"It's stress," the Healer says.

Harry is sitting in one of the beds in the room reserved for Aurors at St Mungos. Ron is sitting on the stool in the corner, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loosely between his legs. Healer Stern is standing by the foot of the bed, looking at Harry over her reading glasses.

"You've got to take better care of yourself, Auror Potter," she says, and even though she is barely over 30, she has already mastered the Deep Disapproval that Madam Pomfrey would wield on students to keep them in bed. "I've lost count of how many times I've patched you up by now - I've got other things to do, you know? One of these days you'll fall and hit your head on something sharp and we Healers can cure most things but when the brain is leaking out of your skull it's generally too late."

Ron snorts in the corner and she shoots him a sharp side-look. "This applies to you too, Auror Weasley. Didn't you get a daughter recently? You should be more careful now that you're a father."

"Yes, Healer Stern," Ron says, chastened.

She nods, once, and turns her gaze back on Harry. "How often have you been taking the pain relieving potion I prescribed you, Auror Potter?"

"Twice a day, like you said."

"I said twice a day at the most. How long have you been taking the maximum dose?"

"Since you prescribed it to me."

"Every day?" When he nods, she breathes out a harsh breath through the nose. "As I told you when I gave you the prescription, this potion is not a long term solution. It is meant as a remedy to be used sparingly. If you use it too often you'll build a tolerance against it and the potion will lose its potency!"

"That's… probably too late…"

Throwing her head back, Healer Stern presses her lips together and stares up into the ceiling as if searching for the willpower to not curse him.

"Then I'm afraid there's not much I can do to help you, Auror Potter," she says and looks down at him again. "I can't let you take more because the amount of accumulated potion in your body could reach toxic levels. What I should do is put you on sick leave for at least two weeks so that your stress levels go down and you catch up on sleep, but I suspect I'd have to tie you to the bed to get you to rest during a case?"

"Yes."

She sighs but nods. "I'll write to Head Auror Robarts that you are to be put on leave as soon as the case is over. You need to get your sleeping habits in order and start taking care of yourself, Auror Potter."

"Thank you, Healer Stern. You don't think you could give me just one more…?"

"Finish that sentence and I will tie you to the bed," she snaps, then nods to Ron before marching out of the room, muttering to herself about "idiot Aurors" and "who do they think will catch criminals when they've all worked themselves to death?".

Harry collapses back against the pillows with a sigh, reaching a hand up to rub his temple.

"You okay, mate?"

"Yeah." Harry quirks a smile at Ron as his friend gets up from the stool and comes over. "Thanks for saving me from the reporter mob."

"Bloody reporters, I wish I could just hex them into next week."

"I'd join you, partner," Harry says, then sits back up again. "Ron, about the article-"'

"I know. It's that reporter making stuff up, isn't it? I'd bet the guy has Rita Skeeter as his role model or something." Ron tries for a smile, but it fades quickly. "I flooed Ginny while you were out."

"How is she?"

"Angry. You know Ginny. I tried to tell her that it's all bullshit and I think I got through to her, but… she doesn't want to talk with you for a while."

With a deep sigh, Harry scrubs his hands over his face, then lets his hands fall into his lap. "I did run into Mrs Zabini," he says without looking at Ron. "Twice. She offered to help me with the headaches."

"That's... Do you trust her? I mean, you know her reputation, Harry…"

"I know, but you heard Healer Stern. I've got a few more doses of the potion laying around, but I'm not getting any more. If Zabini can help me, I've got to give it a shot if it can help me stay on my feet. Merlin knows I've been useless to the investigation the past few days."

"Don't worry about it," Ron says, clapping him on the shoulder. "I found a letter when I went back to talk with the rest of the family, so we've got a lead now."

"Yeah, I saw the photo."

Ron nods. "Savage is looking into it, she's at the Prophet's archives to see if there are any scandals or rumors about Hawkworth. You just concentrate on getting better, but… Be careful with Zabini, okay?"

"I will."

"Mr Potter," Mrs Zabini greets him when she opens the door. "Welcome. I didn't expect you to contact me so soon, especially not after that… unfortunate article."

