MEMORY VIAL 17: STAR-CROSSED LOVERS (YEAR 4)
Days after the end of the Triwizard Tournament, before the End-of-Term Feast, Draco leapt away from the Slytherin table at breakfast when he caught sight of Harry leaving the Great Hall on his own. Dumbledore had asked everyone to leave him alone, but these circumstances were special, he reasoned, and he was certain the headmaster would agree that Draco had a good enough reason for imposing himself on Harry before the schoolyear came to a close. His gray eyes roved the Gryffindor table as he exited the hall, to make sure Granger and Weasley weren't getting up from their seats to follow their sullen-faced friend; but then he had to gesture for Crabbe and Goyle to stay back when he noticed, with horror, that they had risen from their seats and were stalking after him.
Once outside of the Great Hall, Draco waited until he sensed no one was nearby before he shouted in a whisper. "Potter!"
Recognizing the imperious voice, Harry increased his pace as he bounded up the marble staircase, but Draco vaulted two steps at a time until he caught up.
"Potter—Potter!"
Harry rounded into a corridor that he knew would be more private; a part of him wanted to hear what Draco had to say, even though the majority of him wanted to rip the blond to shreds for the blood relations that he had.
"About what happened at the tournament—"
Harry kept walking, heart thudding in his chest. Something told him that it wasn't just the trauma of Cedric's death and facing Voldemort that was bothering him now.
"—hold on—would you stop and listen to me?"
Draco caught hold of Harry's shoulder, but Harry bucked violently against him.
"Don't—touch me," Harry growled, but then, thinking better of it, he relaxed and then asked contemptuously, "Well, what? What were you going to say about the tournament? Did you hear all the details about what happened at Riddle's grave, and do I even need to guess from where?"
Scowling, Draco appraised the way Harry was looking at him. "What do you mean by that?"
"Don't pretend with me. Your father was there, Malfoy!" Harry closed his mouth, having scared himself at how quickly his temper had flared, especially after as numb as he'd been feeling.
Draco frowned and tilted his head. "My father…?" At the tournament? he thought. Or… Riddle's grave…?
"Oh, didn't you hear? Or you couldn't have guessed?" Harry's words quavered as they spilled automatically from his lips; this was the most vocal he had felt in days. "Your precious father, who you love so dearly, laughed while Voldemort tortured me…"
Draco went silent at that. He honestly had no idea what Harry was talking about, but his mind was working hard to make sense of what he was hearing. If Harry fought against Voldemort recently, his father would've never entrusted information like that in a letter—but he had no reason not to believe what Harry was saying.
"Look, I don't know what you think you saw," Draco said shrewdly, maintaining a mind to protect his family, "but if the Dark Lord tortured you… that doesn't mean I want you dead, now, does it? I want you—"
"To be your doe-eyed little pet, is that right?" Harry finished for him scathingly. "To be your possession. You want me, half-blood Harry Potter, to submit to everything you want—and you expect me to be okay with you looking down on me like that? And what about my 'filthy, worthless' friends? What about my parents, and all the Muggles who exist in the world—"
"Muggles don't treat you very kindly, Potter—" Draco cut in, aggravated.
"—Muggles, who aren't the Dursleys, mind—but what the hell would you care about any of them?"
And it was then that Harry realized he was hoping Draco would be able to provide a suitable explanation for everything, to vouch for his father's sickening behavior, but he knew it just wasn't possible. The whole dalliance they had enjoyed throughout the year was also no longer a tenable idea—not now that it was dangerous for them to be together, dangerous in ways that neither of them could have anticipated.
"That's your greatest weakness, Potter," Draco said sedately. "You care about people who have nothing to offer you. What have Muggles ever done for you, besides hurt you?"
"Why don't you look in the mirror, Malfoy? Or keep talking. The hypocrisy is fascinating. You and your father are just the same."
"Do you know I haven't heard anything from him, so I can't say anything to you either way?"
