XI.

Hermione's excited energy caught onto Harry just as tightly as her arms did. The smile was infectious and the embrace was returned wholeheartedly.

"It's wonderful to see you!" she said, breathless. Her skin, sun-kissed and glowing, was darker than it had been a few weeks earlier. She seemed relaxed and happy despite the incredibly early hour.

"You look amazing, Hermione," he said.

She grinned at him. "I'm sorry Ron couldn't be here to meet you, too. He had to stay and work late—a sorry reminder that our holiday is over."

Harry shook his head. "I'll see him soon, there's no problem."

He held open the door for her so that they might both emerge from the apparition point that was in the back room of a small restaurant in muggle London. She chattered happily about the weather, commenting on the grey skies and muggy air—so different from the open skies in the Caribbean.

They emerged onto the street with a nod at the restaurant owner.

They decided to walk to the east, though the roads were winding and narrow where they'd emerged and the route was unclear.

"Ron sent me to look at some flats," Hermione said. "I hope you don't mind that I invited you along?"

"Not at all, Hermione." He considered what she'd said for a second. "Are you two planning to move to London?"

She shrugged, cocking her head to the side. "My parents were thinking of moving, actually. Ron's recent interest in muggles—I swear, he's going to turn out just like his father, which is not something I like to think about, really… Right, he's been talking to my parents a lot and he got it in his head that he's going to move them closer to us. I'll tell you, they warmed right up to him when he mentioned starting a family."

They sidestepped a streetlight and stopped at the curb, waiting for the cars to pass.

Harry's mind was just as motionless at the mention of family. Secrets that seemed enormous in his throat caught inside of him.

Hermione urged him forward as the light turned green before he got caught in the crowd, holding him by the elbow.

"Harry," she said carefully, "how have you been?"

He knew she'd picked up on his discomfort, ever the perceptive Healer—always better than he, though she would never say so; it was known. She wasn't asking a general question, though, that much he knew.

"I haven't been seeing anyone, if that's what you're asking."

For some reason, Draco Malfoy popped into his head, though Harry smothered the thought.

He managed to keep the blond in question out of conversation until they made it to the first flat of three. It was rather small, up on the highest level, and looked out on nothing special. Hermione appraised the narrow hallway as Harry trailed behind her.

"What do you think?" she asked him, though she wasn't really looking for an answer. "It's probably not very pleasant up here in the winter. Hmm…."

She rounded a corner and gasped.

Harry narrowly avoided bumping into her when she stopped dead in her tracks, looking at the boldly painted mural on the walls. It was a swirl of reds, oranges, and yellows that crawled around the perimeter of the kitchen.

"Maybe not," she said, just as Harry spoke.

"Draco would hate this." The comment was meant to be for himself, though keeping it internal somehow escaped him.

Hermione turned to him, eyebrow arched. "Malfoy, you mean?"

"Er… yes."

"I don't think I've heard that name from you in years," she said slowly. "What on earth do you mean?"

"Nothing," Harry answered, trying to evade the confession that would have to come.

"Have you seen him, Harry?"

He shrugged.

"When? Where? What happened?"

"It's nothing important."

Hermione looked unconvinced. She dropped the topic until they were back out on the street, apologizing to the landlord. Hermione told him that she wasn't interested twice before he understood, and they walked away from the building in silence for a few moments. They were on their way back to the apparition point, making it about halfway before turning south.

She chose that moment to ask him again.

"So, what happened with Malfoy?"

"I saw him," Harry said. "It's been a while."

She huffed. "You say that as though the two of you caught up over drinks or something, but that's hard to believe. Harry, you can trust me!"

"I know, Hermione." Harry paused, trying to word his thoughts in a way that wouldn't provoke her further. She would find out eventually, when she returned to work. "It's confidential, anyway."

"What?"

"I saw him at the hospital."

He made it a few steps, aware that she stayed stuck in place, falling back. Then, she was running to catch up with him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and he was being whirled around and pushed against the fence beside which they happened to be walking.

Slowly, so that he wouldn't miss a single syllable, she asked, "Harry, are you trying to tell me that Malfoy is a patient of yours?"