"Yeah, well, I didn't expect you to invite me to your home," Harry answers, scratching his neck as he takes in the soft carpeting, warm wood and mild light shining from little floating orbs spread about the space.

It is not what Harry expected. During his trainee years, he had to go through countless cases while helping in the archives and though the cases had been written off in the end, there were still files for the deaths of Mrs Zabini's husbands. It gave Harry a pretty good idea of how big the Zabini wealth must be, but this two-story home on a winding residential street seems modest in comparison to the Malfoy-worthy manor he had imagined Mrs Zabini to be living in.

"I thought meeting in private would be preferable considering the current attention from the media. Was I mistaken?" Mrs Zabini asks, closing the door behind him.

"No, I… I guess you're right about that."

Mrs Zabini gives him a pleased smile and leads the way into a sitting room with a tall but narrow fireplace. A pair of french doors lead out to a sloping garden with extravagant peonies and compact bushes trimmed to large balls.

"Red charm."

"What?" Harry turns away from the view and Mrs Zabini nods towards the garden.

"The peonies. They're called Red Charm." She takes a seat on a couch with thick cushions and pats the spot next to her. "Make yourself comfortable, Mr Potter."

Shrugging his outer robe off, Harry sits down on the padded bench across from her, his back against the fireplace. She raises a brow, clearly taking note of the distance he's put between them, but smiles and crosses her legs as she leans back.

"Tell me what's troubling you, Mr Potter."

"I need to do something about the headaches," Harry says. "You said you could help."

"I did, and the offer still stands. Are the potions not working anymore?"

Harry grimaces and shakes his head. "The Healer said I've taken too much already."

"I see. I take it you also have trouble sleeping?"

"How would you know that?"

"It doesn't take an Auror to figure out what those circles under your eyes mean, Mr Potter."

Harry ducks his head and rubs his hands over his face.

"We need to find a way for you to relax," Mrs Zabini says. "And I believe we can do that by taking away your responsibilities."

"No." Harry snaps his head up and stares at her. "I'm not abandoning the case."

Ms Zabini levels him with a thoroughly unimpressed look. "I know, Mr Potter. What I hope to do is create a mindset that allows you to forget about the case while you are here with me. That way you could come to me to rest and then return to your responsibilities recharged. What do you say?"

"A mindset?"

"Yes. Do you have any pet names, Mr Potter?"

"What?" Harry gapes at her, thrown by the random question. The Boy Who Lived and The Chosen One flitter through his head, but those can hardly be called pet names, can they? "No, I… My friends just call me Harry."

"How would you feel about being Darling when you are with me?"

The corners of Harry's mouth turn down in a frown. "That's inappropriate, Mrs Zabini. I am in a relationship with Ginny Weasley."

"I'm aware, Mr Potter, as is the rest of wizarding Britain, I'm sure. The alternative name is necessary because the expectations our society has of you simply for being Harry Potter are likely enough to cause a certain amount of stress. This is why I'll have you be someone else while you're here with me."

Harry huffs a frustrated sigh, ruffling his hair. Why does she have to make it so complicated? Can't she just give him a different potion or something? "So who's this Darling you want me to be then?"

"Darling is nobody," she answers and keeps going before Harry can ask what the heck she means by that. "No one knows Darling, so there are no expectations that Darling has to live up to. There is nothing Darling needs to do and nowhere he needs to be. Darling can lie back and close his eyes and know that everything will be fine because I will be taking care of Darling."

Harry gives her a doubtful look and nearly reminds her again that he's together with Ginny. This is all very far from whatever kind of help he'd thought she might give him, but he has to admit it sounds harmless enough in spite of his reservations. "I don't have much of a choice, so let's try," he sighs. "What do I do?"

"Nothing, Darling. That's the point."

She rises from the couch and comes around the low table between them. Harry follows her with his eyes, then turns his head when she moves to stand behind him. Two fingers on his jaw push his head back to face forwards. Her hands land on his shoulders, squeezing.

"Would you take this off for me, Darling?"

Harry is going to shoot up and turn around, is going to demand that she tell him what she's doing, but her hands are surprisingly firm when she pushes him back down onto the seat and she cuts in before he can get a word out.