"You haven't heard anything yet. But you will as soon as you get home."
Draco averted his eyes, knowing that it was true—that things were evidently coming to a head too soon, and it was crushing whatever love they had been nurturing up until a few days ago. If the Dark Lord had returned, like Harry appeared to be suggesting, the rift between Dark wizards and all the rest was beginning to widen, and he desperately hoped there was a way to bridge the gap between Harry and himself before it was too late.
Drumming his fingers on the side of his leg, Draco said, "Do you remember what I told you the last night we were together? That I care about you?"
Harry's stomach squirmed uncomfortably. He remembered that night all too well… the things they had said and done, like two stupid lovesick teenagers… How he had asked Draco to continue having a relationship with him, even if it meant he couldn't have him all to himself, and how desperate and pathetic it must have sounded.
"Look, Malfoy. Just…," Harry shuddered, "just stay the hell away from me."
Harry continued along the deserted corridor to a side door that would take him up a stairway toward Gryffindor Tower on a more circuitous route.
"But I'm only asking you to talk to me." Draco tailed him. "If you say the right things—if you make the right decisions from now on—then maybe my father could—"
Harry rushed on him with his wand out, feeling just as ready to flatten Draco with his fists if he needed to. "Did you hear what I said? Or it because I'm lower than you that my feelings don't count?"
"You're talking rubbish," Draco whispered faintly. "If you continue with this… I'm scared for you, Potter. Hanging out with those losers is going to get you killed."
Harry jabbed his wand toward Malfoy's nose and marched slowly towards him. His head felt suddenly clearer than it had been all week. "My friends—Hermione, Ron, Hagrid, Ginny, Fred, George the whole lot of them—are wonderful, and I would die for them, and I will never give them up even for you. Or are you still going to try to convince me to fit obediently into your pocket?"
"Potter—" Draco tried to sidestep around Harry's wand, but Harry tapped it against the green trim of his collar. His eyes skimmed over the moon-white column of Draco's neck, up the smooth angles of his cheeks, and then alighted on the silvery gaze that had held him captive under the summer stars not too long ago—and he felt a sudden rush of weakness washing over him…
"You want to tempt me," Harry said, "now that you're scared you've lost me for good. Is that right? It's no longer your choice anymore, now, is it—? The way we left things last time? You're scared, because you're realizing the choice is mine and no longer yours. You're scared because you want this more than I do at this point." And the flicker of pain that twitched over Draco's features confirmed for him that his guess was true. Harry retracted his wand and then stepped back. "If I hear one more word from you about who I keep company with… I'll make you wear those words if it's the last thing I do."
Putting his wand back in his pocket, Harry turned to leave, but an invisible lasso tethered his ankle to the floor, and he collapsed with a resounding thud. Draco nearly tripped as well—being pulled forward as he was by the same magical bond that was apparently still plaguing them—but he managed to stay upright as Harry struggled to get back up, refusing help before the blond could even offer it.
With a mighty effort, Harry broke through whatever remnants of magic were snagging at his ankle. He glanced back at Draco as he passed the threshold into the hidden stairway, but his vision was so blurred with tears that he couldn't see anything, and he stormed up the stairways and corridors, all the way to Gryffindor Tower where he would have as much distance between him and that venomous son-of-a-Death-Eater as was possible.
Harry rushed into the privacy of his dorm, where he instantly forgot what he'd been doing before Draco had interrupted him. He still couldn't see, and his brain was pounding full of blood so that he tottered against Dean's nightstand and had to steady himself against one of the bedposts. Half blind by the unexpected flood of emotion, he paced the room, kicked his trunk, and then skipped furiously up and down between the beds as his big toe throbbed.
He wished there was somewhere he could go, something he could do—
He wished that things could work out smoothly for him for once, but it seemed as if he was cursed to have a hard life—to have tragedy forever stalking at his heels.
He wished there was someone he could talk to, to vent his pain and panic to. And then the very person he needed suddenly came to him, although he had just left her in the Great Hall with Ron.
