As the calming draught worked its way through his system, Draco forced himself to take slow, deep breaths. He felt his thoughts slowing and finally breaking away from spinning in useless and frenetic circles. A familiar, low voice reverberated in his mind:

Draco, have you ever considered -

"Fuck off," he said aloud, raking his hand through his hair.

Maybe allowing yourself to feel your emotions, instead of shoving them down into oblivion?

Annoyed, he stalked out of his kitchen and towards the bedroom. He wrenched open the doors of his closet and pulled out a pair of joggers, a sleeveless shirt, zip up jacket, and some muggle trainers. He stuffed each item - barring the jacket - into a black holdall and threw in a bottle of water. He shrugged on his jacket impatiently.

He let the front door slam behind him and he did not turn to look when he pointed his wand to lock it. Draco felt the bite of the evening air against his face and headed towards muggle London.

Four Years Ago

"Niklas," Draco started, exasperation plain in his voice, "I know that this is going to work. I'll go through every bloody ingredient with you, if you'd like. What is the problem?"

Friedmann was nonplussed. He didn't look up from the chart he was scratching notes into with a quill. "I've never had any concerns with the potion."

"So it is about the magic, then," Draco said accusingly. He jabbed his finger towards his mentor angrily. "I told you from the start that this had to be based on the Cruciatus curse. I was extremely upfront about that. It's a bit bloody late to change your mind now."

"Forgive me, Draco, but you were a little scant on the details of how you intended to produce the magic," Friedmann replied calmly. "Forgive me for my ignorance on the particulars of generating an effective Unforgivable on a regular basis."

"What is that supposed to mean?" he snarled.

Friedmann met his eyes with a weary look. He sighed and set the quill down. "You've been practising your Cruciatus, yes?"

Draco frowned. "Well, obviously. Clinical trials are supposed to start in less than a month-"

"And you've gotten better at it, haven't you? More effective at casting."

He didn't like where this was headed. Friedmann was looking at him with, if not concern, something dangerously close to it. Like he was a bloody patient.

"When was the last time you weighed yourself, Draco?"

"Oh, fuck off," he snapped. "If you're going to try to stop this trial because of a few skipped meals-"

"You look ill-"

"-years of work-"

"-see that this isn't sustainable-"

"I'm not going to get another chance like this!" Draco shouted furiously. "Do you have any idea what it's like, having to submit my wand every month for review? Having Diggory write up 'character reports' for my probation hearings?" He squeezed his eyes shut, gritting his teeth. His voice was hoarse and shaky. "I can't keep doing it. I'm done. But none of this happens unless you sign off on initiating the clinical trial. Don't fuck me on this. Please, Niklas."

Friedmann watched him for a long time before speaking. "You look like a walking skeleton. You're irritable. Your work is suffering. I don't know what it is - but whatever you're doing is not healthy, Draco."

Draco stared mutinously before turning away, but managed to stop himself from kicking the waste bin that had so conveniently been placed within reach of his foot. "So that's it, then? Shut it all down? Will that make you happy?"

He sounded like a spoiled child, even to his own ears.

"I didn't say that," Friedmann replied quietly, but there was a trace of impatience in his voice. "But I am not going to approve a project that I believe would put you at unnecessary risk. I'm your supervisor, and it's my responsibility to keep you safe."

Draco swore loudly.

"I'm not convinced that you can handle this-" Friedmann started.

"I can-"

"-your health and well-being-"

"-doing just fine-"

"-your current approach," Friedmann finished.

Draco glared at his mentor, barely containing his rage. Fine, he hadn't been coping optimally since practising Crucio. Yes, he had been bloody irritable. Dredging up a profound desire to cause suffering necessitated a bit of fucking irritability.

And yes, fine, he had needed to perform shrinking charms on all of his clothes.

Twice.

"Feel free to enlighten me with your approach, then," he snapped, scowling.

Friedmann met his eyes with an excruciatingly gentle look. Draco turned his head quickly, unable to bear it.

"I want you to see a Mind Healer," Friedmann said, and he immediately held up his hand when Draco opened his mouth. "And I want you to see one until they clear you to start clinical trials, then I want check-ins every time you treat a new patient."

Draco said nothing for several moments, knowing that none of his top choices of response (see: fleeing the scene or assaulting a kindly Healer in his mid-sixties) - would have improved his chances of moving forward with trials.

"I don't believe in Mind Healers," he finally managed.

Friedmann, as usual, was unmoved by Draco's cold retort. "Well, you'd best start," he replied mildly, "because it's not up for negotiation."

It took twenty additional minutes of arguing for Draco to accept that Niklas would not, in fact, negotiate. In the end, he had no choice but to concede to Friedmann's demands. So, less than a full day later, Draco found himself stalking through the hallways of the least-funded wing in St. Mungo's. He'd held a clipboard and purposely hadn't changed out of his Healer's robes. If anyone he knew saw him, he was just a Healer looking for a consult. It wouldn't be the first time he'd wandered to the psychiatric wing for that very reason.

