrains his stride to jerky movements. "You better be here next week," he says, and the guards push him a bit too roughly toward the door. "Or there are going to be problems, Granger."

Normally someone would chalk his words up to fantasy, the empty promises of a man with an inflated sense of grandeur. But no, not Malfoy. When he makes promises, I don't doubt it for a moment. And I'm struck suddenly by the fact it reassures me rather than frightens me. I'm constantly surrounded by men who make empty promises in an attempt to sedate me. But not Malfoy. When he says something, I believe wholeheartedly that he means it, and will do everything in his power to make it happen.


.x.x.x.


I know that's a short one, darlings. Perhaps if I have time this weekend we'll see if I can get the next chapter up for you!

A huge thank you to those of you who have reviewed and supported this story so far. This story has been in the works for years, and this is so very near and dear to my heart. I didn't want to start posting it until I felt I had it right. My strongest hope is that all of you love my Draco and Hermione as much as I do.