Feeling like an indecisive automaton, Harry exited the dorm and returned to the Great Hall while wiping the fresh tear stains from his swollen eyes. When he found her—Ron was sitting several yards away with Dean and Seamus—Harry pulled her aside from Ginny and some Ravenclaw boy, saying nothing to her inquiries until they left the hall, exited the castle, and reached the Pairing Tree far away from the rest of the students.
His ears felt like they were underwater as she reproached him for his rudeness. But now that they were alone—and he felt safe knowing that she could understand him on some level—he shook apart and told her about how everything was too dangerous between him and Draco and how it just could never work.
Hermione peered apprehensively around them before wrapping both her arms around his shoulders. "It's all right," she soothed, evidently taken aback by his sudden fit of dry heaving. "It's all right. I don't think anyone can hear you out here, so let it all out."
"He came looking for me," Harry mumbled semi-incoherently, "but I just can't do it, Hermione… He said he didn't hear anything from his father—but I'm not stupid—I know he knows… He said you and Ron and Hagrid are going to get me killed—and his father was there—he didn't do anything to help—all he did was watch…"
Harry dug his nails into his scalp as Hermione looked on helplessly.
"Harry… I wish there was something I could say."
"I want him to hurt," Harry groaned through his teeth. "I want him to know what it feels like to have a hard life—but I like him too much, and he was right. I need him… but I hate him… and I also want him… but it's too dangerous, and I just can't cope…"
"Just let him go," Hermione suggested consolingly. "As much as it might've been nice—oh, Harry, I don't think he's worth the trouble at this point. I'm sorry for ever pushing you to this."
"It's not your fault." Harry smiled at her weakly, then wiped the runnels of tears from his face. "I was stupid for taking the risk—for thinking it'd be okay."
A sad and tired voice came to Harry's mind then, unbidden, reminding him of a conversation that had taken place exactly one year prior. Promise me one thing, Harry…
"No, Professor," Harry answered firmly.
No matter who you end up loving in the future, remember…
"I can't."
…that love cannot exist separate from pain and sacrifice.
"But it hurts too much…"
…and don't discount the possibility of a miracle—especially when you are at the end of your rope…
Harry covered his eyes with his hands. "Then what about when his father turns him against me?" he asked Lupin's incorporeal voice, while rubbing at the ache in his forehead. "What do I do then?"
Hermione looked suspiciously around them, wondering who Harry was talking to.
Protect him. Be patient with him and love him fiercely…
"But I don't even know if I love him. I almost said it to him at one point, but I don't know."
"Then you're going to have to figure that out one day," Hermione said worriedly, "but I don't think that's a burden you should put on yourself right now. I'd advise you to stay away from him for now, but… I think there's a chance you really do love him. Or you're close to loving him, at least. He's got you in knots, Harry, and he's always had you knots."
"And so what if I do love him?" Harry said defensively. "He's not the be-all and end-all. He can't be the center of my life, and I can't trust him the way things are now. I can't be there for him the way I thought I could—at least not now. I'm too drained, Hermione." His heart was weary from everything it had endured and still had yet to comprehend.
"Then focus your energy on recuperating over the summer and processing what happened." Hermione rubbed his arm. "Who knows what will happen to you over those couple of months. And then… when we come back to Hogwarts… either one of you might've had a change in heart."
"I kissed him," Harry reminded her in a sort of bloodshot daze. "And we did so much more than that, and I regret every single second of it now. He was my first… sort of… He was my first kiss… the first one to feel me—and that was everything to me when it was happening. But now when I think of him I'm reminded of his father, and all those beautiful memories are melted into—" Poison, he thought. And he regretted ever devoting so much headspace to him in the first place.
Cho Chang would have been safe and normal. Any other person in the whole school would be far safer for him to pursue, now that his whole world was going dark. Any other lover didn't pose a threat and wouldn't be leaving fang marks imprinted onto his soul; but there was also a chance any other person would not have made him feel half as much alive as he did with Draco.