"I'm going to give you a massage but your clothes are in the way. I thought you'd be more comfortable removing them yourself, but perhaps you'd rather I do it for you?"

Harry stares at the empty couch in front of him, back straight and shoulders tense. He works his jaw for a moment, but his treacherous mind reminds him how nice it felt when she massaged his neck back in the toilets at the Ministry. Behind him, Mrs Zabini sighs lightly and her hands shift for her thumbs to rub circles into the base of his neck.

"I'm not looking for a sexual relationship, Darling," she says and Harry feels heat crawl up his neck. "Nor a romantic one. I seduce men for a living, for the money, influence and benefits they can give me. Choosing someone simply because they are young and strong and pleasing to the eye, simply because I wish to enjoy their company, that is something I do not normally do." Her hands move out, following the curve of his shoulders and stroke down his arms. WIth his robes as a barrier between them, it's but a light pressure with a hint of warmth.

"Why would I trust you?" Harry asks. He knows it's rude, knows he'll probably get kicked out and get no help with the headaches, but he has to ask. If he can't trust her, it seems whatever help she's planning on giving him isn't going to work anyway.

"You're an honest person," she answers softly, her hands working their way back up his arms. "You don't lie and don't manipulate people, and you don't trust those who do. Whatever a lie could buy me, it wouldn't be worth the risk of you discovering the lie, so I've decided to use honesty with you."

That honesty could just as well be a lie. Of course it could. Still, Mrs Zabini isn't going to turn him into another dead husband, so what would she have to gain from deceiving him? His head throbs as if to remind him why he came here in the first place and he ducks his head and starts on the buckles of his jacket.

"I'm keeping the wand," he says, dropping it out of his sleeve and putting it on the table within easy reach.

"Of course, Darling," she answers and takes the jacket, sliding it off his arms.

The vest follows next, Mrs Zabini placing it neatly folded beside him on the bench along with the jacket and his outer robe. His fingers hovering over the buttons of his shirt where he pauses for a moment, then shakes his head and keeps going, letting her pull the shirt off him. He pulls the undershirt over his head and then he's naked from the waist up, picking up his wand and holding it loosely as he waits to see what Mrs Zabini will do next.

Her hands return to his shoulders, but it feels different now without the layers of clothing in the way. Her hands are warm and dry and her grip is one of gentle firmness. She works on his shoulders and neck with obvious experience that makes Harry drop his head forwards and close his eyes.

He can't remember the last time anyone touched him like this. Sure, Ron claps him on the shoulder all the time and Hermione hugs him when he comes over for a visit, but he can't recall any touch more intimate than that in the past year. In fact, he can't pinpoint the last time Ginny touched him at all, not after months of active avoidance on the few occasions they both happened to be in the house.

Ms Zabini presses into a knot and he grimaches, then groans appreciatively when something unlocks under her thumb. She moves on to the next one, her hands wandering over his back with purpose. It makes him feel loose in a way he hasn't in a long time, makes him droop forwards with a sigh. Her hand finds his neck, thumb on one side and fingers of the other, the grip tightening without being constricting.

"When I do this, Darling," she says. "I want you to relax."

Harry hums and she moves her hand, guiding him to turn until he's straddling the bench. She holds him by his shoulders and he leans down when she steers him there, letting her place him on his front with his arms hanging over the sides of the bench. His glasses dig into his temple and Mrs Zabini is taking them off before he can think to complain, folding them and placing them on the table.

He's still got his wand in hand, the tip against the floor, but his grip is lax. When her hands continue down along his spine to work the kinks out of his lower back he doesn't mind. She traces the lining of his trousers and he melts deeper into the plush padding of the bench. For a moment, one of her hands strays up to his neck again, squeezing, before joining the other to massage his side.

"When did you last have a full night's sleep, Darling?" she asks and he can feel the warmth of her breath against his shoulder blade.

He murmurs something, not sure himself what he's trying to say because he doesn't know the answer. Her fingers brush through his hair, her other hand rubbing a circle into his side.

"Sleep, Darling. I won't mind."