IV.

Of course, Malfoy yelled at one of the nurses-in-training on his first morning, something about a conspiracy that he was convinced she was involved with.

To Harry's dismay, two reports against Malfoy's mental state were enough to secure him three weeks in hospital—even without Harry's assessment, which had also already been submitted.

The first time Harry felt he had any sort of progress with Malfoy, his most trying patient, was three days after his arrival at the hospital.

"It's rather hot in here, isn't it?" Malfoy commented, and Harry couldn't help the way his eyes moved to the hand Malfoy had raised to his collar, tugging at the robes.

It was the first thing he'd volunteered to say without prompting from Harry, who had learned better than to write eagerly on the parchment to his right. It raised Malfoy's ire too quickly to be helpful, setting him on edge.

Carefully, so that he wouldn't draw attention to his movement, he wrote: sensitive to temperature.

"Well, Draco," he spoke slowly, having experimented over the course of three days with the best Healer voice to use on Malfoy; he was incredibly skittish. "It is the middle of the summer. Perhaps—we could find you some more appropriate robes?"

A light hint of red rose high on Malfoy's cheeks, settling there for a moment before spreading out towards his ears and down under the dark material that covered Malfoy from mid-neck down. Harry tore his eyes away, looking down at his sparse notes with decided determination.

"I've told you before, Potter," his name was spat, "that I don't need anything from you."

Without missing a beat, Harry set in on his usual reply. "In this setting, please refer to me as Harry."

Draco knew his cue. He scowled and slouched back in his seat. After a moment's consideration, he straightened his back again, as though the pose was unbefitting a Malfoy.

Hmm…

Harry wrote: has not yet referred to himself as a Malfoy.

It wasn't any enormous comment, but it was enough to give Harry pause. As far as he remembered, it was with great pride that Malfoy carried his name. Was it possible that times had changed?

He put a star next to his written comment, looking up with a small smile.

"Thank you, Draco," he said. "I think we're finally getting somewhere."

Harry's patient looked at him as though he'd grown another head. He narrowed his eyes in concentration, fists clenching and unclenching in his lap. His tongue briefly peeked out from between his lips to wet them.

Harry fought the urge to write that down. The nervous ticks shouted at him, demanding his attention. Malfoy's presence had always been so loud, even when he wasn't trying.

Something was changing right before his eyes. Resolve gave way.

Hesitation like a stuttering heartbeat, then, "I want to know what you're writing."

Harry shook his head. "I'll present my conclusions to you at a later date. For now, we're just talking. Don't mind the notes."

Harry had never really known how not to upset Malfoy. He'd never really wanted not to.

"How can I not mind the bloody notes when they're being written about me? I'm not a child—just tell me what you're fucking writing!"

They were hurried words with an unclear fervour behind them. Harry inwardly congratulated himself.

With great care, he formed his next words, "I'm simply making observations."

"Observations! Oh, yes, because I'm sure you think I'm some kind of lunatic. On top of everything else in my life, haven't you stopped to think that I don't need you-"

The chair was pushed away as Malfoy stood, skin mottled and red. Harry watched, fascinated and confused, as he hastily ripped the buttons out of the holes where they fastened his robes. The heavy material fell, pushed to the chair behind him, displaying a worn-out white shirt and plain trousers.

Malfoy was breathing hard, eyes darting around in panic.

Harry worked hard not to react. He had to let the scene play out just a few moments longer. His pulse raced, pushing against his skin with a power that Harry remembered from duelling.

Why was it so satisfying—and so terrifying—to watch Malfoy fall apart?

"It's just-" Malfoy looked incredibly uncomfortable, tugging at the collar of his shirt as though he had thoughts of removing it as well. He shifted his weight forwards, onto his toes, and looked down at Harry over the tip of his nose. He panted and the office buzzed with energy. "It's really hot in here."

Without ever looking away from Malfoy, Harry opened the top drawer of his desk. He pulled out a small bag of ice cubes that Malfoy's eyes locked onto with an urgency that Harry could not explain.

How would he ever record that fire onto paper?

"Those are mine." Malfoy's voice was low and rumbling, and Harry stood to match his patient before reaching an arm out.

"I know. I was just waiting for the moment that you might need them."

Looking rather unsteady, Malfoy lurched forward and snatched the ice from Harry's grasp. Malfoy pressed the ice to his hairline, bowing his head.

Harry watched as the tension that had lined every muscle in Malfoy's shoulders relaxed slowly. His breathing returned to normal. Harry counted the seconds, carefully storing the information in his mind so that he could write it down at a later moment.

A loud scraping sound jolted him from his thoughts, and Harry looked back to Malfoy to see him seated once again, looking defeated and deflated.