"If I… didn't love him," Harry said speculatively, going back to the question of true love that Lupin's memory had evoked, "would any of this even matter to me as much?"
Hermione had no answer. Love wasn't something that could be solved with books and research. Hearts were more complicated than that, and any advice she gave from now on would need to be judicious. All she could offer him for now was, "I'm sorry," while she sat huddled beside him, until the cloud of despair had lifted enough for him to regain a semblance of his former self.
But the child that he once was seemed to be in the drawn-out throes of death. He was expected to grow up too fast, and he felt like Draco was the last person he should turn to.
What's that saying the Muggles use? he wondered idly, when Hermione finally helped him to his feet. Oh, right. Star-crossed lovers. But such doomed prophecies were the realm of Professor Trelawney, and Harry laughed at the idea that it might represent yet another accurate prognosis among all the bullshit mysticism.
Harry thought back to one of the last things Hagrid had told him: that Harry wasn't alright—that of course he wasn't alright, but that he would be.
Healing from what he'd been through, however, couldn't be that simple, and it was probably his experience with the Dursleys that had taught him that hard-gotten truth. But his friends were more hopeful than that. His friends hadn't endured the same things as him, and he felt like even Hermione couldn't understand him now—that no one could.
Draco made sure not to tell his parents what had happened to him on the train ride back to London. After attempting to make his final appeal to Harry, he, along with Crabbe and Goyle, had been hexed by several of his Gryffindor friends, only to be found by a Slytherin prefect who rushed off the train for help.
Now that he was home, walking through the grand vestibule between his towering parents while one of the house-elves carried his trunk up to his room, he felt remarkably alone. His father was unusually aloof, and his mother was more silent and stiffer in the neck than usual; although she still held him in her arms and stroked the smooth coif of his hair as she murmured the usual endearments she tended to swaddle him in.
"I love you, Mum," Draco said, pressing his face into her bosom on an impulse. After everything that had happened over the past month, he had the urge to soak up as much love from her as he could, and Narcissa clutched him that much tighter as he hid himself within the folds of her opulent robes.
"I love you too, darling," she whispered tenderly, but the discordant note in her voice only made him feel uneasy.
"Draco," Lucius said with a tepid smile. "Come now to the drawing room with me, will you?"
"But I'm sleepy," Draco said, shirking the command. "Is it alright if I go to bed instead? It's been a long day."
"Oh, darling…" Narcissa petted his hair more fervently, but, unlike Narcissa, Lucius was unmoved by his son's infantile appeal.
"Narcissa, let him go," he said in a strained voice, and when Narcissa had lifted Draco's head with a pitying smile and turned the boy around to face his father, Lucius led them forward while explaining what their business was about. "Draco, my dear son, it brings me no pleasure to inform you that your mother and I received a letter a few months back from Professor Mad-Eye Moody, your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher."
Draco felt the warmth leave his body. He braced himself, instinctually knowing what was coming next.
"Now, I'm not one to believe a madman like that before I've heard my own son out, but he reported something that was rather disturbing to us.
"This might sound awfully ridiculous, considering what an upstanding boy you are, but he said he walked in on you being… inappropriate with another boy. And while he assured me that the other boy wouldn't remain at the school for much longer, he made sure to hit home on the fact that you two were… well, I will let you fill me in on the facts." Lucius halted in front of the door to the drawing room and steepled his hands before him thoughtfully. "What were you doing with that other boy on the night of the Yule Ball?"
Draco peered up at Narcissa who had approached him from behind, but she merely stroked his hair more anxiously and then nodded for him to answer honestly.
He let out a breath. "I kissed him, sir."
"Indeed…" There was a note of revulsion in Lucius's tone. "So it was true."
"I'm sorry, Father, but I swear it meant nothing."
