VII.

Ginny had always accused him of bringing his responsibilities home with him. She'd complained at his constant studying, back when he'd lived with the Weasleys. Once, she had told him that he always carried the war within arm's reach as though the suffering comforted him.

She had never understood that it wasn't the suffering, it was the recovery.

Still, it was undeniable that Malfoy's suffering was stuck firmly on his mind. He couldn't avoid it. The image of Malfoy's fear had been burned into his mind's eye.

Inside of him, the desire to help Malfoy burned with great intensity. There was too much weakness in Malfoy for Harry to take much pleasure in his pain, no matter how much he wanted to. It was a maddening assignment to figure Malfoy out and, on top of that, he was actually meant to help. The situation was absurd in its reality and in Harry's strong desire to fulfill it.

Harry wondered if Hermione had felt so strongly for school assignments, because he recognized her in his single-mindedness. He'd have to wait to ask—her message for his birthday had arrived late, through the Muggle post from some tropical island, Ron's signature attached hastily. He couldn't begrudge the lovebirds.

Merlin, he wished there was someone he could consult. His mind was full.

Too many questions lingered unanswered for the situation to drop its grip on Harry's concentration. One glaring detail that was amiss, in Harry's mind, was that Malfoy hadn't demanded his wand again.

It was his right, as a wizard, to have one. Though Harry had the authority to deny him for up to seven days on grounds of instability, it was unimaginable to Harry that the great Draco Malfoy would forget to request his wand again.

Then again, Harry had to understand the reluctance as pride. He'd already lost his wand once to Harry. To ask for it again would be shameful.

Again, his thoughts came back to the dream that Draco had mentioned. That night with the snatchers—his most poignant memory in two years.

Harry'd taken his wand that night.

Hermione had been tortured. Ron had nearly gone mad with fear.

And now they were married and happy, and Harry couldn't be prouder. He and Ginny had even helped at the wedding, forging a tentative friendship after several months of silence. He was glad she was doing well with Dean.

But where's Malfoy's happy ending?

Harry was shocked by the thought, wrenching his train of thought back to its rightful course, thoroughly unnerved.

He rather missed Ginny's company and loud presence sometimes, though their break-up had been for the best. Not even mentioning his inclination for the same sex, they were two hot-tempered people. She worked away from the city, he worked nights… it would never have worked.

The reminiscing came to a firm stop when he tripped over an unpacked box, and he struggled to regain his footing. He'd moved from Grimmauld, dark with its ancient magic and crazy portraits, very recently.

Harry liked having a place to himself, though the quiet flat it was lonelier than he'd imagined. Hot, admittedly, but quiet so that his thoughts seemed loud in comparison.

The heat wave continued, and Harry considered getting robes like Malfoy's that were made for the humidity and wouldn't stifle him when he stole out of his messy flat for a walk in the foggy summer evenings.

Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy.

His mind buzzed with the name, only to correct himself immediately with a symphony of: call him Draco. Draco, Draco, Draco.

Their strange dynamic had little to do with patient-Healer relationships and everything to do with their past. That elusive past on which Harry couldn't place a finger because it twisted like smoke, just out of his reach. Something big was haunting Malfoy and, although he'd spoken briefly about his family and his fears, Harry had the feeling that they hadn't covered the most important topic.

He also suspected that Malfoy knew what they were skirting around. Malfoy was stalling, perhaps. Harry empathized, never having been one to discuss his emotions, especially not with former enemies.

How strange that Malfoy had once seemed to be his biggest rival.

Harry's struggle to even remember why was embarrassing. It felt wrong to give it up, though.

An owl landed on his windowsill and alerted him to its presence by pecking at the glass—a tinny tap tap tap—and Harry mindlessly waved a wand at it to allow the bird entry. When he realized what he had done, the letter was already at his feet and the owl was flying back out into the hazy horizon.

He pushed the letter with his toe, a heavy worry curling in his gut. He stooped down, trying to talk himself into picking it up, but it took him three counts to three before he finally managed to move a muscle.

With shaking hands, heart in his throat, Harry opened the first one.

The letter read as usual:

Be careful, Potter. We're always watching and we're waiting to strike. It shouldn't be long now. You can change the route you walk every day—we'll always find you.

For your sake, don't return to Madam Malkin's. Then again, it probably won't matter. Soon, you will understand—you will be put in your place, just as you deserve.

Warmest regards,

The Occluded

Harry balled the threatening letter up and threw it towards the bin, where it hit the rim and toppled onto the floor just outside it. Harry removed his glasses, rubbing at his eyes with his hand.

