... If you're still sticking with this story, then I really, really, really am grateful for you. I served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from July 2014 to December 2015, and have spent the past few months coming back into school and work. It's been a thrill ride, but needless to say, left me little time to do the things I want to do. If you're a new reader, hooray! If you're an old reader, check back on chapter seven because I made a few changes. Not huge ones, but a few tweaks that I felt needed to be in there. You'll mainly notice that I changed Astoria's house because I think the idea of Astoria as a Hufflepuff has huge potential. Also because I read a tumblr post about Hufflepuffs and Slytherins that I felt encompassed the things I want in Astoria and Draco's relationship. I spent considerably time writing this and trying to find the mood I originally intended for this, and I hope I've managed to carry on what I started. Thank you for your patience and encouragement:)
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
It was in May that Healer Wood first told Draco about how their therapy sessions would continue. For weeks, they had been meeting and talking, which Draco had slowly grown used to, but the head Healers had come up with what they called an "advanced method of treatment."
"It's a different technique, one that the department has been working on for some time. We believe it will help you and the other patients exponentially Draco," she explained.
A file folder of notes and diagrams was opened on the desk on front of Draco. He flipped through the notes of human brain function, symptoms of something called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and a list of certain recurring habits he'd demonstrated.
Healer Wood put a finger on the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder sheet. "You've been here since January, and Healer Derwent believes this is what you are experiencing Draco."
Draco wrinkled his nose at the small handwriting, trying to understand the technical medical jargon used.
"Have you heard of this before?" she asked him.
He shook his head, continuing to read on.
"We actually learned about it from a Muggle-born healer. The Muggles call it PTSD. In all our research, we've learned that it usually develops in a person after they have experienced or witness something traumatic or terrifying in which they fear for their physical well-being. It could be any event that is life-threatening."
"This is rubbish," he said, looking up. "I'm a wizard, not a Muggle or a stupid Mudblood. I don't have whatever... This is."
"I'm going to read you a list of symptoms Draco," Healer Wood went on, unfazed. "These are the re-experiencing symptoms. Do you have flashbacks, or moments where you relive your trauma over and over? Do you have bad dreams or frightening thoughts.?"
He didn't say a word.
"Do you stay away from places, events, or objects that are reminders of your trauma? Have you lost interest in activities you once enjoyed? Do you feel strong guilt, depression, worry, or emotionally numb? Do you ever have troubling remember the traumatic event?"
He mentally answered no to the last one. He could remember every detail.
"Do you startle easily, feel tense, have trouble sleeping, or have angry outbursts?"
He thought about the endless nights of lying awake, with only Logan's snores and his own thoughts to entertain him. He thought of his only good nights were when Astoria would sneak in and talk with him until they both fell asleep. They'd been doing it for weeks now, and he still woke up from nightmares, but it seemed tolerable with her there.
"Do you often have negative thoughts about oneself or the world?"
Her gaze seemed to pierce his. She knew the answer to these questions.
"We've researched quite a bit about how PTSD is treated, which has been no easy task. Muggles rely heavily on what they call 'medicine' and we've had to transpose some of what they use over into potions. A particularly interesting therapy we've researched is called Exposure therapy, and we've added and tweaked to create our own."
She flipped the pages to a sheet Draco had skimmed over titled "Memory Therapy."
"What is this?" he asked.
"That's the specifics of what I've been talking about. They exposure therapy we've studied is based on the outcome of helping people face and control their fear. It exposes them to the trauma they've experienced, but in a safer environment. Of course, the Muggles don't have the skills we do and have to rely on things like imagining or writing."
At this point, the Healer reached into her desk and pulled out a silver basin. It wasn't as decorative as the one Draco had seen the Headmaster's office, but it was by and large the very same. "We believe that by pulling memories and storing them, we can expose you to them in a safe environment, and you will be able to cope with your feelings. It will also help us improve your potions to target the more specific parts of your brain that it needs to."