"And I'm inclined to believe you, especially after your glowing performance for this year." Lucius opened the double doors to the firelit drawing room and then beckoned Draco to go in first, while signaling Narcissa to follow in after.
At once, Draco recognized who he was being reintroduced to. Mr. Animus Thorne, the psychomancer, was sitting straight-backed nearest the fire with his eyes closed, evidently enjoying being alone with his own thoughts. Upon hearing the quiet clatter of footsteps entering the drawing room, he jerked his bearded head up, gave vent to an enormous yawn, and then stood up.
"Ah! Young Master Malfoy! So good to see you again!" He extended a hand good-naturedly, and Draco proceeded with the niceties, managing the slightest of smiles and slightest of bows—but inside he was screaming, clambering for escape. "Is it true what Mad-Eye Moody claims? You were preyed upon by another boy?"
Draco hesitated at the coloring of that inquiry. If he said yes, he might be able to escape severe punishment, but if he said no and then explained that he was the one to initiate the kiss, then the punishment could be gotten over quickly, if he wasn't shown mercy in its place for being honest. Either way, Mr. Thorne had a sterling reputation for unearthing the truth, and so it wasn't difficult for Draco to resign himself to fully cooperating with whatever his father had in mind.
"No, sir. He asked me to meet him outside the castle, and I obliged. I approached him for a kiss, and he didn't back down. We were like that for a while, which is how Professor Moody found us. I was only curious what it'd be like."
"And what was it like?" Mr. Thorne pressed on invasively, much to the distress of Draco's mother. "Did you enjoy it?"
"Yes," he answered in a distant voice, unable to look at Narcissa who was standing beside his father while he admitted this. "I liked it a lot."
Lucius cleared his throat. "Then I will proceed to explain the intentions behind our meeting here tonight. Draco," he said gently but sternly, "listen to me carefully. Your mother and I both love you very much, but we can't risk allowing this sort of behavior to continue. And so, to curtail whatever proclivities this incident might have instilled in you, we expect you to meet with Mr. Thorne every day for the next three weeks."
Amazed at that, Draco whirled on the spot and stared at him.
Lucius held up his hand. "I know, I know… we are asking a lot of you this summer, and I'm afraid you won't have much time to visit with your friends. You will continue with your tutoring, and devote two hours a day with Mr. Thorne here, and you will comply with everything he asks of you. When the three weeks are up, we will reduce your meetings with him to every other day until the school year begins. At which point… I expect this nonsense to be over with. You will allow Animus to do whatever he needs to help set your predilections straight again."
"But, Father, I swear I was only trying it—"
"I don't care why you did it, or even if you didn't like it," Lucius said sharply. "I only care that such degeneracy has happened in this family at all. You will submit yourself to Mr. Thorne's will, do I make myself clear?"
Draco looked sideways at his mother, who appeared to be struggling to hold her tongue, and then at Mr. Thorne. "Is it going to hurt?"
"Ah, most certainly," Animus Thorne answered enthusiastically. "But it'll be far less painful than allowing men to bugger you, I can assure you, so it'll be worth it in the end. You are in the best of care. I'll do everything I can to minimize any unnecessary discomfort—and you should be grateful for this, you know. Not everyone can afford my services, and even fewer can afford daily mindwork sessions for three weeks straight."
"My son is well aware of the privilege he's grown up with," Lucius acknowledged with a nod. "But the elite families among us commend your work, so I would've been a fool to not send an owl to you at once."
Mr. Thorne examined Draco with a smarmy glint in his beady blue eyes. "He's such a handsome boy. It would be a waste if he spent his life copulating with roosters instead of hens! Now tell me, lad, how long have you been suffering from this particular ailment?"
Draco frowned nervously at his father, but then answered Mr. Thorne directly. "When I was eight, I sort of knew I thought boys were cute. But I became aware of stronger feelings just a few years ago, I think during my first year at Hogwarts."
"And have you committed any Unspeakable Acts with any of the boys at school?"
