Chapter 10—The Worst Reason For Covering His Scar Ever

Harry ate breakfast with one eye on Draco. He was sure that today, the third day of their bargain, was going to contain something of spectacular awfulness. Yesterday after the picnic had been spent flying, with Draco even joining him in an impromptu Quidditch game (which Harry had won, of course). It had been a day that Harry could almost have imagined sharing with a friend.

Save for the moment when they got off their brooms at sunset, and Draco had pulled Harry close and just stood there with him, his back to Harry's chest, one arm curled around him, forcing him to feel the hardness of another man's muscles and the insistent pressure of a male body. He hadn't said anything, nor removed Harry's nerve-deadening charm again. He'd just stood there, and made the moment so intimate that Harry hadn't felt able to interrupt, either.

Harry had reminded himself seventy-five times last evening that he was not gay. And so far this morning had been even more normal, with Draco dividing his attention between him and the Daily Prophet and Harry's self-reminders declining. This meant, so far as Harry was concerned, that the awfulness would begin at any moment.

When it did, he didn't recognize it at first. Draco aimed his wand at him and muttered something under his breath, so casual that only the length of the incantation gave it away as a complicated spell.

Harry cried out as his vision blurred. He heard Draco snort. "Honestly, Harry. You still think I'm going to hurt you in any way that's not entirely consensual?" he said.

"I find it strange that you think I would enjoy pain," said Harry, and removed his glasses, since he assumed Draco had cast a fogging charm on them. "Even if I did, I would be exploring it with a woman, not—"

And then he stopped, when he realized that he could see perfectly well without the glasses. In fact, he could see better than he ever had in his life. His vision sparkled, and the air around him was as bright and clear as if it had never been disturbed. He stared, taking in details from the color of the far wall to the inlay on the table.

Draco snared his attention by leaning forward and capturing his chin between thumb and forefinger. Harry stared at him, and let himself be stared at. He had never realized there was that much to see in a human face.

"Beautiful," Draco said softly. "You should have corrected your vision a long time ago, Harry. Your eyes shine without those glasses." His thumb slowly moved over Harry's cheek, as if he would urge his lips into a smile.

Harry pulled away, blushing and wincing both at once. "Stop saying things like that, Malfoy."

"Why?" Draco said, and his voice still had that same softness. Harry was sure that the awful part of the day was in full motion now. "Does it embarrass you to hear that you're beautiful, Harry? Just because no one's noticed it the past few years doesn't mean you're ugly. You were working very hard to keep them from noticing." He reached out and managed to stroke Harry's hair before he moved far enough away to make that impossible, too. "Or do you not like hearing it because compliments are part of that life you tried so hard to leave behind, the life where you lived like a normal person?"

"This—this isn't normal," Harry argued. "To suddenly have your vision corrected and then be paid compliments by your schoolboy rival."

"We're not schoolboys now, Harry."

Damn it, how does he keep turning ridiculously safe comments into innuendo? Harry gave a shudder and shook his head. It's probably my problem. His voice just affects me too much. But I am not gay. I know that.

"Why correct my vision now?" he demanded. "Why not the moment you captured me?"

"I would have liked to," Draco said, "but it wasn't urgent." He pointed his wand again, and Harry went for his own, but he wasn't fast enough to counter Draco's spell, which caused an odd tingling coolness in the middle of his forehead. "There," Draco pronounced. "And now your scar is covered, too. Your scar and glasses were practically iconic, Harry, you know. I don't think most people know what you look like without them, especially after eleven years. You can meet Theresa and she won't have any idea who you are."

"I thought you said all your friends I'd meet did know who I was," Harry said, backing up and keeping his wand in between them.

"Oh, Theresa isn't a friend, as such," said Draco, giving him a faint smile. "She's a Healer with St. Mungo's, who's done some private work for the Malfoy family in the past."

Harry frowned. "I really don't think anything is wrong with me, Malfoy, given the way I flew yesterday—"

"Draco, Harry. And no, I didn't suggest anything was wrong with you physically." Draco cocked his head as if waiting for Harry to make an obvious connection, but Harry just stared at him, befuddled. Draco sighed. "Theresa is a therapist, Harry. Specifically, she has experience with survivor's guilt and emotional repression, depression—"

"No," Harry snarled. He didn't care if his magic did rattle the door in its frame. He was not sitting down to some session with an interfering Healer. He'd mostly fooled them after he killed Voldemort, making them think he didn't need any help, and still there had been a few persistent ones who had asked him again and again if he wanted to talk, until he perfected his act. Someone coming in forewarned about that—"No," he said again.

Draco shrugged. "Then I'll keep you here indefinitely, Harry. Since you're breaking your side of the bargain already, calling me by my last name, and I want you very badly, it'll be no trouble to have you in Malfoy Manor until you can't imagine leaving."

Harry felt a spark of panic. Even worse than the thought of facing a Healer was the thought of losing the battle with Malfoy, and just giving in to the "lessons" he proposed, as if they were normal.

