Draco graciously Apparated them directly into his bed, seemingly reading Harry's exhaustion from expending all his energy, and he was infinitely grateful for it. With what little coherence remained, he blinked up at the blond as they lay facing each other, slowly regaining control of their lungs.

"Why… Don't you have any mirrors?" Harry wondered. A rush of regret lashed through him as he saw the way Draco winced at the question, but he only swallowed.

"Don't like to look at myself," he answered quietly. Almost too quietly to hear, but Harry heard the honesty in his words real fucking clear.

The notion boggled his sex-addled mind. How could the most beautiful creature I've ever seen loathe its reflection so much it won't allow mirrors in its own flat? It didn't make a lick of sense to him, but he supposed, neither did his aversion to touch. Not-Draco's touch.

Sleep swept up like a summons, one Harry was unable to resist. Again, in Draco's flat, without Dreamless Sleep. But this time… He dreamed.

He was in Malfoy manor. Instinctively, he braced himself to hear Hermione's screams, to see Voldemort's serpentine face in the darkness, but what he saw was… Draco. Small. Maybe six years old, and huddled in a corner of an empty room. Harry wasn't sure this little Draco could see him or not, but decided to approach, extending a hand placatingly. And once he was on his level, a mere metre away, those bloodshot grey eyes snapped up to him, tear-streaks shining on his cheeks in the moonlight.

"He's coming for me," his little voice broke on a whisper, and Harry's heart twisted.

"I won't let him get you," was his reflexive answer, but even as it fell from his lips, he felt the weight of his words float shallowly on the surface of his doubt.

All his life, he'd done nothing but protect, defend, save… But now that he himself was lost, what comfort could he hope to provide? Who was there to save the saviour?

He woke to a finger tracing a firm line against his cheek. It took a few moments for him to fully resurface, but when he did, he realised this finger was swiping away tears.

Fuck.

"Draco," he breathed, voice hitching in his throat. The blond in question said nothing, only swept his thumb against Harry's cheek, his eye, spreading salty wetness into his temple. "W-why do you like me?"

Hardly awake, yet the question had come out. Perhaps it was waiting until he was properly vulnerable like this to make itself known – perhaps he'd never have uttered it until so undeniably raw like this.

A stuttering sigh ruffled the fringe on Harry's brow, and he felt a kiss pressed to it.

"You're like my mirror image." A bit more awake now, Harry felt a frown cinch his forehead. Hadn't he said he couldn't stand his reflection? "Me, but… Backwards. I… Recognize you, and I don't." A long silence stretched as Harry came back to his senses, to the intimate position of their limbs, before Draco spoke again. "Like we might fit together perfectly."

A knot formed in Harry's throat, and with his soul so exposed, his body similarly so, he angled his chin up to seek with his mouth. And the mouth he found was obliging.

Draco kissed him carefully. Firmly, not overly gentle, but cautious. As if Harry were breakable. And he supposed he was. Devastatingly breakable. A sob caught in his throat at the contact, but he wasn't going anywhere. Not even if the bed caught fire.

It was just the right balance between delicate and disastrous. He tasted no pity in this kiss, only palatable pleasure, controlled constance, emphatic empathy. If he was honest with himself (which he never was) it was his undoing. This very moment.

Harry couldn't breathe. So he tore his lips away to lean his brow against that mouth, gasping in air like it was the familiar ache he was used to. Returning to comforting despair, but Draco wasn't having it. Seemed to sense Harry's emotions with an alarming degree of accuracy as he pulled the brunette into his arms and squeezed.

Oh, god, Harry had never been held so tightly. Had never been treated so roughly with affection. It was… New, but not wholly bad. Wrong, somehow, but also disconcertingly right. Draco could never touch him incorrectly.

"Harry," the mouth on his forehead breathed. And Harry shuddered. It wasn't pleasant, letting himself be witnessed in this state, it'd never been, not on the rug, not on his couch, not anywhere. He felt the need to laugh it off, to lighten the mood, but it stumbled under the weight of his hopelessness in this moment.

Stop it.

Harry wrenched himself from Draco's grasp, from that consoling touch, so unsettling in its calm as he forced himself to sit up against the edge of the bed, legs dangling off the side and feet brushing the floor.

"S-sorry, I–" His throat worked as he tried to swallow, but the tautness wouldn't allow it. "Y-you've done more than enough."

Blair Truham tapped his quill against his parchment speculatively across from Draco as he uneasily crossed his knees. He was grateful for the long-term benefits of therapy, to be sure, but these sessions were never easy.

"Does success in your career bring you any sort of fulfilment?"

Of course, the man just had to ask the hard-hitting questions. It is his job, Draco supposed. But he couldn't deny how uncomfortable it made him.

"N-not really," he admitted, dragging a hand through his hair. "It's like…" He swallowed his discomfort, allowing memories to resurface of all the times he'd been truthful with the man and it'd benefited him. It could benefit him now, if he could allow honesty to cross his lips. "I don't really care about modelling. Lending my image just gets me by, but… If I could…" Matter to someone. Draco swallowed.

Blair hummed quietly, scrawled a few notes on his parchment, and then lifted his eyes back to Draco. This deep in, these long years they'd spent together, Draco couldn't pretend the man wasn't privy to his inner thoughts. Even if he'd never speak them aloud.

He'd told him enough by now.

"And… Harry?"

Draco's eyes snapped up to those green eyes, so like Harry's he guttered slightly. He swapped his folded leg down for his other leg across, unfolded and folded his fingers together again, cleared his throat.

"H-he needs this," he eventually answered, quietly. Almost silently. His voice was doing something weird, and he cleared his throat to try to free it, but something in his chest was forbidding it. "I want this for him."

Blair nodded, set his quill and parchment down, and removed his glasses. Draco had spent enough time in the man's company to know what this meant: he was about to say something profound.

"We all wish our loved ones well. But only those who recognize damage, and want to fix can actually improve." Draco swallowed, turning his gaze down at his lap as he fiddled with his fingers. "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink."

He nodded, frowning at the tired proverb. It's not like he could divulge Harry's trauma to his own therapist, and hope for him to double up. It wouldn't be fair.

"How does it make you feel, seeing Harry suffering?"

Draco's throat wrung like a noose. What kind of answer could he give?

"Like I'm drowning," he eventually choked out. Cleared his throat and started again as Blair waited patiently. "Like every improvement I've earned has been for nothing."

More script as Blair scratched notes onto his parchment. Draco hated hearing that quill scratch, never allowed to see, to understand himself as Blair did. But he said nothing. Their time was drawing to a close, and as much as Draco still had questions, he was grateful.

"In a week, then?"

Draco nodded curtly.

"A week."