V.
It was most definitely Harry's fault when, the next day, their session went rather less productively. Malfoy's eyes were drooping, practically closing before he wrenched them open time and time again.
Caught up, retroactively, in the success of the previous day and a newfound desire to help Malfoy, Harry's slow process of inquiry became rather rushed. In his so-called defence, it was hard to re-train his mind to consciously avoid hurting Malfoy. There were still suspicions whispering doubts into his mind about Malfoy—could he be up to something?
"Have you thought about the nightmares? Can you tell me what they're about?"
Malfoy's gaze travelled over Harry's body slowly, and Harry didn't understand until the lethargic weight of those pale eyes landed on his hand. More specifically, the quill he gripped tightly.
"N-not with observations." There was a slight pause after the weak words, almost as though Malfoy wanted to say please. Harry dropped the quill before he could write that down. Facts, not guesswork, his mentor had always said.
"There." He swept the paper to the side, letting his quill slide until it was harmlessly out of arm's reach. Malfoy still stared at it, and then his face contorted in what Harry recognized as a yawn.
Right. He remembered, again, the task at hand.
"So," he prompted, "what can you tell me about the nightmares?"
Malfoy looked ill at ease. He wore his usual thick robes and his hair almost looked brown with the dull, dirty layer of grime that concealed its shine.
"I'm not ready to talk about that. I don't want to. I'll be fine."
Harry was unconvinced. Still, even he realized it would be in bad taste to remind Malfoy of the unnecessary and untreated problems that had arisen in Malfoy's life in recent days of his own doing. Malfoy probably knew.
"What, then?"
If prompting wasn't working, perhaps Malfoy would have ideas of his own. He had always been one for control, no matter how petty, Harry thought with a hint of malice.
An owl flew by outside of his window, and Harry was thrown suddenly from his thoughts. His stomach knotted painfully. It hovered for a moment, a letter attached to its leg. Harry didn't relax until the bird flew past, thankfully, and he shook his head free of worry.
"I'm sorry," he said, looking back to a perplexed Malfoy, "could you repeat that?"
"Tell me what happened after I left." He cleared his throat. "I didn't keep up with the papers."
Harry supposed it was as good a topic as any, with one stipulation. At least it would give him a chance to inquire about Malfoy's past.
He assumed Malfoy was familiar with exchanges. "First, can you tell me where you hid?"
"Need somewhere to run from all your admirers?" There was a hint of resentment in his tone.
Harry forced himself to give a nonchalant smile, though it tasted bland on his lips. Why did Malfoy always go for his supposed fame? It was an old taunt that struck too close to home for Harry to accept.
"We can talk about me outside of the office. Right now, tell me about you."
Malfoy looked to the window with yearning sparkling in his eyes. They had a view from the top of the hill on a cloudy day. Harry understood the desire to leave the humid office to fly in the pre-storm thrum.
"I was in France. Mon français n'est pas parfait, mais pendant mon enfance ma mère m'a enseigné le necessaire. We have a house there, where we lived sometimes when I was younger. I refreshed my childhood French."
Harry wondered for just a moment about what Malfoy would have to say if he knew about the way Harry had grown up. How much derision would there be in his superior sneer if Malfoy found out that, while he had been traveling, Harry had been cleaning and living in a cupboard?
They'd lived entirely different lives. It seemed almost impossible that their paths had crossed so many times, in light of that.
"What prompted you to come back?"
Malfoy shook his head. "I answered your question, now answer mine."
Harry looked down at the solid surface of his desk and wondered why he felt like the world was caving in around him.
"You were here for the trials," he began, looking up to meet Malfoy's gaze. He held it for a few moments, then let his eyes slide casually around the room. "After you disappeared, we had some problems with the more… enthusiastic former Death Eaters. Azkaban was completely rebuilt. Once immediate threats were over, we set about fixing all of the damaged buildings. There was a huge movement towards charity work and donations—but Hogwarts wasn't hurt physically so much as magically."
He took a breath to continue, but noticed that Malfoy's lips were pursed again and that something was wrong.