There was a choppiness about the missives that didn't just come from the way cut-out letters from the Daily Prophet were pasted haphazardly, as in a ransom note. It was always harsh and threatening, and stiflingly, mockingly polite.

For a while, he'd thought it might be Grimmauld's darkness that was bringing threats to his doorstep every morning. He hadn't even connected them in the beginning, believing them to be isolated incidents. Then, they'd started being sent to his office.

He'd moved partly in hopes that the barrage of unsavoury mail would be deterred, but it seemed to have found its way to him again.

Ron hadn't been able to find anything out on the group in question, even with his Auror sources, and since there had never been an overt attack, Harry could almost fool himself into thinking it was nothing. Being the Boy-Who-Lived was hard.

Trying to put the worry from his mind, Harry grabbed a cold sandwich from the fridge. Food distracted his stomach and, in turn, his mind, so he chewed and thought of Malfoy. The usual.

VIII.

"Good morning," Harry offered as Malfoy stepped into the room.

A nod was his response, but it was a step up from what they had started with. Harry didn't have the energy to feel anything but relief that they were still moving forwards.

"Today, I wanted to go back to that night at Malfoy Manor—forgive me for using the name."

He watched Malfoy's reaction closely. Malfoy's eyes narrowed just enough to be noticeable, his back stretched in a practiced fashion, straightening his shoulders. It was with very great care that Malfoy sat down.

"I don't have any more to say."

Harry waited, watching Malfoy squirm under his gaze. He reached into the pocket of his robes and Harry saw him fumble with something inside—probably ice.

That meant he'd made Malfoy uncomfortable—not necessarily a bad thing, but it indicated that he needed to tread carefully. After more than a week of careful observation—more careful even than sixth year—Harry thought he could tell those small ticks apart.

"Can you describe your wand to me?"

Harry didn't need to look at the wand analysis report to know. He'd had the description stuck in his mind since Ollivander's assessment.

"10 inches, hawthorn and unicorn hair."

"Good." Harry tried to keep his voice soothing.

It was only the result of great determination on Harry's part that he'd become a Healer, and he knew from training and experience that when he wanted to work up to a point, he had to do it very slowly. He'd liked the training, relishing the control it gave him to curb his temper.

"Do you remember purchasing it?"

Draco shrugged. "I don't see why that—"

Harry reached for his quill and pointed it at Draco as though it were a wand. "Please, just answer the question."

"Yes." His nose twitched. "It was the first day I met you."

Merlin. Did all of Malfoy's memories involve him?

"Did you use magic at the Manor?"

A curt nod, but Harry knew he'd done well to drop the Malfoy.

"You grew up very closely with magic, is that correct?"

"I loved to read books from…. from Father's library. And then I experimented with some basic spells."

Harry beamed. "Wonderful. Whose wand did you use after the battle with the snatchers?"

Draco's chest sagged for a moment with a quick exhalation. "My mother's."

It was little more than a whisper.

"How did it feel?"

"Incomplete." The answer was quick, right on the tip of Draco's tongue, ready for Harry's question.

"When I gave your wand back after the trial," Harry started, "how did that feel?"

Silence.

"Draco." Harry was insistent, having seen the way Draco froze in place. "How did it feel?"

Malfoy just shrugged, pushing his toes against the floor so that his knees rose slightly. Defensive. Harry's critical eye swept over the gesture.

"It felt good."

Lie. Harry could hear it in the waver of his voice, see it in the fumbling of Malfoy's fingers in his pocket, and feel it in the precarious danger of the silence that followed.

In a hushed tone, leaning forward to Malfoy, Harry said, "Describe that feeling."

Harry knew Draco would have nothing to say. If he tried to lie again, Harry would certainly know.

"You have to understand—" Draco's voice cracked, taking Harry by surprise. Harry's heart was pounding, so close to an explanation. He could feel Malfoy's fear as though he were using Legilimency.

"That wand… I did… I nearly did so many terrible things. I couldn't take the wand back."

Harry blinked. "Explain that."

"After you returned my wand, I disappeared…"

"To France," Harry helped.

Malfoy cast his gaze down, all jerky movements and heaving breaths, "I lived as a muggle." He closed his eyes. "I've hardly used my wand since the war."

Harry couldn't respond.

"I've only touched it when necessary to make my dreamless sleep." His voice was hoarse, rasping at the end of the sentence.

Reality and what Draco was saying—for they couldn't be one and the same—were violently ripped apart, leaving Harry confused.

"A muggle?"

