"Right, no, Healer," Draco scrubbed a hand across bloodshot eyes and glared half-heartedly at his physician. "We're not. I'm not. He's not. End of story, alright? Don't ask me that again, because you'll always receive the same damn answer, okay? Okay, then. Now, what, exactly, do we do about this? It can't go on as it is; I've things to accomplish. I can't afford to be forever dragging about like a half-dead Thestral. And surely you've had other Wizards in the same position? Single fathers? Widowers? I simply can't accept we would need to reinvent not only the wheel but the whole entire carriage to work around this! That's purely absurd."

"Absurd, is it? Well, Mr Malfoy, you can begin by wearing what Mrs Malfoy has given you. That might be useful." Healer curled the corner of an upper lip at him, as Draco's eyes widened. "No need for any reinvention there. It's all been done for you already."

"Par—?" Draco swallowed hard. "You mean my mother—she?"

"Ahem, yes." Healer instantly took on a grave expression, well suited to the touch of silvery hair at his temples. "She has been in touch with me, Mr Malfoy, quite recently. Purely on a confidential basis, of course, but she is concerned. She wished to pass on certain information strictly for our purposes of care—to wit, that she'd invoked the ancient House of Black's Procreant Rune. And promptly given it over to you two, in the form of the original Black bracelets. In light of that, Mr Malfoy, I'd advise you and Mr Potter to don your runic jewelry as soon as may be, and that would be the sooner, the better. It would be most sensible course of action. Wouldn't you agree?"

"What?" Draco sat up, startled. Which was an effort, as he was quite wrung dry, lately. "Procreant? I thought those were just some old general protective ones she'd pulled from the vaults. Malfoy in provenance, maybe. You say they're House of Black?"

"Precisely so, Mr Malfoy," Healer nodded, sitting back behind his expansive desk. "Pictish silver, Goblin mined, and the garnets are cabochon cut." The cursory exam had concluded just as Draco had expected it would—pretty dire, cheers—and, as this time Draco had come alone, without Potter, and specifically to speak to Healer, he'd been given the full office treatment: ushered in and offered tea and biscuits, and finally a chance to gather his personal dignity about him and actually think like a real Slytherin instead of only reacting like a booby Gryff. "The inscription's some modified form of the Pryderian tongue, I should say. In an event, they're at least a thousand years old, perhaps a great deal more. And the Wizards of the House of Black have never been slouches, certainly not when it comes to their crafting talent, specially in runes and charms. I should think they'd be just the ticket at the moment, your pretty little bracelets. As the two of you boys," he leant forward to glare across a pile of file folders, "insist on being contrary."

"Yes, well," Draco growled sulkily. "It's not that we're contrary. It's that it's nonsensical to expect it. Us being married."

"And why is that, Mr Malfoy?" Healer jumped on Draco's statement like a starving Nundu on a fresh dik-dik carcasse. "Why is it both you and Mr Potter insist there's nothing between you but sex and this child? Has it always been this way? Do neither of you care for each other beyond that?"

"Oi!"

Draco opened his mouth immediately—to reply with what, though, he wasn't quite certain. 'Care', was it? Of course he cared; he wasn't one of those plonkers who fucked a bloke and bolted. Or rather—he was no longer one of those plonkers. Potter had changed that for him. Potter he could deal with, cope with, manage to connect with…mostly. Well, when Potter deigned to be present in Draco's world, the real one. And…even when he didn't quite, sometimes.

"…Mr Malfoy?" Healer murmured gently. "What say you?"

"…No," Draco allowed, eventually, his mind turning over what was fundamentally a very intrusive personal question. "No." Which he somehow couldn't summon the energy to be too much ticked off over, sadly. Which he probably should've been asking himself a rather long while before. But hadn't. "That's not it. Not really. It's not like that, either."

"Then what, Mr Malfoy? Speak to me, please. This is your health at stake here." Healer sat completely forward, both capable hands planted flat on his blotter. "This is an issue."

"You know, Healer?" Draco slumped back against the squabs of his chair. "I really hate that word—'issue'? I really, really dislike it. I abhor it, to be brutal. So? Could we please not refer to Potter's and my problems as 'issues', in the future? I'm finding it highly offen—"

Healer had clearly not been born yesterday, nor at night; he was in no way diverted by Draco's hopeful tangent. He narrowed his eyes behind his spectacle rims and persisted. But kindly.

