WARNING WARNING WARNING

Possible triggers in this one. Mentions of sexual assault mid-way through, and a touch of violence in the end. Absolutely nothing graphic at all, but here is your warning now!

Breaking Heaven

Chapter 10

June 25th

Session 12

Dean Clemens is firm when we talk in his office at the end of the day. The board agrees to keep me on Malfoy's care, but with restrictions. I have to meet with the dean every other week to update him on my progress, and he will review my notes and discuss any proposed treatments. I demand that Lockhart be barred from Malfoy's care based on the ECT incident and his unprofessional behavior when they interrupted our session in exchange for me not filing a formal complaint for the assault. Especially considering Malfoy's statements may contain highly sensitive information about the Death Eaters that don't need to be drunkenly shared at the bar Lockhart frequents, I assert he doesn't have the grace to handle such information well. Dean Clemens begrudgingly agrees, and I walk out irritated but at least reassured my patient is safe from the hands of a legitimate lunatic for now.

Our next sessions are uneventful over the next five weeks, and we're suddenly already almost halfway through the initial six months I promised Malfoy I would stay on his case. We review statements he's given in the past about his background, which he retracts almost entirely. Many of them are elaborate stories painting pictures of a man suffering different psychological disorders, leading his doctors down paths to diagnoses and treatments that are of no help to his actual state of mind. If it wasn't obvious before, it's clear now Malfoy is a very intelligent man, and also well acquainted with the concepts of many serious illnesses.

At one point he had a doctor convinced he had Todd's syndrome, which lead to a prescription of anticonvulsants and antidepressants which Malfoy was able to successfully trick the staff into believing he'd taken. The next doctor diagnosed him with PTSD and schizophrenia, which wasn't helped by antidepressants and antipsychotics much to the doctor's dismay. He'd made a rather big show when he thought he'd solved the big Malfoy mystery, and he was made out to be a fool when his treatments didn't 'work'. And while Malfoy, and now myself, know this wasn't the illness he suffered, he was thrilled to see his doctor sweating it out. Then things took a turn for the worst when his doctor became desperate to show the others he could treat and subdue Malfoy. This led to Malfoy's first and very inappropriate introduction to ECT, after which he experienced a period of aggression that resulted in two guards being sent to the hospital. Things began to spiral downward from there.

The most recent diagnosis from the doctor before myself was bipolar disorder with intense manic episodes, which in all likelihood was caused by the repeated ECTs they'd continued to administer combined with the low blood sugar from his restricted meals. Malfoy thought he had all of his deceptions under control until the ECT started, and then he couldn't ever get a grasp on things again. He hadn't counted on a doctor being that stupid, or any other doctor after to follow suite. I point out what a dangerous path he was walking, which he brushes off with a scowl. Once we get the file to a blank state, the interesting conversations begin to happen.

He doesn't reveal much, most of his statements are bland and useless. He tests me sometimes, saying things I quickly realize are verging on lies. He denies it, but I can tell when he's skating the line. But he does make sure to give away at least one nugget of insightful information each time to ensure the board doesn't revoke my care. It's never enough to really get us anywhere, but it's enough to hold the status quo for now.

It's during one of these sessions, when he's skating around the topic easily and driving me crazy, that he asks me a question that throws me off guard entirely.

"Are you ever going to tell me what it was that fucked you up when you were younger? The person who made you want to be a psychiatrist?" He says is quickly, with a bite to his tone that tells me he's irritated with me. I've been pestering him tonight, pushing for more, and it's led to a few more disagreements than usual.

I'm startled, and it takes effort not to let my jaw fall in reaction to his bluntness. "I'm sorry?"

He huffs, then says, "All those weeks ago, when you talked about why you chose psychiatry. Are you ever going to tell me who it was?"

I consider his question, my heart suddenly picking up its pace in my chest. It's not a story I've told many people, because it's a story I'm ashamed of. Ron and Harry were shocked when I told them in college after one too many drinks and a conversation that veered off course spectacularly. But looking at Malfoy across from a metal table that his hands are yet again shackled to, I feel a sense of security that surprises me. His stare is intense, as if he's willing me to tell him. And like magic, I suddenly want to. Because I know this is a dark part of me that he can understand, because it sheds light on a sense of violence I don't want to acknowledge I have. And the rational part of my brain hopes that by self disclosing such a monumental piece of my past, I'll gain a little more ground with him.

"It was my step-dad," I say, rolling my eyes. "How clique, right? My dad died when I was ten, and he was the love of my mom's life. She remarried an idiot, she was so desperate to not be alone. He was a retired cop and a real creep, always making lewd comments about my changing body and my 'cute' friends. My mom brushed it off as him being playful, but I always begged not to be alone with him. He scared me sometimes, the way he would stare at me.