He nodded.

"And you didn't think to send him elsewhere?"

"Do you think I can't handle it?"

She stepped back, throwing her hands into the air. "I can't believe it. I'm gone for two weeks and you find Malfoy, of all people… How is it possible?"

"It's fine, Hermione. We haven't killed each other."

She fixed him with a glare that he matched. "It's not healthy for you."

"I don't need you to tell me what's good for me and what isn't!"

"You do if you think it's responsible to be Malfoy's Healer after everything—"

"I've been helping him."

"For yourself or for him?"

Harry curled his fingers into fists. "What the fuck does that mean?"

"The way you treated Malfoy in school, Harry, was something isolated and done. You can't make up for it by toying with delicate matters. Healing is serious."

"Why is it hard to believe that I'm taking things seriously?"

"I don't know, Harry," she said, voice shrill, "perhaps it's because you've both tried to kill each other as many times as you've saved one another, and you're in this situation again. It's dangerous. Life or death situations, surprisingly enough, take a toll."

"I am capable of making my own decisions," Harry said heavily.

She started walking, arms crossed and jaw set. Harry waited a few moments, trying to collect himself, and then caught up to her. There were tears in her eyes.

"I'm just trying to protect you," she said. "Malfoy and you were never any good. You know that, Harry."

"Let's talk about something else," he said, working hard to keep his voice steady. He knew that, inevitably, they'd come back to the topic at some time.

Luckily, Harry had a chance to collect himself. The second flat was nearby, just beside the underground, which Hermione seemed to like.

"Have you ever taken the tube, Harry?" she asked, and everything was fixed—the tension receded, the silence finally broken.

"Never," he answered.

"I'll take you, one day," she promised.

They looked at the second flat in amicable semi-silence, only commenting on what they saw. Harry knew by the look in Hermione's eyes that she wasn't quite done with him. Her gaze lingered on him for longer than necessary, weighing something in her mind.

Of course, she waited until they were in the third flat to bring it up again, trying for tact.

"Harry," she began.

"Yes?"

She paused for a moment. "You're not… I mean… With Malfoy—you're not obsessing again, are you?"

"What?" Harry's indignation rose in his throat. "Of course I'm not! We're not in school, Hermione."

"I know, I know," her placating tone was still abrasive, rubbing against his nerves unpleasantly. "It's just that your relationship was so destructive in sixth year."

"It's different now."

"I know," she said, though he knew she didn't. "He's not… up to anything, is he? He's been gone for a while."

"France," Harry answered. "And if you're mocking me, I'll have to ask you to stop. Of course he isn't up to anything. I'm helping him."

"All right," she said, unconvinced. "If you say so. Now that I'm back, though—"

"I'm not transferring him to you."

Her eyes widened. "Why not?"

Harry didn't have a good answer. "Because."

"If he's rightfully my patient, we should follow protocol."

"We've been making good progress."

"Harry." There was a warning in her tone that Harry resented.

"His release is soon, anyway. It isn't worth the paperwork."

Hermione's eyes glinted at the mention. "Speaking of which, Harry," she said, smoothly sliding into the other topic Harry didn't want to touch, "have you spoken to anyone else about the letters you've been receiving?"

"Lay off, Hermione. Look, number 86. We're here, aren't we?"

"We are." She wasn't, of course, easily deterred. "You have to get to the bottom of that before it turns into something more serious. You know that."

"It'll work out," he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "What aren't you telling me, Harry? You know I worry."

"Nothing, I swear. Hermione, drop it."

He said it knowing that she wasn't one to finish with a topic before examining it thoroughly. Now that they had breached it, she would probably spend her time thinking about it and start meddling, as she tended to do.

"It's personal, which means that it isn't nothing. Sometimes, it's hard to tell when something is affecting you negatively, especially when you're prone to obsession." She raised a hand to stop him. "Your obsession over him is a given, Harry."

"I'm not obsessed."

"I hope you aren't, Harry, believe me." She let out a breath of air. "Ron's going to kill you."

