VI.
They managed to make it through the next few sessions without big incident.
"You look well." Harry commented, and he really meant it. Malfoy looked, at the very least, put together. His nerves were not obvious to the degree that they had been. It gave Harry satisfaction to see.
Malfoy didn't respond, but raised a self-conscious hand to his hair, as though Harry might be mocking him.
"Did you sleep soundly?"
"Very."
Harry felt very pleased with that remark, overjoyed even, at the simple success of helping Malfoy with his sleep. It was always dangerous to take his work so personally, but Harry thought he hadn't really had a choice—it was always personal with Malfoy.
For some reason, his hour with Malfoy was always so much more gratifying than any other session with any other patient. Usually, his notes were bland and the pace was maddeningly slow. With Malfoy, his observations, unending and detailed to the last, precise point, told him that they were making good progress.
In the space of a few short days after the start of his regimen with the Calming Draught, Malfoy had maintained their shaky truce, relaxing just a little.
"How do you feel?"
He looked mildly annoyed, lip curling. Harry raised an eyebrow, and two stubborn gazes met somewhere between them. It was almost like school, and Harry wondered if Malfoy found that as funny as he did, if he saw the glimmering potential for the animosity to end completely.
The hard expression softened just a little.
It was getting easier to get Malfoy to drop the facade, though it was still by no means easy.
Harry felt a strange satisfaction at that fact, a tiny spark that he extinguished by swiftly ignoring that he'd even noticed it. He made up for it by telling himself he liked being in a position of influence over Malfoy, though whatever the reason, he felt good with the success he'd achieved.
"I-I feel better. It's been a while. I've been sleeping enough to make up for the last two years."
"That's good." Just as Harry was going to pose another question, Malfoy interrupted with an uncharacteristic request.
"You never finished telling me—" he ran a hand through his hair. Harry's eyes followed the nervous movement, calm setting when Malfoy finally dropped his arm. Harry raised his eyebrows to prompt him to continue. "You—" Exhale. Inhale. "What happened to you after the war?"
Harry went very still. They'd dropped the topic for a number of sessions.
"I was very involved in the trials, less so in reparations, and then I took something of a… sabbatical—you know, after seven years…" he trailed off with a weak chuckle, trying to focus again. "I came back, threw myself into studying, and now we're here."
Malfoy looked unconvinced, pursing his lips in thought.
"You're not married." It was an assertion, not a question, and Harry saw grey eyes flicker to his bare left hand. A surge of heat and defensiveness rushed through Harry when he considered that Malfoy was making his own observations.
"No." He didn't plan to offer anything more personal. Malfoy didn't deserve it.
Harry's plans, especially the ones involving Malfoy, usually didn't go as he expected. This one was no exception.
"I think I'm entitled to something, Potter."
"Harry!"
"It's only fair."
And it was, because they'd been more than Healer and patient since the beginning. Harry, too, knew how exchange worked.
If they'd been playing chess, Malfoy would have his king in check. Harry could probably avoid it, sidestepping, but he'd be cornered eventually after relinquishing all the other important pieces. Sometimes, there was dignity in hiding the small things and distracting with a big sacrifice.
Then again, Malfoy had always known how to play Harry. And Harry had always been rubbish at chess.
"It didn't work with Ginny. She needed someone who was free to move on, not linger and rehash the war at every turn. Her brother, Fred, was killed and it hit her rather hard."
Malfoy rolled his eyes. "She made it about herself, did she?"
If he hadn't known better, Harry would think Malfoy was upset with her on his behalf. As it was, Draco was probably just being terrible for the sake of being terrible.
"I don't mean—she's wonderful! We just… never worked out. It's not what you think—" Harry started. Of course, there was more to the story. His sex life, though thankfully kept out of the press, had continued after Ginny. He gulped, wondering what Malfoy would say if he heard about Harry's escapades with muggles.
Men.
Only physical. Only discreet. Always so sweet.
Harry shook his head. He noticed, belatedly, that Malfoy was giving him a funny look from the corner of his eye. It was almost like he knew what Harry had been thinking and a flush borne of embarrassment and indignation at his patient's judgement rose to his cheeks.
"That's quite enough about me."
Malfoy shrugged. He lingered, filling the space around Harry with something terrifying, and then he was gone—withdrawn. Malfoy averted his gaze after just slightly longer than Harry could consider casual.
Harry closed his eyes.
"Back to business, please?" His voice was strained. He hoped Malfoy wouldn't hear it, but knew beyond doubt that he would. He was a prick like that.
"Fine. You still owe me some explanations, Potter."
Something like helplessness flailed in his chest and Harry lost his grip on his crumbling composure.
"I don't owe you anything, as you keep reminding me, Malfoy!"
The recoil was obvious at a hundred paces. Malfoy cringed visibly at the name, and Harry wondered just how many things they were going to have to work through before Malfoy would finally leave his office forever.
Why did he have to ask so many questions? It was as though he wanted to get under Harry's skin in all the most infuriating ways.