"By the time I was 12 it progressed from little touches to full on sexual assault. One time he got sloppy, and my mom found us. He'd always kept a knife with him to make sure I behaved myself and remembered to keep my mouth shut when things were done. When he went for it when she walked in I knew he was going to go after my mom to make sure she stayed quiet too. I got my hand on it first, and stabbed him in the neck. My mom grabbed me and got us out, then called the cops. We met them in the lobby, and by the time we all got back up there he was dead. Bled out like a stuck pig in the middle of my bedroom floor."

Malfoys eyes grow darker and darker with each word that leaves my mouth, until his eyes are black orbs of fury. A gnarled fist of dread grabs my by the throat, but I somehow manage to keep going. It's like a dam is broken, and the words won't stop now that they've started.

"It was...a long ordeal after that. A few of his buddies were still working on the force, and they refused to believe my story. They had a medical professional come to their offices to examine me, thinking they'd find out I was lying when there was no evidence and they could charge me with second-degree murder. He'd...had his way earlier that day before the incident where my mom found us, so there was no way to doubt what happened. I wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when that female doctor told them the truth. There were also the usual signs of force having been used...multiple times.

"Eventually, they determined it was a justifiable homicide. We lived in America at the time. Once everything was over, my mom couldn't stand to live in the same house, or even walk the same streets we used to. So my mom moved us here to live with family after the trial was done."

The ease with which the words come tumbling out is disarming. While telling Harry and Ron felt shameful, telling Malfoy feels therapeutic. Harry and Ron always strive for what's right, and I'm proud to think the three of us help stand between good and evil. But there's always been a part of me that feels...separate from them in some way. Other. Like I'm one step away from disappointing them. But with Malfoy…well, I know he's done just the same, if not worse.

"My mom stuck me in therapy for a long time once we were here, which was useless. I stopped going when I turned sixteen. It never felt like the people who talked to me could help me process what happened. And I don't just mean the abuse, that was something that was easy for them to address. But that dark, sick part of me that wanted to kill him for what he did to me. How...happy I was when I shoved that knife into his skin, the relief I felt when I saw his blood come pouring out. The part of me that enjoyed hurting him so much. Nothing they ever said made sense to me, or helped me understand why I felt that way. By the time I quit therapy I was on an anxiety medication just so I could sleep at night. That's why I went into the field of work I did. Because if no one was going to help me, I was going to help myself."

Malfoy's face is white, his hands clenching the edge of the table with knuckles even paler than his face. His eyes are narrowed, but his breathing is even as he stares me down. The room is silent for a moment, until he says, "That's fucking bullshit, Granger."

"Indeed," I say, nodding. "That's what made me want to go into psychiatry and behavior analysis. I wanted to understand why people do the things they do, and maybe stop it from happening to someone else. I dove into understanding why criminals make the decisions they do, from robbery to rape to murder. To understand how someone can have so little regard for other people's lives. And...to understand my own reaction to what happened. My desire to snuff out his life, it was frightening. And I still haven't found a way to accept it."

Malfoy doesn't say anything, just stares at the cuffs at his wrists intensely. It feels heavy in the room, like my words have given weight to the air around us. I force myself not to shrink into myself with embarrassment, but instead I keep my posture straight and my eyes set ahead, watching him.

"How many people have you told this to?" he asks softly, keeping his eyes trained in his hands.

"Not many," I admit. "Only the people I've had to, or the people I trust. My two best friends, and my boyfriend, and of course the appropriate people here at Brockington know. Even if they let me off for what happened, I still have a record."

"Do I fall in to the category of people you had to tell, or the people you trust?"

His eyes finally flash to mine, hard and soft in the same moment. He's studying me again, like he always does. It used to unnerve me, but I've grown used to it over these last few weeks. It's like an indicator of how invested he is in the conversation. If he wants to hear and understand what you're saying, he'll burn a hole through you with how closely he watches you.

"Both, I suppose," I say with a shrug.

He's quiet again for a beat, then states almost accusingly, "You've never mentioned a boyfriend."

He catches me off guard with this, for both the tone and the words. "It's never come up."

"I asked you about a boyfriend. The first day."

"And I never gave you an answer. I'm not typically in the habit of self-disclosing with patients, Mr. Malfoy. Today was a special treat."

He ignores the slightly teasing tone in my voice, his response bitter. "What does he do?"

He asks this like it's a demand, and I'm still so startled I answered him.

"He works for the National Crime Agency," I say dumbly, blinking a few times in surprise. "With our best friend, it's how I got started here and consulting with the NCA."

Malfoy's eyes narrow. "He's a fed."

Shit. That was most definitely not something I should have told him, even though Ron and Harry haven't done undercover work for years. My brain is in sharing mode, something I need to immediately switch off before any other information leaks out of me.

I'm still formulating a response when the door behind me beeps, signaling the entrance of the guards and the end of our session. Malfoy stands without a word, and accepts the change of restraint passively. He usually makes some crude remark to the guards, but he's suddenly very quiet. I'm still reeling from the conversation and relieved it's over, but he throws a parting statement over his shoulder as he goes.