Harry raised his chin in defiance, meeting her gaze challengingly. "He can't stop me from doing my job, silly grudges aside. Malfoy's different now."

She looked back at him thoughtfully. "You don't want me to tell him, do you?"

"I don't care. There's nothing I have to hide." He wasn't bluffing, he told himself. "Now, enough about me. Tell me more about your honeymoon." Please.

She gave him a long look.

"Fine, if changing the topic means that much to you—" she raised a hand at his protesting. "The weather was great, and there was a group of tourists from Spain there. One night, they started complaining about the "luz", the light, when it started getting dark. Of course, Ron took it to be an insult against me—like they were calling me loose, so on the second day of our holiday, he got into a fistfight with some muggles."

Harry couldn't contain the laughter that rose at the story, imagining the red-faced Ron charging at unsuspecting muggles. "You let him fight over you?"

She shrugged, a small smile playing at her lips. "It isn't my fault he never studied Spanish. Honestly."

"How is Ron, anyway?"

Hermione grinned. "He's great. Relaxing was wonderful." Her brow creased when her expression grew troubled. "Hopefully, we'll be out of Molly's hair soon, and then we can really settle in."

"Marriage seems to suit you," he commented.

"Thank you," she answered. Then, leaning closer to him, she whispered, "I think it's the sex."

Harry recoiled, pulling a face. "And that's where I stop being interested," he said. "Hermione, that was terrible."

She probably didn't hear him over her laughter. Harry joined in soon enough.

XII.

Harry was in a good mood by the time he finished with Hermione, despite the hiccups. She'd been good company, despite the early hour and he apparated to the Hospital for the last of his share of Hermione's shifts, a mid-morning to mid-afternoon one.

As he climbed the stairs, deciding it was more rewarding than taking the lift, Harry tried to focus himself on his work. He had three patients to meet.

The first was Draco.

Just as Harry sat at his desk and pulled out a fresh notepad and his usual quill, the door burst open. Draco, who stood just behind, stared at him with glowing skin that, finally, looked scrubbed clean. For once, Harry could see the aristocratic upbringing that Draco had boasted about for so long.

Perhaps it was an effect of the dark blue robes or perhaps it was the way Malfoy was holding himself, but he was confident and brilliant. A brightness illuminated the sharp cut of his features from the inside, softening them.

Harry stood to greet him, caught up on the strong lines of Draco's posture and the confidence in his stride.

"Draco! You—"

The blond cut him off. "I've been trying some more spells," he said, the words bursting from him.

"And it went well?" Harry knew it had, judging by Draco's mood.

"Very." Draco took his usual seat with a flourish, shaking his hair back and out of his face. It was clean and shining, healthy-looking like the rest of him.

"Describe it to me."

Draco took a breath, settling into the seat. Harry marvelled at Draco's lowered guard displayed—he wasn't sure he could have been as casual if the situation had been reversed.

"I transfigured thread to needles and then back, changed the thread's colour, and then levitated it exactly where I meant to. I continued to try the spells, working on heavier objects, and then levitated my bed!"

Harry's eyes were wide by the time Draco finished listing what he'd done. "That's incredible progress for the space of twenty-four hours!"

"Thank you."

Harry smiled at him, but Draco wasn't finished.

"You were the one that got my magic flowing again, Harry."

"What do you mean?" Harry feigned ignorance.

Draco sighed, tilting his head down and looking at Harry through his eyelashes. "I guess—I think…Your magic pushed mine up. I suppose… your method worked."

Harry cleared his throat. "Hmm… It's possible, but I have to say that this is mostly you." He worked to keep himself from rushing his sentences. Magic is a habit, hard to forget. You were just out of practice. It should come quickly, now."

Both Draco's initiative and his progress were promising, Harry thought. If anyone had told him two weeks earlier that he would be thinking such a thing, he would have laughed. Still, there was an unshakable warmth in the pit of his stomach that didn't allow itself to be ignored.

There was still something missing.

Bringing up the phobia to Draco could go very badly, and Harry had to tread carefully. He almost couldn't bear to wipe the smile from Draco's features.

Harry pushed up his glasses.