"Animus!" Narcissa's eyes were livid; she looked like a lioness contained to an invisible cage, held at bay only by Lucius who she trusted more than herself. "My son is only fifteen years old. He is certainly clean as far as that is concerned. You will keep away from explicit discussions about sex so long as you are working with him."
"Forgive me, Narcissa," Mr. Thorne said with patronizing civility, "but everyone present in the room was fifteen at one time and can attest to how powerfully urges can present themselves. Age is against your son at this point, and it's an important question, one that I often use to diagnose the severity of the illness so that I can decide on an appropriate treatment protocol."
"But the severity of his illness can't have gone that far."
"I would agree with you, if it weren't for how guilty he is looking at the present moment. But I'll steer away from that difficult question for now. Young Master Malfoy," he said, addressing the boy now, "you have everything to be ashamed of, but nothing to fear when the time presents itself for you to confess the truth. Now tell me… do you have romantic feelings for any of the boys in your school?"
Draco hung his head at that. He couldn't bear to look at his mother after Animus Thorne called him out on his guilt. He also wished there was a way to respond to the interrogation without needing to be present in the room. "I think so," he said softly. "But I like my girlfriend, sir. I'd never want to hurt her even if I did."
"Well, then. Admirable words from a right gentleman, is what I call that."
Lucius smirked proudly at the compliment. "My son is very close with Miss Pansy Parkinson, you see. When we allow her to come over, they can hardly keep their hands off each other. You and I had dinner with her parents a few months ago, if you recall. He's quite taken with her; they write to each other every other day during the summer holiday, and occasionally they visit each other overnight."
"I write poetry to her," Draco appended, hoping that it would help bolster his case for growing up to be a normal man. "In the style of Ignatius Fireheart, one of my favorite writers, although he's rather difficult to emulate."
Mr. Thorne's eyes shined agreeably. "Fireheart is a magnificent poet!" he opined. "Known for his passionate verse that plunges to the depths of men's desires." He glanced briefly at Narcissa. "But I'm surprised you allowed him to read anything from him. A lot of his works are rather risqué and often touch upon hedonistic themes. It's also been debated that some of his lesser known works are homoerotic in nature. But I'm glad to hear you've been applying his style of verse to the girl you've chosen, dear lad. A steady heterosexual prospect like that does make the situation appear far less severe than what I was prepared for. Perhaps we'll be able to feed off your love for that girl during our sessions; ignite some lust for her in turn."
Draco couldn't believe his ears. Narcissa cast Animus Thorne a deadly look, to which he cleared his throat unabashedly.
"Animus," Lucius said warningly. "I don't want my son becoming a father before he's been properly wedded at an appropriate age. Perhaps stay away from that sort of visualization and keep him focused on the unacceptable feelings he's been dealing with."
"Rest assured, my friend, I intend to exercise restraint, but it's important to make sure his sexual drive gets pointed in the right direction. It's a vital part of the process, but I won't do anything without informing you first and gaining your permission. You have my word."
The psychomancer smiled at Draco from over his tiny-framed spectacles. "So, I also hear you are somewhat volatile; not so much explosive, but a boy of quiet passion. You're largely characterized by rage and other intense feelings of aggression—and your mother says she has witnessed symptoms on your part, such as crying, when you partake in the arts. A good sign of virility in a young man are his emotions. But you'll want to learn to channel all that roiling pent-up energy in a healthy, masculine way.
"Now, I have always known you to be a discerning young man, just like your father. You only need a bit of help in avoiding a few pitfalls along the way—avoiding traps that are being left by the bent and wayward, especially for a deeply affective boy like yourself. We will need to toughen your heart with callouses. It's so easy for the heart to be deceived; it can sometimes feel right to make the wrong choices and chase after desires that are not good for us."
Draco kept silent, feeling unusually timid. The idea of plying callouses to his heart sounded… awful.