It was almost like Malfoy thought Harry would object to that decision. It wasn't judgement, though, it was simply shock.

"Didn't you live in your family home in France?"

"No." Malfoy crossed his arms, withdrawing his hand from his pocket to lean back in the new position. "I'd just hoped you would think so."

"Wow." Everything did make a little more sense.

"I know."

"But that—that means…" Harry let out a long breath, unable to resist reaching for his quill to scribble down some thoughts. He felt Malfoy's inquisitive stare on his skin as he wrote.

"Right," he said a few moments later, "I'd reckon it was a combination of not using your magic and not resting that caused your to become so volatile. Am I right to guess that magical instability was the reason you returned to the wizarding world? Fatigue and stress can play a large role in that, as well as trauma."

Malfoy pinched a tendril of hair between two fingers and twisted it.

"I thought… I don't know what I thought. I hoped being around magic would make me relax."

"It is safer here. Draco, I lived in the muggle world for a long time. It's dangerous to be told your magic is wrong."

But muggles hadn't been the ones telling him he was wrong—it had been Malfoy himself.

His eyes met Harry's, and there was something bright just behind the surface that Harry wished he could understand. He struggled to find malice in his intentions. Harry had surpassed that, at some point.

"Yes. It's much safer here."

"How did you spend your time in muggle France?"

"I did many things," Draco said evasively. "I had money, so I didn't work. I walked around a lot. I made some friends, but it's hard to maintain anything when it's impossible to talk about the past. The… last few months have been quiet."

Harry knew what that was like. Hell, he'd lived his childhood in isolation.

"And the ice…?" He had to ask.

Draco looked despondent. "I bought it, already charmed, about six months ago." He glanced up, nervous. "It helped."

"Ah." Harry gave him a moment to breathe again. "Draco, would you accept your wand if I were to return it right now?"

Harry opened the first drawer, the tiny strip of wood looking minuscule in the mostly-empty space.

"I—Do you think it would help?"

Harry's hand closed around the wand, pulling it out slowly as he spoke. "I think we need to re-train your body. With natural functions—magical and chemical—disrupted for so long, we'll have to ease you back into it as we untangle the rest."

Draco nodded, swallowing hard. Again, Harry's eyes followed the bob of his throat. His usual explanation to himself—that he was drawn to Malfoy's weak points, mind trained to want to attack him—lacked vitriol.

"Do you think it's safe?"

"I wouldn't be returning it if I didn't."

With that, Harry stood and offered the wand to Draco, who rose and came closer. There was a moment of hesitation before his fingers touched the wood. His eyes closed as he took it from Harry's grip, sliding it slowly between his fingers until it was all Malfoy's again.

Draco held it in proper duelling position, thin fingers perfectly arranged around the end. His wrist looked stiff, though his preparation was immaculate. Harry had to admire the energy that coursed from Malfoy to the wand. There was just something powerful about the way every muscle seemed angled towards the tip of the wand, poised for action.

He leaned forward just slightly, ready to strike. Harry had to stop himself from shivering at the sight.

Malfoy froze, the picture of peace.

Then he gasped for air, a desperate sound. A loud clatter sounded out. His eyes were flying back open, wild and frantic, and Malfoy's face was deathly pale.

He took a few steps back, hand immediately searching his pocket. He pulled out the ice cubes and pressed them to his forehead.

"I can't do it, Potter."

"Draco—you can."

In that moment, Malfoy was the poster boy of suffering, one lip worried by his teeth, forehead leaning into his hand. His other arm circled around his own waist, holding himself together.

Disrupting the silence, Harry's fireplace suddenly crackled. It glowed green with magical flames as though someone were calling him. Both pairs of eyes widened, meeting before moving to the unexpected interruption.

Malfoy's eyes went impossibly round, fixating on the flickering.

As though in slow motion, Malfoy's mouth fell open and he dropped the ice cubes. His body clattered to the floor in the same second, falling just as lifelessly.

Harry was already moving, wand pointed and mouth spilling wards and spells at the fire.

There was dizzying movement, energy shifting in the room. Heat licked through the air, unnatural and dry. The green still glowed, and Malfoy's pale skin reflected the sickly light. Harry stared into the fire, hoping for an answer.

His mind raced. He didn't understand. Hermione would have, no doubt. But this one was only up to him.

Using his body as a physical shield between the fire and the helpless, panicked Malfoy, Harry waited.

An eternity later, the fire finally went out. Time continued to tick away. Then nothing.

No one stepped through. No one firecalled.