He read through the paper, his eyes scanning over words he couldn't fully comprehend. They would pull his memories. There was a spell would extract the worst of his memories and spill them into a basin for the Healers to view both with and without him present. They would know everything, all his worst secrets, the murders, the tortures, the fear. He would have to see it all again, plain as when it happened.
"No."
Healer Wood had been listing off the benefits of the treatment when he interrupted.
"Pardon?"
"No, I won't."
"Won't what?"
"I won't do this," he said flicking the papers back onto her desk. "You can't have my memories."
"But Draco we only want to..."
"You won't get them," he interrupted again, rising from his chair. "You never will."
He only could remember flashes of what happened next. Arguing. Screaming. Pulling his wand. Flashes of red. Then nothing. His next moment of consciousness was the blinding lights of his ward room. He ached all over, and when he tried to move, he found his wrists and ankles were magically bound. He struggled against them for a few moments, but he knew there was no breaking them.
"GET ME OUT!" he yelled. "LET ME OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!" The mediwizards were fast responders. Three of them managed to get a potion in his mouth despite his frantic attempts to fight them off. He faded back.
Come closer Draco.
He trembled as his aunt gestured for him to come look at the prisoners. There were three of them. Weasley and the Mudblood, and undoubtedly the third one was Potter. His face was swollen and stretched, so it was hard to tell, but it he knew anything, Granger and Weasley would never do something this stupid without Potter.
His aunt pushed him closer to them, a mad glint in her eyes. "Is it him Draco? Is it Potter?"
He knew what the answer was. He knew it was yes. His words tumbled out, "I don't know, maybe."
Potter's eyes locked on his, and he knew. "Maybe."
A cold scream filled the room, and Potter and his friends were gone. Blood was in pools everywhere. He was on the ground, trying to crawl away, but to no avail.
CRUCIO!
It was hard to tell if his or the Dark Lord's screams were louder.
When he awoke again, there were no restraints on his arms. The lights were dimmed in the room, and the sound of Logan's muffled snores were absent. Slowly, he raised himself up to see Astoria reclined in a plastic chair by the left side of his bed.
"Hey," she said.
He stared at her.
"How do you feel?"
He shrugged in response. She pushed herself forward, and he could see how bloodshot her eyes were. "You look like you haven't slept for days," he said finally.
"I haven't."
"Why?"
She looked him over. "Do you realize how long you've been under?" she asked him.
Under? He shook his head. "A few hours?"
"Try almost a week," she answered. "They had you in solitary confinement for about two days. Then they brought you back here, where you woke up screaming like a maniac, and then they put you back for another two days. Then they brought you here again and pumped potion after potion into you. They took your wand. You looked dead."
"All because I..."
"You attacked the healer," she finished for him.
Draco looked closer and he could see her eyes were puffy as well. Like she had been crying.
"She's okay though," Astoria continued. "Minor spell damage. The Medi-wizards were pretty fast about getting in there to you. She's probably back to work already."
"Did they do any spells on me?" he asked.
"Of course they did. They had to stun you. Several times."
"No, that's not what I mean," the panic rising in Draco's voice. "Astoria, did they pull any memories from me."
She looked at him strangely. "No."
Relief settled into his chest, and he sank back into the cot.
"Is that why this happened?" she asked, leaning on his bed. "They told you about the Memory Therapy."
He nodded. "I'm not doing it," he said, "I'm not letting them look at them."
"Why?" she asked, an edge to her voice. "It's supposed to help you Draco."
"It's not going to help me with anything," he snapped back. "They have no idea, and they can't just..."
"You don't know that it's not going to help," she argued. "What's the worst that can happen? Certainly it's better than the nightmares Draco. You wake up every night screaming. You've gotten back your appetite, but even then, you eat like a bird. You're going to die Draco, if you keep this up. You will die."
"Maybe I want to die," he muttered.
"What?"
"Maybe I want to leave this all behind Astoria."
