"We're going to put you just here, Harry." The words rang and hit my head like knives. My hair splayed against the cold metal my head was sat upon. I felt myself squirming, uncomfortable, and confused. My hands tried to reach out but were held tightly by metal cuffs. My legs kicked but were confined by braces, reaching up to my knees. I tried to hold on to every moment, but it was slipping, slipping away…
"Any dark thoughts, Harry?" It was the uncomfortable question, broached each time I went. The therapist had been recommended through the ministry. The therapist, Dr. Morti, was a plump man, quite short in stature, with rosy cheeks, and a beard that reached his knees. Though his overall appearance was welcoming, his demeanor always had a look of concern, of uncertainty. Perhaps this was due to the clientele he received—some of the hardest cases the ministry had to offer. Either way, I couldn't help but admit counseling was slowly improving my relationship not only with myself, but with Ginny, and the children. " No sir, I'm feeling loads better, I'm sure of it." Dr. Morti looked at me over half-rimmed spectacles, I could feel as if he were trying to discern the honesty of my words. "Very well then, we'll conclude today's session. Just know, I'm only a call away, aye Harry?" I looked at him, contentment written over a half-glazed expression. "Yes sir, thank you, sir." I instinctively patted my pockets, making sure my keys and wallet were tucked in securely. I opened the door, and I couldn't believe what greeted me on the other side. Blond hair, a royal air, and a demeaning expression—it was Malfoy. But why? Surely he wasn't self-aware enough to seek help. Surely the war had taken a toll on everyone, but could someone like Malfoy be redeemed through self-introspection and therapeutic guidance? It was more than I wished to think on. Gathering myself, I strode past the man I'd spent most of my life pitted against. Not a word, not a gesture, nothing.
Surely there's a way to get in. Every situation, every possible occurrence ran through my mind. Would he remember me? No—of course, he wouldn't. I felt a sharp stab of pain as I slammed my hands into the dresser before me. I just wanted it to all be okay, I wanted to make him see, make him understand. How did we get here? What have I done? My mind buzzed as I grabbed my wand from the nightstand. In a moment I was standing outside St. Mungo's, no idea of how I'd see him, but willing to give it all I had. I entered the building, my presence seeming to loom over the residents of the building. Approaching the front desk, I felt myself relax, my guard shrinking as the person in front of me came into view. Blaise! Of course! We'd fallen out of touch, but I now recalled him taking classes to become a healer. He'd done incredible work if his research papers were anything to go off of—he was the light at the end of my tunnel.
"Blaise! Chap! How are you doing?"
"Draco? Hey, man! What are you doing here?"
"Checking up on some things. Hey, I heard Harry Potter had been admitted, you wouldn't know how I could get to him, would you?"
Blaise contorted his face in confusion, "What do you want with Harry Potter?"
I hesitated. "I heard he'd gotten… The treatment, just wanted to see the results for myself, you know? The information could do a hell of a lot of good for the community." Blaise seemed to take my answer for what it was, to my great satisfaction.
"Floor 5, hall 2, room 6. Tell them you've come to monitor his progress, they're a bit selective of those they allow on the ward, but are more welcome to those doing so for research purposes." I tapped the desk, flashing a smile at my old friend.
"Thank you." I climbed aboard the elevator, my breath catching with every floor that passed. "Please, remember." I closed my eyes, nails digging into my flesh. "Just remember the feeling."