"Draco, what is it?" Perhaps it would be the key to finding the root of his fears.
"Don't talk about… it doesn't matter. Just—."
"Hogwarts?" Harry was utterly confused. He wanted to write it down and ponder it, but he couldn't waste time.
Malfoy shifted his weight, settling back in the seat. Harry took that as an affirmative answer and decided to push for it.
"Do you know what happened there?"
"Please."
Harry continued, curious despite the complaints. "After the fighting, the trace of dark magic was hard to erase."
Draco rolled his head so that he was facing the ceiling, a grimace stretching his lips.
"We waited until after the trials to rebuild, and lessons were moved temporarily so they wouldn't interfere with the work."
"Potter, stop." In the beginning, Malfoy's suffering had been delicious, but Harry wished he'd relax a little—there was something to be found in their line of conversation.
"I went back a little, but Neville was really the one in charge. He did an amazing job. Perhaps you should go see it."
Draco shook his head. "No."
"The worst part was that a large part of the castle had its defences tarnished and enchantments tangled. It was burnt and charred, stones black and cursed."
Malfoy's fingers flew to his collar, trying to tug. His eyes rolled back, and he started to mumble. Harry could feel bursts of magic from him and moved his hand to his wand just in case it was needed.
Any enjoyment he was getting from the situation disappeared completely. A sick feeling settled in his stomach. Then, Malfoy threw his head back, ashen. The waves of magic were coming stronger, and Harry felt it prickle through him.
Malfoy started to scream.
The sounds were animalistic, frantic, and Harry could see that he was reliving something in his past. Malfoy started to shake, choking and retching as he fell from the chair to the floor. He landed on hands and knees, sputtering, then his muscles gave way and he slumped forward.
His body connected audibly with the ground, a sharp exhale in harmony with the thump.
Harry hurried to cast some charms. It was safest to let the magical fit run its course, but he cushioned the floor and spelled the chair back so that Malfoy wouldn't be in danger of knocking his head. It was a sight he'd seen before, but hadn't been aware that Malfoy's condition was so deep-set.
While he waited, worry hot inside of him, Harry tried to piece the evidence together.
It could be memories of the cruciatus. Perhaps he'd been tortured? Or, more generally, could he be reliving a horrific memory? It could have been any number of things.
The minutes dragged on, and Malfoy looked like he wasn't on his way to recovery.
He was sweating, clawing at his skin and shouting nonsense that almost sounded like words. His breath came in sharp gasps that caused him to arch his back and pound fists into the ground.
Without even thinking about it, Harry conjured some ice.
Not analyzing why his heart was thumping so loudly in his chest—Malfoy wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last to fall apart in his office—Harry knelt down beside the flailing body. With a gentle push, he turned Malfoy onto his back, feeling tense muscles under his fingertips.
Mimicking what he'd seen Malfoy do, he pressed the ice to the blond's forehead. Bloodshot eyes opened in surprise. Tears leaked from the corners in endless streaks, leaving wet trails to his temples, and with a shaky breath, he rolled to his side again to lay, curled.
Malfoy's limbs finally went completely limp.
The words Malfoy tried to form got lost halfway, so Harry just ran the ice cube slowly across his forehead. It became slippery, leaving a trail of water behind it, but Malfoy's eyes were glazed with relief.
It could have been a few minutes, though it felt like an hour, that Harry's fingers pushed ice around Malfoy's skin. He found sensitivity at the valley of his collarbone, a spot that made Malfoy let out a deep sigh.
Finally, he spoke. "You don't have to do this."
Harry shrugged. "It's what Healers do."
Malfoy only blinked in return.
"Could—do you think it's possible… " Malfoy paused, pursing his lips. "I ordered robes from Madam Malkin's the other day. Could I retrieve them? These are heavy winter robes."
Harry nodded once. Finally, the concession had come and Malfoy had admitted to his stubbornness. It didn't feel quite as good as Harry might have expected.
The robes meant that he was starting to trust Harry, at least professionally. If that wasn't the weirdest thing he'd ever had to think about… .
Without meaning to, the decision was made in his mind.