"Draco," he began, "your time here is growing short—we can schedule sessions if you'd like, of course—but I have to tell you that I'm very impressed with our progress here in the time that we've had. Still, there's something big that we haven't managed to discuss."

Draco looked down. "Right. I know."

What luck! "Can you tell me about it?"

"I actually don't remember much from the trials—not mine and especially not theirs."

Harry blinked, uncomprehending. He let Draco continue.

"My mother's sentence is shorter than my father's. I can visit them once every six months, though not both at once. The details are easy, but thinking about it… well, I draw a blank."

"Your parents." Harry realized, finally, that Draco had misinterpreted. "What do you think about them before the war?"

Draco shifted his weight. "I think they had room and a desire to protect me, but they chose to uphold radical ideas in the name of tradition. In the end, the latter outweighed any attempt at the former. And it nearly killed me."

"Do you resent them for that?"

"Yes." Draco's vehemence was palpable, hot in the air. As suddenly as it had come, the strength dissipated and he sagged in place. "But if they were free, I wouldn't be able to tell them that."

Harry managed to catch a glimpse of a younger Draco whose every pompous word was backed by his parents. From this perspective, looking back, he realized that the arrogant assertions of superiority had been overcompensation for fear of disappointing his parents.

Draco had to be honest with them, Harry knew.

"How did you feel when they were putting that pressure on you?"

Draco shrugged. "It wasn't pressure, at least not then, because I'd never known better." Harry understood and nodded. "It didn't strike me as wrong until I was asked to—"

"Kill Dumbledore." Harry remembered that Draco wasn't completely innocent. Then again, he hadn't spoken the spell, and there were details that Harry hadn't known then that changed the situation.

Draco gulped. "Yes."

"Do you feel you've failed them?"

"I have." Draco shook his head, closing his eyes. He pressed his hand to his forehead, as though thinking about it gave him a headache. Repressing emotions could have physical consequences, Harry knew, and it was obvious with Draco. He pressed his lips together tightly, then said, "I was never quite good enough. My manners weren't perfect. My Outstandings were too low. I was the only heir, but I would never be as successful as my father or as intelligent as my mother."

"In your childhood, how did you sense their approval?" Harry's line of questioning was growing more and more personal, he could tell, because Malfoy seemed to shrink back.

"My father never voiced it. He used to offer monetary reward for certain tasks. Sometimes, he used to get a look—I saw it most in the beginning, when I would survive a Cruciatus without shedding a tear. Even that stopped, eventually."

Harry let out a breath. "Would you believe that I can relate?"

Draco met his gaze, raising an eyebrow. "No."

"I lived with my aunt and uncle, since my parents were dead and the familial relation offered me some protection."

Draco nodded quickly, just a small dip of his chin.

Harry continued. "During my time in their care—if I can call it that—I was treated very poorly. Different from your upbringing, I agree, because it was very modest, but I didn't hear a word of approval in eleven years, and they lied to me about magic."

"You didn't know you were a wizard." Draco looked like he hadn't known that, repeating what Harry had said as though to convince himself.

Harry shrugged. "As I studied to become a Healer, specializing in the mind, I realized some of the effects of that treatment. I could never take compliments or adoration, even when it was justified. I was used to living in cramped spaces—do you believe that they had me in the cupboard under the stairs?" Draco's face communicated horror.

"I recently lived in a large house, actually, left to me by Sirius Black. I believe it to be your mother's ancestral home… I occupied in one room, a bathroom, and the kitchen. I was cramped, despite the space available in the rest of the house, and realized I needed to start anew to start forming new habits. In any case, I know what it means to long for approval and to feel the effects of it years later. I understand why you needed to get away."

Draco had a funny look on his face, both hands curled together in his lap, eyes locked on them. "You don't understand me, Potter. You're not like me."

Harry felt a surge of anger. "We lived different lives, yes, but you can't deny that you were affected by your childhood."

"Maybe I was, but you have no right to tell me things about myself. You're wrong."

Harry cocked his head to the side. "Still, we both found ourselves here. I'd say I have some insight."

Silence stretched on as Draco tried to recover from that, eyes downcast.