"The process is going to be incredibly intrusive," Mr. Thorne continued with unnecessary relish. "We're going to sear the marks of shame on your flesh, so that you will be able to hold your head up high in the years to come, but it's nothing you won't be able to withstand and continue practicing on your own. I will withhold using Legilimency on you as long as you commit to telling the truth, but don't think for a moment that I won't know when you're lying; I have many techniques at my disposal that I'm going to acquaint you with over the summer.
"Now, come over here, let me have a look at those bright, clear eyes. Yes, I can see the pride and resolution in your face; no doubt you're made of the same stuff as your father and are sure to make him a proud grandfather when you have children of your own—children of impeccable breeding. Your line is as pure as the driven snow, and you are only the latest iteration of perfection, do you hear?"
Lucius exalted at that; Narcissa relaxed when he very gently touched her arm.
"As we move forward, I hope you will apply yourself responsibly. You worked your way out of an academic rut, I hear, and now you've been recognized as one of the brightest in your school. Do you see, then? How your father took notice of your failings and took prompt action to set you on the right course? The strictness of your father's household is only confirmation of his love for you. And now, this is only yet another hurdle for you to overcome, and I think we can manage it before the three weeks are up. I'll be surprised if your father thinks he still needs me after that. What do you say, lad, are we agreed?"
Mr. Thorne held out his hand a second time, but Draco already knew he had no choice but to accept the proposed offer as well as the handshake. Draco took a firm hold of it, remembering to put force in the grip of his fingers so that it wouldn't be another mark against his masculinity.
"Good lad. A very good lad indeed. You are going to set your mark on the world and dominate it with an iron fist, I can tell. As I'm sure you're aware by now, a violent future awaits us all," he said, glancing up between Lucius and Narcissa, "but we will be the ones to come out on top, as long as we gain mastery over our soft minds. The sooner you become a proper man, the better prepared you'll be to act with determination and force.
"Now," he took hold of Draco's shoulders, who did his best to conceal how shaken he was feeling, "your father invited me for dinner, and we're going to chat about what all that means. I'll be assessing your understanding of what it means to be a man, and what a healthy sexuality looks like, juxtaposed to the horrors of homosexual copulating."
"You will be discreet, Animus," Lucius reminded him. "My wife will be present at the table."
"I won't be saying anything Narcissa would disapprove of, but these are vital branches of knowledge to establish at young Master Malfoy's age. There are too many opinions surrounding him at school, and he needs to hear from a definitive source who has seen it all."
Draco felt a burning pressure in his chest, where his heart already had millions of little cracks from his most recent encounters with Harry. He was terrified of going through with the intervention, but perhaps this was the answer he'd been looking for all along. Professor Dumbledore had once told him that these feelings couldn't be undone, but Mr. Thorne seemed to be of a differing opinion. He would see this through, then, and when it was over with, he would tell the bent old codger to his face that he'd been cured of his disease, and that there was no reason in the world anyone had to suffer from the same distorted thoughts or to remain just as they were. But if the bent and wayward insisted on cleaving to their ways, then Draco supposed they ought to be cleansed from Wizarding society after all—along with the Mudbloods—which seemed more likely now that Lord Voldemort was back.
As the men strutted to the dining room, Draco looked up at his mother, and Narcissa swept him into yet another comforting embrace. "I'm here for you," she whispered in a strangely protective tone of voice. His arms wound tightly around her in response, but he said nothing. "If you're ever afraid or unsure, I'll always be here, and I'll never betray your confidence." She smoothed his hair and kissed the top of his head. "Don't ever forget that."
Draco clutched her robes, and he felt like he was seven years old again, disappearing into the many folds of her elaborate clothes whenever he found himself, unfortunately, at the mercy of his father.
A/N: I went through conversion therapy myself for a year, some of the sessions being an excruciating 8-10 hours long with minimal breaks. Needless to say, this fic is much healthier therapy for me in so many ways. Thanks for reading up to this point. Until the next chapter...