"You said that you would give this a chance," Draco said quietly. "All she knows is that your name is Harry, and that you lost your whole family in a Death Eater raid eleven years ago and have repressed it since. That's all."

"I didn't repress it," Harry said, glaring at Draco through his fringe. "I was living."

Draco didn't bother justifying that with an answer, simply arched an eyebrow.

Harry closed his eyes. "Won't she drag the truth out of me?" he asked, in what he knew was a last attempt to protest this.

"Even if she does," said Draco, "the room you're going to meet her in is bespelled. She won't be able to talk to anyone outside the Manor walls about what happens here." He must have come closer while Harry was brooding, because suddenly his hand was on Harry's shoulder, and then he slid down beside him and gathered him in a loose embrace. "Please," he whispered, his breath warm on Harry's ear. "I'm only doing this because I didn't think you would talk to me about them. Otherwise, I would have kept it private. I want it private as much as you do, Harry. I want to be the one you tell your pain to and relax around. But I can't do that, and I have to help you. So please talk to her."

Harry took several deep, steadying breaths. The presence of a warm body at his back helped, especially when he made himself think of it as a body and not Draco. And he had to remember that no one could make him be cooperative. Be prickly and surly with the therapist, make her run away screaming the way he'd essentially done with Narcissa Malfoy, and Draco couldn't even blame him.

"All right," he said.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Harry met Theresa in a far-too-pale room in the center of Malfoy Manor, or so Harry assumed from the number of halls and chambers they crossed through to get there. Harry glared at the cool blue walls. He would have preferred red or gold.

Then he realized that those would have roused memories of Gryffindor Tower, and dragged the people associated with that place to the surface of his mind, and he was just as grateful for the bland room.

It had a large enchanted window off to the side that looked onto an impossible view of the Malfoy gardens, and through which Harry knew Draco would be watching; from the other side, it actually opened into this room. The only furniture was a pair of white chairs, set in the center and looking extraordinarily comfortable. Harry prowled back and forth behind one, unwilling to sit down until the Healer entered.

She came in through the far door, giving him a nod as though they'd met before, which of course they hadn't. Harry bristled, then told himself that his task here was to be charming and absolutely maddening at the same time. He forced out a bright, chirpy smile, and said, "Theresa?"

"Yes." She smiled at him. She was probably a generation older than he was, showing her age more than Mrs. Malfoy, and her brown hair was curly and worn to her shoulders. She had pale, pleasant blue eyes that Harry wouldn't have looked at twice if he'd met her in Diagon Alley, never guessing that behind them hid the cunning mind of an enemy. Her robes were pale, but shapeless, without the St. Mungo's emblem. Harry wanted to kick himself for feeling grateful for that.

"Harry." He crossed the room to take her hand, drawing on lessons he'd learned when he couldn't tell a witness he was an Auror. Project an air of confidence. Show that you're comfortable here and expect them to feel the same way. Maintain eye contact gently, naturally.

Theresa shook his hand, and then nodded to the chairs. "Should we sit down, Harry, and begin?"

Harry shrugged carelessly, and crossed over to the chair he'd been walking behind before. "If you wish, Theresa. I'm afraid you've been summoned for nothing, however. I don't carry survivor's guilt. I'm sorry to waste your time." He collapsed into his chair as if boneless and arched an eyebrow at her.

"Oh, dear," said Theresa, and arranged her robes comfortably. "Well, in that case I would enjoy a spot of tea and conversation before I go back to St. Mungo's, Harry. Would you care to provide the tea? I assume that you'd know the Malfoy Manor house-elves better than I do, since you are a guest here."

Harry barely kept himself from staring. She probably expected him to fall into the casual game and trust her because of her acting. Well, he wouldn't.

"Of course," he said, and cleared his throat. "Trippy!"

The house-elf appeared with a tray of scones and two cups of tea before he finished speaking her name. Harry blinked and accepted his own cup, eyeing Theresa over the lip of it as he sipped.

"Mr. Malfoy rarely makes a mistake quite this big," the Healer said, when she'd eaten part of a scone and closed her eyes in satisfaction over the tea several times. "Could you tell me what made him think you had survivor's guilt?"

With an effort, Harry kept his muscles from tensing, and rolled his eyes. "My family did die in a Death Eater raid. That much is true. And Draco just doesn't think I'm mourning them in the right way."

Theresa's face softened. "Well, I have been prey to the unrealistic expectations of friends myself," she said. "How often do you visit their graves, Harry?"

Well, now you have to lie. You can do that, though. Of course you can. Harry ignored the uneasy feeling in the center of his chest, that he was disgracing the Weasleys, Hermione, Remus, and Fleur by doing so, and shrugged. "Every month. He thinks I should go every week or so."

"And you've formed new friendships, of course? New interests?" Theresa gave him a teasing smile. "A girlfriend, perhaps? I know that a lot of the young people were in a hurry to settle down and have children after the war, but you look like someone who likes his freedom."

"I do," said Harry, relieved that the conversation was turning in this direction. "I'm not in a hurry to rush into a family. I mostly enjoy helping others." There. I can tell her part of the truth and still make her think I'm perfectly recovered. "I'm an Auror, actually, and the best part of the job is being able to tell people that they're safe now, or that at least the murderer of their loved one has been brought to justice."