"You're suicidal."
He snorted. "My mother didn't put me in here for nothing."
"Draco, you have to let them see what you're hiding. You can't give up on this now! What memory do you have that would justify dying!"
"Every single one! All of them. The Healers, they will see," he said harshly. "They'll see everything that I saw or did, and what's worse is they'll put in on full display for all the others to see and everyone will know what I did and what I didn't do."
"So this is about your pride then? You're worried that some group of Healers, who have to sign a non-bias agreement once they are hired, will think badly of you so you won't get the help you need..."
"You think this is about pride!" he interrupted. "Astoria you have no idea what happened to me!" He rolled up his sleeve, his Dark Mark glaring back at him. It was black against his arm like the remnants of a plague. There were jagged scars and folded edges of skin where he had tried to cut it off, but the skull would not be removed. It would always be there to remind him of the Dark Lord. He'd wake up at night with it burning him. He had scratched and clawed at it endlessly, his desire to be separated it bordering animalistic. The shame, the guilt, and the fear boiled inside him. "I was a Death Eater. I was a bloody Death Eater on His side of the war. And we were the bad guys. I am the bad guy, something most of the wizarding world is more than grateful to remind me of."
"Draco you aren't a bad guy," she cut in, placing a hand on his. "You aren't like them."
"Astoria, they tried to burn our Manor down. They ambushed me before I went in to trial. They almost kidnapped Mother. Everyone hates me."
"I don't hate you," she said softly.
"You wouldn't say that if you knew," he continued. "You wouldn't even want to be near me."
"I don't care what you did Draco," she answered. Her hand moved from his and rested itself on his Dark Mark. The skull was dark and ugly against his pale skin. With one finger, she began to trace the outline, then tracing in. Her touch was gentle. "You aren't your Mark Draco," Astoria whispered to him as she leaned down to press her lips to his arm.
It was then that he realized he'd let her get too close. She was too close to him, and she shouldn't be. He felt that venom in his body, the loathing. She was too good for him. Pure, untouched, innocent. She had no idea what happened to him and around him in the war. No idea what the Death Eaters had done. She would never understand.
Even more frightening was that he had allowed himself to get to close to her, closer than he ever should have.
"Astoria, please go."
She looked at him. "Why?" she asked softly.
"I don't want you here anymore. Go."
Her hand was still resting on his arm. "You're afraid," she said. "You're afraid of me."
He didn't want to. He didn't want her to leave him. In a matter of months, he'd been enchanted by her without even realizing. She was kind and smart and soft, and she had a way of looking at him that made him feel like the world was an okay place after all. If he could go back in time to Hogwarts, he would have liked to ask her to go to Hogsmeade with him. Pansy would have been furious. He would have liked to snog her senseless in a classroom at Hogwarts and skipped Quidditch practice to spend time with her. He would have loved to patronize her about being a know-it-all, and do things with her and visit her at whatever job she took because he knew she'd be brilliant at it. He'd love to give her hell about being a Hufflepuff, even though he actually enjoyed that because it made her so different and so much better than anyone he'd ever met. He hated himself for what he was doing.
"Go," he said firmly.
"No," she replied in a similar tone.
"Astoria, get out."
"Why?"
"Because I hate you. I hate you, and I don't want you to visit me again or come near me. You make things worse, and I don't want to see you." The words felt like poison as they left his mouth.
He saw her face crumble, and he was pretty sure that what was left of his heart disintegrated in his chest as he watched her. She stared at him, silent and dignified and betrayed all at once. She left without a word. He knew she wouldn't be back. People never came back to him once he told them to leave.
May 2nd was a day everyone remembered as the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts. Even a year later, the pain of it was still felt by most of the wizarding community. But perhaps no one felt the pain as strongly as Draco Malfoy did. For while most of the survivors turned to family members, friends, and other loved ones to share their grief, Draco Malfoy remained alone. At the time, he felt he deserved it.