Weakly, he started, "I ran away and would have stayed away if not for my magical problems. I wasn't strong enough to stay away."

"You aren't weak." Harry took a risk, bringing himself back into the conversation. "I went back to talk to my aunt and uncle after the war—I managed to settle some things. They didn't apologize and we haven't spoken since, but I put my worrying to rest. My aunt apologized for lying to me—my mother was her sister. My cousin has a son. The boy reminds him of me, apparently, which is just my luck. I needed closure, though, and so do you."

"I'm nothing more than a child." Malfoy's voice was thick, words bitter.

"That isn't a crime, and a child needs his parents. Have you been to visit?"

"Not once. I was in France with no plans to return."

An idea, just a small seed, planted itself in Harry's mind.

"Did your parents write to you, when we were in Hogwarts?"

Something shifted subtly in Draco, relaxation, perhaps.

"No."

Harry needed to press forward.

"Would you mind if I wrote them? Perhaps you might take a trip with me?"

Wide grey eyes filled with frantic energy. "To—"

Harry shrugged. "Azkaban, at least."

Just then, there was an owl knocking at Harry's window, distracting them both. Before Harry could react to its presence, it was flying right in, squeezing through the crack that Harry had allowed for the sake of air circulation. Both Harry and Draco followed its movement, Harry with dread and Draco with confusion.

The air seemed thick, the bird moving in slow motion, eyes fixed on Harry before it dropped its package into his lap.

It was a small, unsuspecting envelope.

Harry stared at it.

The trance was broken with Draco's question. "Are you going to open it?"

With Draco's prompting, Harry noticed that it had a Healer's seal and was marked important. Safe, probably. He let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Yes, of course."

Dismay hit Harry straight in the chest when he read the letter.

"What is it?"

"Nothing important." He picked it up gingerly and threw it onto the pile of mail that he had collected on his desk.

"Potter, you're white as a sheet!" Annoyance was ringing in Draco's words, as though offended that Harry might be lying.

"Nothing."

"Harry!"

"They usually have some threats. The usual, you know."

"Threats?"

"On my life. Saviour of the World stuff. Don't worry." Harry shoved the paper into the third drawer on his desk. "It happens."

Draco muttered to himself for a moment, glowering at Harry. "I'll kill them. Fucking thankless imbeciles. You've always surrounded yourself with the worst crowd, Harry."

"Does that include you?"

"I'll leave that assessment up to you, Healer Potter."

"Fuck off."

"For all I know, they're racy letters from an excited witch. You could be lying."

"I'm not a liar, Malfoy. That's you."

"Actually, I think I've been very honest with you, thank you."

"Then you should own up to being a complete prat when we were in school. Any crowd was better than yours."

"In my crowd, we stopped blushing at the mention of sex by third year."

"I'm not blushing!"

"White to red—who would have thought that you were just as multicoloured as Weasley? I'm sure you have other talents."

"I—well… actually yes, I do."

"Always so modest. What do the threats consist of?"

The abrupt changes of topic were going to give Harry whiplash. "Er… they tell me they've been watching me—"

"Undress?" Malfoy's cheeky interjection was ignored, and even he didn't crack a smile at it.

"—and following me. Apparently, I'm going to get what I deserve, soon enough."

"Idiots. You don't deserve that shit. Do you know who's sending it? From what I saw, their penmanship is as poor as yours—that should narrow it down considerably."

"Hey!"

"Just one of my—what do you call them?—observations, Harry." His tone was sardonic, his anger powerful. For some reason, it calmed Harry. It was something he was used to.

"You're still a git, I hope you know."

"I'd like to rephrase that for you. I'm fair. If I'm honest, I'll tell you that you've helped me quite a bit. Since I'm proud, I won't thank you for it, because it's your job. Still, I do appreciate it and will return the favour, somehow."

Harry considered that. "Stop teasing me about my sex life—which you know nothing about, thank you very much—and we'll call it even."

Draco let out a laugh, which was shocking in itself. Harry froze in his place for a fraction of a second, heart squeezing painfully.

"We'll see."