They had too much history and, for a moment, Harry lost hope of ever succeeding. He abandoned that train of thought when he realized Malfoy was sharing it with him. The other man looked ready to run, gripping the armrest and pressing nails into the fabric. He'd gone pale. His head turned minutely, eyes darting to the door.
"Don't call me that," he said. "I'm—I don't deserve that name. My father—"
He pushed off the chair, eyes stormy and forehead creased.
"Can I come back later? I need… time."
Harry floundered.
Professionalism, right.
Merlin, it was just so difficult.
He'd obviously struck a nerve and, as his anger drained out of him, he was left with guilt and conflicting emotions. While he wanted to let Malfoy have his privacy, he doubted he could let the potentially unstable man roam the hospital and maintain a clear conscience.
"Stay. We don't have to talk. I have some papers to fill out, anyway. Some calm would do us both good."
Malfoy's look was inscrutable. He curled his lip, the movement looking stiff and lacking emotion. Then, with a shaky breath that Harry practically felt rip apart the air between them, Malfoy dropped heavily into the seat.
Ten minutes of silence went by. Harry spent them sneaking glances at Malfoy. The curve of his jaw when he was clenching it called out to Harry. There was something artful about the smoothness of his neck, exposed at the hem of his new robes.
Next, his shoulders pressed back into the plush of the chair. His head was thrown back as he looked to the ceiling, and Harry was painfully aware of every time Malfoy swallowed because his Adam's apple bobbed. The shadows that lined the expanse of skin shifted with every small movement.
Harry's hand shook and he could barely finish a sheet of a report, not even after resigning himself to sloping, messy penmanship.
His mind was elsewhere, racing and trying to piece together the information Malfoy had given him. It was a puzzle whose completion seemed to be the driving factor behind his existence. It had always been all or nothing with Malfoy.
Why was he so frightened? He was hypersensitive. His nightmares haunted him. His name seemed to scald him. It all traced back to the war. Still, Harry couldn't place it to anything particular. His memories of Malfoy seemed hazy at best, tinged with age and childhood anger.
He would have to pick it apart.
Malfoy didn't deserve to suffer, not any longer. Still, Harry wasn't sure his own interest was altogether noble. There was something addictive about Malfoy's problems.
Harry's lip twitched when he mindlessly tickled it with the end of his quill, which he passed between hands as he thought.
The senior Malfoys had been sentenced to life in Azkaban.
Voldemort. The ministry taking his parents away. Escape. Loss of control, followed by his return.
Harry only assumed that Malfoy's reappearance had been motivated by his uncontrollable magical fits, but what had begun prompting those?
His thoughts circled back around.
Two years.
"Stop that, Potter." Malfoy's voice was sharp, and Harry had to still all of his movement before he realized what Malfoy was talking about.
He'd been rubbing at his scar. It was pain-free, but thinking about the war often sent his hand back to the physical memento.
"Call me Harry, yeah? I already call you Draco."
The blond considered it, cocking his head to the side. Harry watched as his hair, lank and dirty, tumbled as well.
"Fine."
They lapsed into silence again and Harry made no pretence of working, instead folding his fingers together and leaning his chin on them. Studiously, he watched Malfoy—Draco…? It would take some getting used to—until he caught the other man's attention.
Malfoy coughed. "What?"
"Would you tell me about the dreams? Something." Malfoy's chin was set in defiance, and Harry grasped for anything that might propel them forward. "What's your most vivid dream from the last two years or so? Perhaps something that reoccurs?"
"I do recall the day the snatchers brought you, Weasley, and Granger to the Manor."
Harry swallowed hard. Why did it always come back to him?
"What do you remember, in particular?"
"Every time I dream, I remember feeling lost."
Silence stretched out.
"And?" Harry inquired.
"I couldn't hand you over, not even when my life depended on it." He swallowed. "I've noticed I'm really bad at taking care of myself, actually."
He looked casually at his right hand, picking at a hangnail with his thumb. Harry ignored the posturing.
"Who usually takes care of you?"
Malfoy shrugged. "I get by."
"What do you need help with?"
"I forget things. I get caught up—I don't need to leave my flat, not so often. I'm frightened of—"
He broke off and Harry wished he could know what terrified Malfoy. It was vital—to the progress of their sessions, not to satisfy Harry's curiosity. Of course not.
"Draco," Harry said, earning him the burn of Malfoy's gaze, "with me, you don't have to be frightened. We'll take it slowly, but you need to talk about it."
The effort of maintaining his Healer image was not as great as Harry would have expected, though he was split, echoes of habits from a lifetime ago still tugging at him. Malfoy looked at him with distrust, a struggle playing out within him.
"For a year," he began slowly, "I wished for death. It didn't matter what form it took. I would have gladly taken torture over the unending hours of anticipation and terror. I wanted to lose my mind, Pott—Harry."
"And now?"
"Now," Draco whispered, "I worry that when I close my eyes, I'll never open them again—I'll lose control of everything. I feel like the floor will swallow me from below, like it'll catch me by the knee and pull—"