He couldn't ask someone else to go pick up a patient's order, but his break was coming up…
"Are they under your name?"
"Yes." Malfoy extended an arm, shaking just slightly, and Harry took the frail hand in his own to help pull Malfoy to his feet.
"Feeling better?" Harry asked. "I'm sorry I pushed you there."
Malfoy didn't answer. He stood, wobbling in place, before Harry pushed the chair in his direction once more with the instruction to take the seat.
"Don't worry, Potter," Malfoy said, trying for disinterest. "It's happened before."
That piqued Harry's interest, most definitely.
"How many times?"
"I didn't count."
"Can you trace a common trigger to the attacks?"
Malfoy looked helpless, and Harry knew that pressing him for more information was going to be next to impossible. He needed rest.
"Right." Harry cleared his throat. "We spoke last time about dreamless sleep, and in light of your resistance to it, I thought it would be best to prescribe some calming draught. It won't have the same effect, but I will give you a relatively large dose to begin. I hope it will encourage sleep and allow you to rest your mind."
Harry twirled the quill in his hands, running the feather across his bottom lip just once, thinking. When he knew what he wanted to write, he scribbled out instructions on a small card.
"You'll have to give this to your nurse. It will be a small dose just before lunch, then another right before sleep. Expect some grogginess and confusion, but we'll be here to help you if you need anything."
There was a look of humiliation on Malfoy's face, his eyes downcast.
"I can take a potion on my own. I don't need help."
Harry looked him right in the eye. "Malfoy, it's a matter of your safety as well as my other patients'. With a history of misusing potions, I have reason to believe you can't take it on your own."
There was a funny niggling at the back of his mind that told Harry he would have had the same self-righteous reaction if the situation were switched. Was it fair to expect more docility from Malfoy than he would from himself?
The remainder of the session was as uneventful as the first few had been, and when Malfoy finally stepped out, Harry was left with a pounding headache.
He looked at the unanswered, unopened mail on the corner of his desk, dread growing heavily in his belly. With a defiant look—in vain, because the post didn't have eyes—at the pile, Harry removed his Healer robes.
From the second drawer of his desk, Harry pulled out a small device that would alert him if he was needed at the hospital. While he was, technically, on-call, he could run his errands freely, and he had one particular responsibility in mind.
He grabbed some floo powder from the decorative bowl on the mantle above his office's fireplace, but replaced it when he decided he'd been having a rough few days—he needn't make it worse by travelling by floo powder, which he'd always hated.
Clutching his wand in one hand and thinking, "Madam Malkin's!" with great determination, Harry felt the squeeze of apparition and landed ungracefully just in front of her shop.
She was rather helpful, swooning over him just subtly enough that Harry could casually ignore it, and Harry left her shop feeling only a little harassed. He'd thought, once, that the fame would subside, but that hadn't yet come true, even two years later.
The robes were sealed in a small pouch, pressed to stay wrinkle-free, and Harry carried them under his arm as he apparated back to the hospital, wards set to bar even him apparating directly into the office for the sake of security. With a wan smile at the hospital workers he encountered, most of whom started whispering about him as he passed them, Harry set his course for Malfoy's private room.
He knocked twice.
"Come in."
The door creaked loudly, announcing his entrance, and Harry saw that Malfoy was staring at the ceiling, looking bored. He had a cold, hard look on his face, a mask that Harry knew very well from their youth.
It slipped away completely when Harry presented him with the small package.
"You got it?"
Harry nodded. "I know how much you need it."
Malfoy twisted to grab the offering in Harry's hands, tearing it open to retrieve the contents. He glanced back at Harry once, looking at him with disbelief, and Harry understood the sentiment. After a decade of loving to hate one another, it was rather strange to be presenting Malfoy with—it wasn't a peace offering… but it wasn't a cursed necklace, either.
Then, without another look at Harry—who decided it was time to leave just as his legs decided to stay glued in place—Malfoy was stripping. He angled his body away from Harry, undoing the buttons on his heavy robes and letting them fall back on the soft surface of the bed.