Theresa nodded. "I'm sure that your parents would be proud of you, Harry."

Harry had to look away. "I like to think so," he said earnestly. "They—they knew the meaning of sacrifice." With an effort, he kept his hand from rising to rub his forehead.

"And is being an Auror a sacrifice, then, Harry?" Theresa murmured.

Harry snapped his head up, his eyes narrowing. How did I let myself forget she was an enemy? Pleasant words and an interest in me don't mean she actually cares. She's here to root out my secrets, a ferret set on me by a ferret, and I'm here to keep that from happening. I don't need therapy. I just have to prove that.

"Of course not," he said. "But my parents died during the war." Not a lie, technically. "They knew their lives were in danger." Not a lie, either. "They knew the meaning of sacrifice."

"I'm still not sure how," Theresa murmured, her brow furrowing. "Were they Aurors, too, Harry?"

Harry relaxed. "Yes. Or, at least, my father was," he had to add. He still didn't know that much about his mother.

"What did your mother do?"

Harry winced. Died protecting me, and insured I survived the Killing Curse, and really earned all the praise that people give me. "Well, she was an Auror's wife, of course. That meant she knew he might not come back someday. But she loved him anyway, and me. I think she would have been proud of me, if that's what you're leading back to."

"Your siblings?"

"I had seven," Harry whispered. Technically, counting Hermione, whom he had loved like a sister, Ron, and his brothers, and not Ginny—his love for her had been different—that was true. But he could tell by the shocked look on Theresa's face that he might have done better to lie about the number.

I don't want to lie about them, though. That's the thing. It felt too hot in the room. But that probably came from drinking too much tea, Harry told himself. He set his cup firmly aside.

"Harry," Theresa said, when she'd recovered her voice. "That is a major loss. I can see why Mr. Malfoy thinks that you have survivor's guilt. That is too many different relationships to lose all at once without damage." Her voice was soft with compassion.

Harry stirred restlessly. "I didn't—I mean, some of them were older than I was. I didn't know them all as well as I would have liked."

"But they were your siblings."

Harry looked away. "I did lie," he said tightly. "I was an only child."

"Then why lie and tell me you had seven siblings?" Theresa sounded honestly bewildered now. "That's a very specific number." She paused. "Were they friends you considered family instead? Did you lose that many, along with your parents, in a raid? I can see why Mr. Malfoy is worried, Harry. That's a large portion of your world to have destroyed all at once, and he did tell me that you'd never been a patient at St. Mungo's for therapy before. Did anyone talk to you about this?"

Harry closed his eyes and gave in to the old impulse, bringing his hand to his scar. "I'm not—I don't want to do this, Theresa," he said.

She sighed. "I could tell you were lying to me, Harry," she said. "We're taught to watch for that. The way your eyes continually went off to the right and up indicated that you had to make up a story, and it wasn't one that sounded practiced, either. I am tempted to think that Mr. Malfoy's suspicions were correct, unless you can convince me otherwise."

"What does it matter?" Harry was afraid that his plans were falling in ruins around him, but suddenly nothing was so important as the Healer's answer to this question. He flared his eyes open and dropped his hand from his forehead so that he could look at her directly. "You don't—it was eleven years ago. I've survived it and gone on. It doesn't matter to anyone but me."

"You're wrong, Harry," said Theresa. "It matters to me. And it matters to Mr. Malfoy. I know that much."

Harry clenched his hands. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. "I don't ever want to talk about it."

But if he didn't, then Draco practically had license to keep him here indefinitely. That would keep him away from his job and the one thing that made his life worthwhile.

But he couldn't say anything about it. It was buried. He was the only one alive now who'd known all of them. Hermione's parents had grieved, but they had done their grieving in private and far from him, since, after all, he was the one who'd been the cause of it. Fleur's parents must have grieved, though Harry had never known them. And they had surely lived their own lives since, the way Harry had done.

It wasn't—

He couldn't tear this open.

And he couldn't let Draco keep him here, either.

"Harry?" Theresa's hand was on his arm.

Harry moved quickly, falling into instincts he'd learned during Auror training, and, before that, practiced and honed in the war. In a moment, he had his wand in hand, and he'd cast a Body-Bind on Theresa. Then he wheeled towards the window beyond which Draco was watching, closed his eyes, and cast the spell in that direction, too, imagining it holding him still with all the force of his will. If his mouth was held shut, Draco couldn't call the house-elves.

Harry ran for the door Theresa had come in by and yanked it open, then held his wand out on his palm. "Point Me Auror Wormwood," he snapped. He could be sure his partner wasn't in Malfoy Manor, and that meant he should be able to find his way out of this maze by locating him.

The wand spun twice, then pointed to the left down the hall. Harry turned grimly in that direction.

He was going to escape. Draco couldn't force him into this twisted parody of a prison if Harry didn't let him. He should never have let it get this far in the first place.

He was going to escape.