"Mr Malfoy. Mr Malfoy, focus. Answer my question. Those bracelets your mother gave you are very well and good, but we've a root problem here that doesn't seem to have any hope of self-resolution. Tell me what's going on between you and Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, or there's no way I can possibly help you to the absolute best of my not inconsiderable ability. To be brutal, Mr Malfoy," he went on, dry as dust but with some force, "my professional time and expertise are very dear and it is you who is paying for it, whether your lovely mother writes the draughts out or no. Thus, it makes no sense for you not to employ your investment wisely, does it? Now—tell me, please. I need to the information. Facts, Mr Malfoy. There is no room for adolescent pride in a Healer's office. Nor subterfuge."

"Oh, Merlin," Draco sighed, resigned. "All right, then, sorry. I didn't mean—right. But…there's nothing 'going on', see? Not like you seem to be thinking there is. This isn't some bloody soap opera here; we're not some stupid star-crossed couple, either. And look here, I keep saying this, it feels like, over and over again till I'm blue, but it's not been like that, ever. Not between us. Potter and I hooked up solely because we knew each other from way back, and we found we were at loose ends, alright? There was…there was an attraction, okay? A quite strong sexual attraction, actually, and we happened to follow through on it. I'm not exactly a shabby looker, Healer, and he's fit for a scrawny little half-pint, alright? At least, I find him so—probably have had for a while now; I don't know. Whatever; he's a very nice figure on him and his eyes aren't so bad, either. But it's just that—it's nothing complicated. He's not too hard to wake up to in bed of a morning and I'm accustomed to him, is all. I know him, Potter."

"Hmm…so, you say you know him, Mr Malfoy?" Healer regarded Draco levelly. "Does that happen to mean also that you trust him?"

"Trust him—Harry?" Draco gave a startled yelp of a stifled laugh. "What? Well, certainly, Healer! Why wouldn't I? He's a sodding hero, isn't he? Hero of the Wizard World, last I looked. Er—is there some point to all this, because I've a schedule to ke—"

"Mr Malfoy, if you trust him, and you're attracted to him, and you have some inkling as to what his character is," Healer Zook ticked off these points by folding his fingers down, one by one. "Then why, may I ask, do you not seek commitment with him? Is it that Mr Potter is known for, er, ahem," the man looked briefly uncomfortable. "I mean to say, is he known for his infidelitous nature? Does he, as they say, sleep around?"

MacMillan.

Draco snapped his teeth in fury and leapt to his feet, all thoughts of exhaustion fled. He'd his wand trained on Zook's irritatingly artlessly enquiring face before he'd even realized he slipped it from its holster.

"No! No, he does not, alright? He may've tried it on once, but that was a one-off. And I put a stop to it, yeah? Never even happened! And—and, I cannot even fathom why this is any of your business, Healer Zook. It's not what I was looking for when I came here this morning and I really would appreciate it if you could keep your mind out of the sodding gutter and right on what it is I'm asking of you! I need some help—I need a solution. And I don't need you or anyone else forcing Harry into anything he doesn't choose! Hasn't he bloody done enough for us already—hasn't he? So lay off him—and me—and employ all that bloody expensive expertise of yours I'm paying for to keep me on my feet a little longer, will you? Because that's I need most right now. I need to be there and I can't do it, fuck my life, not as I am now, and why you ever had to bring that my attention I don't know; I was perfectly well, but you've gone and screwed me over, haven't you, and now you must—just—help—hah!"

Out of breath, abruptly, and seeing a wave of reddish-black encroaching his vision on all sides, Draco stumbled, nearly knocking over his chair. The tea cup he'd been holding had fallen and shattered long since; he'd not even noted it. His wand trembled in his grip; he tightened his fingers on it convulsively.

"—me!"

"Mr Malfoy! Mr Malfoy, calm yourself!" Healer Zook was by his side, grabbing at his elbow and upper arm and easing him down onto the still-wobbly chair in an instant. "Calm yourself. Deep breaths now, in and out. In and out. Head down, there. Between your knees, Mr Malfoy—there's a good man. Breathe—just so, just like that. Good chap—that's it. Let's put that wand of yours away, too, shall we? Good chap—"

"No! I can't—this isn't—" Draco squawked harshly, his own voice a reedy cut-up mockery of itself, even to his own ears. "Don't—don't tell—Harry…abo—" Which were pressed flat as he clenched his kneecaps together, in a futile attempt at smashing the intense buzz in his head straight out of existence. "Why can't—why can't—you just—help me? Why?"

"Ah! No, no fainting, please! Mr Malfoy—oh! Do belt up—er! Oh—Harold? Harold!"

Draco had detected a click, a faint one. Far away and off to the side. As if a door had opened, discreetly.

"Oh—brilliant. Harold, darling, a hand here, will y—"