"Doctor," he says, his voice calm and detached. "I've been working on a gift for you. I suddenly think you're going to appreciate it more than I originally thought."

His words send ice down my spine, and I don't have time to ask him for some clarification before he's out the door.

The rest of the day is hell. Lockhart called in sick for the fifth day in a row, still licking his wounds after a bad meeting with the board earlier this week. As a result, I've been handling his patients and paperwork for the week. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but I find myself fixing his mistakes at every turn. Several patients needed their medication dosages altered, some even needing entirely different medications than what Lockhart had prescribed. I've sent an email to Lockhart detailing the changes and reasons for them, carbon copying Dean Clemens on each note of communication. Part of me expects a snapping reply from Lockhart as he tends to watch his emails even when he's out of the office, but nothing comes.

I'm relieved when I finally walk in the door of my quiet little flat, a bottle of my favorite Pinot Gris tucked under my arm and my favorite chinese take-out in a brown paper bag under the other. And as much as I love Ron, a part of me is thrilled to know he's working late tonight again and won't be by. He uses it as an excuse to push the cohabitating subject again, but I push him off as usual. I adore having my own space, and I'm content with the way our relationship is now, when I still have so much of myself to still explore and come to terms with before I live with another human ever again.

Crookshanks is practically screaming at me as I enter, despite the fact I know Ron stopped by to feed him before heading back to the office tonight. Ron always overfills his bowl in an effort to end his yowling, and I can tell it's been eaten based on the crumbs around the bowl that weren't there this morning. Yet, Crookshanks still acts as though he's been starved for days. The damn cat circles my ankles so tightly I almost fall flat on my face, which spikes my already inflamed sense of irritation.

"Goddamnit, Crookshanks," I yell, throwing down the bag and bottle on the counter hard enough for the sound to send the cat spinning and spitting away angrily. "You're not dying!"

As I set the items down I suddenly realize there's another package sitting on the counter already. It's wrapped with silver paper, with a green ribbon wrapped around it and tied over a small red stemmed rose. Next to it is a note from Ron. I expect a cute little message from him explaining the surprise, but I find that's not the case when I read what is written there.

Found this waiting in front of your door. Should I be worried about a secret admirer? Only joking. I know it's just your girly chocolates you love to order. Enjoy, love.

I don't recall ordering my special gourmet chocolates recently, although Ron is right that it's a weakness of mine with that cute new shop in town. I'm hoping maybe Ginny ordered me a little treat after I'd told her about my irritation with Lockhart over lunch this afternoon. Or perhaps it's a misdelivery and something inside will tell me where it belongs.

Oh god. Please don't let it be from Viktor.

But then, an even more terrifying thought strikes me.

Malfoy mentioned a gift….

With shaking hands, I slide the ribbon off the edges of the box. I bring the rose to my nose, inhaling deeply as I consider whether or not I should call the cops before opening it. But I really don't think Malfoy would kill me, or really let any form of harm come to me intentionally. We've developed an understanding over the last few weeks, a mutual respect if nothing else.

So I brace myself, then pull up the lid of the silver wrapped box.

Inside is a nest of white rose petals, sending up waves of perfume as a few flutter from within the box with the movement of the lid. They're beautiful, but something pale pink is ruining their perfect white near the center of the space. Using the stem of the red rose, I coax away the rose petals to reveal something that makes me instantly drop the rose and press my hands over my mouth.

Nestled inside the bed of rose petals is a severed hand. It's nearly the same color as the roses around it with just the barest hint of pink left in the skin, and it's clear someone took very special care to make a clean cut at the wrist joint. The incision is smooth, and the skin is clean without bruising and the blood has been drained away. Whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.

And then, I see it. Glistening on the middle finger is a gold ring, with a familiar, pretentious L carved into it. Lockhart. This is the hand that grabbed my arm all those weeks ago, the hand that had left a bruise there in its wake. Malfoy had stared so hard at that bruise when I had to pull off my white coat during one of our sessions last week when the air conditioning malfunctioned.

The gift Malfoy had promised me is not just a gift. It's a trophy. A horrible, wonderful thing that shows exactly how offended he was by that altercation. The behavior analyst in me takes this in, this look into how Malfoy views justice, how he feels wrongs should be righted. And eye for an eye. Or a hand for a hand, as it were. And for whatever reason, he had deemed me worthy of such an effort. Which is perhaps the most terrifying thing of all.

No. What's even more terrifying is the fact is sends a shiver of pleasure and a thrill shooting up my spine. It's suddenly clear I may be very, very in over my head with this man.

.x.x.x.

You have my most extreme apologies for the delay in this chapter getting to you. We had a crazy week here in my life, so I didn't get a moment to edit and post this chapter.

Hermione and Draco reunite next chapter! Let me know what you think of how things are going so far!