"What now?" Malfoy asked, still pressing the ice to his skin. First, the small cubes were pushed against the pulse point on his neck, then to the the skin of his wrists.

"Now," Harry said, "we figure out how to help you work with your sensitivity."

Malfoy looked at him with tortured eyes, blinking a few times as though to clear them of something. Harry noted that his own heart was beating wildly in his chest, threatening to escape.

He'd felt the crackling of errant magic during Malfoy's outburst. Something had to be done.

"I'd just like to ask one question."

Malfoy shut his eyes. In turn, he pressed the small bag to his eyelids in practiced, simple movements. Then, his arms fell to his knees. He didn't reopen his eyes but his posture remained open.

Harry felt a surge of hope, though a different part of him—one that dated back to childhood—identified a moment of weakness, perfect for attack.

He put the thought from his mind. "When did you notice that you couldn't control your magic?"

A choked sound was the only answer to the question. Harry's fingers itched to write it down.

"Do you know what could be causing that lack of control?"

"No."

"I'll set you up for a general examination later today. As far as you know, are you of good health?"

A small shrug, just the minute rise and fall of his shoulders. If Harry hadn't been watching him intently, it could have been a breath. Because Harry was watching him so intently, he knew it couldn't have been-Malfoy was holding his breath.

"Have you been sleeping regularly?"

The crinkling of the bag in Malfoy's hands told Harry that his grip had tightened.

There was something…

"Draco, this is important if we want to start helping you."

Tendrils of stringy blond hair fell onto his forehead as his head dipped forward, eyes still shut. The words were practically mumbled into his lap.

"I didn't hear you, Draco." Harry thought he had heard, but wanted to make sure he wasn't mistaken.

"I've grown immune to dreamless sleep."

That meant insomnia. Deep, winding resistance that the body built up to all kinds of sleep.

Harry's mind raced as he thought about what it would take to grow immune in the two years of Malfoy's absence—or less, if he'd started taking it more recently.

That possibility was frightening. Didn't Malfoy know the damage he could do to his brain? Even Harry'd managed to retain that kind of information from Snape's lessons.

Unable to stop himself any longer, Harry picked up his quill and twirled it between his fingers. His following question would probably come with an answer that he'd need to mitigate by writing it down.

"What dosage did y-"

"Triple the recommended maximum. Er… daily."

The Healer in Harry was shocked and horrified at the information. Usually, the accepted dose was about half the recommended maximum spread over a week. Sometimes less did the trick. Whatever Malfoy's problem, it ran deep.

He could only hope that the potion had been made reliably with quality ingredients.

"Why did you start taking it?"

"Nightmares, Potter. The nightmares wouldn't stop."

Harry heard vulnerability and fear in Malfoy's voice, though he was speechless and had no idea what an appropriate response might be. His twelve months in intense training and six months of top-priority patients couldn't possibly have prepared him.

The worst part was that Harry knew exactly the nightmares Malfoy was alluding to.

He'd seen his fair share of scarred witches and wizards in the wake of the war, but Harry knew that Malfoy's involvement with all of it ran far deeper than most others', much like his.

Voldemort himself had lived in Malfoy Manor—tortured, killed, and raved.

Something changed. A twinge of sympathy ran through Harry, because despite all their childhoods, Malfoy had been just as hurt by the war as anyone else.

"Thank you," Harry said after an unthinkable length of time. His voice was shaky, and he had to clear it before standing. "That was very insightful, Draco. We'll start some therapy. It might be a bit much all at once, but we'll start talking about what you dream about."

Malfoy just ran a hand through his hair and gripped it tight, pulling until his knuckles grew white.

He took in a deep, shuddering breath, and Harry knew that Malfoy was fighting tears. The absurdity of the situation struck him, along with shock at the world into which he had been thrust, one in which Draco Malfoy could cry. The implications of that new reality had yet to sink in.

Harry did what he knew, always Molly Weasley's most attentive student. He walked around his desk with hurried paces, past Malfoy, and stopped right at the door.

"I'll bring us some tea," Harry announced at Malfoy's hunched back. It reminded him of a bathroom, of another moment when Malfoy'd been in tears.

He vowed not to muck it up as he had that time.

When he returned with one steaming mug in hand, Malfoy was gone and the office was strangely dull. It was as though the scarce colour of the pale green walls had been leached, leaving behind a dreary, lifeless beige.

Harry unsuccessfully tried to calm his frantic nerves with a sip of too-hot tea, then set to writing up the events of their session.

His mind was loud and chaotic the entire time—with excitement at the progress or dread at Malfoy's revelations, he couldn't tell.