Then, inexplicably, he was unbuttoning his spelled-clean, crisp, white shirt with darting movements from his thin fingers. The buttons disappeared through the holes and then the material was being pushed to the side. Bare, pale skin emerged from behind the fabric, and Harry studiously avoided looking for proof that their sixth year had ever occurred.
Sometimes, Harry reasoned, wizards liked to wear outer robes with nothing on underneath. He wouldn't qualify Malfoy's desire. He also couldn't tear his eyes away.
The trousers, then, were tugged off slowly.
There was freedom in the way Malfoy moved, a fluidity. Harry wondered how long he'd been wearing the same robes if receiving new ones could lace his expression with such abandon.
Harry tried not to make observations, ignoring the way his fingers curled with the need to write his disobedient thoughts down.
Malfoy had a burn mark just above his left knee. His skin was, otherwise, mostly smooth and unblemished. His Mark, once dark with magic, was faded and red.
When Malfoy caught him looking, he shot Harry an angry look.
"Why are you still here?"
"I-" Harry didn't have an answer, and his heart leapt into his throat. He caught sight of a small tray beside Malfoy's bed. "I wanted to make sure you had your first dose of calming draught."
Malfoy looked suspicious, tugging on his new robes with a haste that hadn't been present before. He threw furtive looks at Harry, who tried not to allow his composure to crumble, and quickly did all the clasps up.
The new robes were dark blue and thin. They creased under the weight of Malfoy's body when he fell back, catching the material between him and the mattress. The robes hid large expanses of skin under fine material—skin that Harry wanted to explore and carefully record past the ankle and calf he could see.
Harry hated Malfoy, in that moment, for always managing to distract him. It bubbled within him, urgent and heavy.
"So?" The Malfoy drawl was back, damn it, and Harry had to resist every urge to punch Malfoy in the interest of keeping his job. Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, turning in his direction. "So?" he repeated. "Are you going to give me the potion?"
Harry fumbled with the small glass vial before managing to unstopper it. He blindly shoved it towards Malfoy, trying not to flinch when cool fingers met his as Malfoy took the bottle.
"All in one go?"
Harry nodded, watching Malfoy tip the liquid down his throat, swallowing once. It was all very neat, very clinical, but Harry found himself needing to grasp desperately at his control. Malfoy infuriated him. Something about him always made Harry's good judgement disappear.
The smooth line of his neck as it curved back just enough for Malfoy to drink was an image that wouldn't relinquish its monopoly of Harry's attention.
When they were in his office, sometimes it was okay.
Those were mandatory roles and immediate obligations where it was easy to pretend he didn't hate Malfoy as he once had. But it was just pretending. It had to be, because in that moment, Harry wanted nothing more than to grin at the twist of Malfoy's lips when the taste of the potion caught up with him. It was notoriously bitter.
Harry thought that perhaps he should stop paying so much attention to Malfoy's mouth.
"Great." His tone was sharp with scorn. "I'll see you tomorrow at noon. My office."
"'S not like I have a choice, huh?" Malfoy's words were loose and slow, already affected by the potion. He blinked blearily a few times, then settled into his pillow with a soft smile. "But this is nice."
Hoping Malfoy wouldn't notice, Harry slipped from the room on his toes, carefully closing the door behind him.
Two weeks left, he reminded himself. Just a little more than two weeks.
If Malfoy really started resting, Harry was confident that they could make quick progress. It was a matter of working through Malfoy's triggers and relaxing his magic, which would, in turn, lower his sensitivity to the physical environment.
If Malfoy decided to be difficult in light of what had transpired—or just because he was Malfoy and Harry was Harry—then the task was surely going to draw out indefinitely.
With a headache potion taken from the store in his office, Harry apparated himself to his flat with relief and comfort on his mind. He had something like half an hour until he had to be back and Harry had a strange desire to take a shower.
In the hottest days of the summer, stifling even during the night, keeping a fire burning was only justified if one was travelling by floo because the eager sun did enough to provide heat. Anyways, Harry didn't like travelling that way. Instead, the cool water of his shower washed away all the strange afterimages of working with Malfoy.