The fireplace was supposed to be set against incoming calls during sessions. What had that been?

It was a worry for another time, because Draco was rocking back and forth. Just as he caught Harry's eye, Harry ran over to him and dropped his wand arm. Malfoy's knees were bent and pulled in towards his chest. He was muttering under his breath.

Harry whispered a surreptitious accio, closing his hand around the ice, and raised it to Malfoy's forehead.

That time, the charmed cubes didn't melt, instead making Harry's fingers numb with cold. Malfoy's breathing, thankfully, returned to normal rather quickly. Harry knew what to expect, and it was a step forward, at least, that Malfoy wasn't shouting or writhing.

Fire. I'm so stupid—Malfoy was right about that, at least. Fire, of course.

When he had a moment to think, Harry put the pieces together.

Fiendfyre. Hogwarts. Crabbe's spell in the Room of Requirement. Harry's rescue.

It made sense—from the sensitivity to heat to the resistance to hearing about Hogwarts.

Though it was an incredible shame that Malfoy had been so traumatized, it was understandable. Now that Harry knew what he was dealing with—and he could feel that fire had been the missing piece to the full picture—it would be much easier to begin to treat.

Luckily, fire was mostly avoidable in daily life.

All Malfoy had to do was start slowly, just as he would with spell-casting. Harry would help him. It wasn't about revenge; Malfoy needed his help.

He could hardly contain his burning desire to do something, robes suddenly too tight around him.

Every thought Harry had was thrown from his mind when Malfoy wrapped shaking arms around him, nearly knocking him off balance and throwing him to the floor. The world seemed to stop, incomprehensible.

"I've got you."

Moments passed, and Harry found himself uncomfortable with the proximity to Malfoy. In a good way, which was all the more confusing.

He caught himself about to say Malfoy, corrected himself, and then asked, "Draco?"

But he was still somewhere else, locked in his mind. Harry wondered if he was reliving the broom ride out of the Room of Requirement and allowed the embrace. Still, he trailed the ice over the skin he had access to, over the crest of his nose and into the dip of his cheeks. It was a pattern with Harry following the same path over and over again.

Some time later, Malfoy released him and returned to full control of his faculties. He looked ashamed, though Harry was quick to reassure him.

"It's all right," he said a few times. Draco only looked away every time he said it.

"It's usually much worse," Draco offered after a few attempts at words. Harry clung to every one of them. His thirst to know his once-enemy was overpowering. "It felt like it was going to go much worse than it did today. I think it was easier because of you."

Harry nodded in understanding. He was treading dangerous water, allowing a patient to think he was something special instead of a means to a greater end. It had to be the calming draught at work. Or something.

A knock at Harry's door interrupted any other comments they would have liked to make.

"I'm sorry, Healer Potter, but you have one more session scheduled before your shift is finished," said his secretary, bowing his head as he spotted that Draco was still there, still seated beside him, still so close to Harry.

Harry nodded at the reprieve and leaned back against his desk, balancing his weight on his hands.

"You're in luck, Draco," he said, clearing his throat. "We both get a chance to recover. Take your potion. We'll continue tomorrow. I'd like to start talking about the nightmares and to start some magic exercises."

Malfoy nodded, face pinched with stress. He gathered his robes around him as though they could protect him, darting his eyes to the fireplace quickly.

Harry cursed himself again for not having realized it earlier. Fire.

As Malfoy's back turned to him, Harry spotted Draco's wand, off to the side. He quickly snatched it up.

"Don't forget this," he called out, taking a few steps to overtake Malfoy.

Harry turned it so that he held the tip and offered Malfoy the blunt end, just enough space between them for the wand to fit. Malfoy's fingers wrapped around it again, and then he pushed the wand into his pocket.

"Thank you," he said, then brushed past Harry to leave the office, bumping their shoulders together in the process.

Harry didn't think he'd ever heard Malfoy say that to him seriously.

For a moment, he was almost offended about that, ready to shout at Malfoy and tell him so, but it occurred to Harry that he hadn't been kind to Malfoy either. The push and pull of their interactions was sure to drive him mad. If it hadn't already, he thought.

Woeful that he still had another patient, Harry walked back to his seat and ruffled through his files until he found the one in question.

"Come in!" he shouted, hardly looking up.

The woman sat in the comfortable chair and Harry carefully but disinterestedly listened to what she had to say. He wondered, in the privacy of his own mind when she became particularly long-winded, when Hermione was coming back. He rather enjoyed the night shifts—mornings just didn't cut it for him.

Except for Malfoy. What else was new?