Nothing to see.

Because he might actually die if he had to explain this to anyone - worst of all, his father. His father always seemed to know, somehow; it didn't matter if it was personal or professional. He knew when Draco had achieved anything favourable at St. Mungo's, and he certainly knew if Draco had done something that could be considered unsavoury by the wizarding masses. What was even more perplexing - especially considering his father had been stripped of his Ministry titles and was supposed to be under tight observation - was that he seemed to know the minutiae of Wizengamot hearings before they'd even occurred.

Draco fully expected to receive a complete inquisition about why Lucius Malfoy's son was seeing a Mind Healer.

He grimaced involuntarily.

Without as much as a courtesy knock, Draco let himself into an office that he assumed was meant to be cosy and inviting. If anyone would've deigned to ask him, though, the space was kitschy and suffocating. There was a painting of a barn hanging above the Mind Healer's desk in muted yellows and browns, and he couldn't imagine how anyone could find such a thing remotely aesthetically pleasing, let alone comforting.

Not to mention, he would've expected that they'd put a little more effort into getting some natural light into these bloody rooms, if they were supposedly so concerned about cheeriness.

Friedmann, of course, had insisted on choosing the Mind Healer. He suspected that Friedmann knew how easy it would've been for him to find a private Mind Healer who would clear Draco for whatever he asked for, provided the desired galleons would be given in exchange.

Still, though, he hadn't expected a male Mind Healer. Of course, Friedmann had managed to find one, anyway; of course, insisted that Draco see him. He glowered at the man behind the desk, with his fucking knit cardigan, his stylishly arranged hair, and his warm, patient expression.

It was an expression that, in Draco's opinion, was begging to be smacked off of his face.

Draco tried to keep an open posture - arms uncrossed, legs splayed and projecting nonchalance - but he was gripping the armrests with such force that his fingers were already starting to ache.

"Nice to meet you, Draco," the Mind Healer said. The low timbre of his voice did not match his placid appearance whatsoever, and it took Draco off guard. "I'm Will. I work primarily out of the St. Mungo's outpatient psychiatric clinic, though I provide consultations for inpatients as well."

Will? What self-respecting Healer introduced himself with a nickname? Perhaps his parents were a bit touched, and Will actually was his full name.

"Charmed," Draco said flatly, looking up determinedly at the dreary farmyard 'art'.

"Where do you think we should start?"

Draco's eyes snapped to the Mind Healer's. "Isn't that your job?"

Just-Will shrugged. "I like to take a collaborative approach with my patients. Let them take the lead."

"It's a wonder, truly, that actual Healers don't take you lot seriously," Draco muttered waspishly - although, if he was being honest, he hadn't actually made any effort to lower the volume of his voice.

The Mind Healer was unfazed, might've even been vaguely amused. "Never tried therapy before, then?"

"Of course I bloody haven't. Why would I?"

Will let the question hang in the air, glancing at Draco's ever-whitening knuckles, and the quality of his posture, which could generously be described as looking freshly ossified.

Prick, Draco thought.

"Look. I want my clinical trial. I will do whatever bollocks you decide is necessary to heal my 'traumatised psyche'. Just tell me what to do so we can get this over with."

"Niklas tells me he's concerned about you."

Apparently, Friedmann's chosen provider was incapable of straightforward conversation, because of course he fucking was.

Draco grunted in response.

"He's concerned about the effect this new treatment of yours is having on you."

He felt his nostrils flaring. "Friends, are you?"

"Colleagues," Will replied evenly. "We've collaborated on quite a few cases. He's a good man, though - Niklas."

Draco glared.

Will answered this with a blandly polite look in return. The Mind Healer did nothing to ease the stony silence for an uncomfortably long time, which Draco felt spoke to the man's clear ineptitude. It was his job to keep the conversation going. Draco would not concede. He wasn't going to break under pressure.

He managed 47 seconds.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare at me for the whole hour?" Draco demanded.

"What would you like to talk about, Draco?"

"WHATEVER WILL GET ME OUT OF THIS OFFICE."

Will looked as though he was trying very hard not to smile, which did not ease Draco's temper. "And what do you think that might be?"

"You fucking tell me!" he exploded. "I don't know what the hell Friedmann expected - I have to cast the Cruciatus to reverse the Obliviation, and the only way to cast it is to make myself so fucking angry that I need to rip something apart and listen to it scream."

To Draco's slight bewilderment, the Mind Healer gave no betrayal of disgust and his face remained impassive. He only said, "that sounds difficult."

"Of course it's bloody difficult," Draco said, more quietly this time. "Niklas couldn't cast it if his life depended on it. The man's a bleeding heart."

"But you're not one," Will returned mildly. Draco's eyes snapped up. "A bleeding heart, I mean."

"Do I strike you as someone who would be described that way?"

"You strike me as someone who likes being in control." Will narrowed his eyes appraisingly. "That doesn't mean you lack empathy for others."

Draco folded his arms over his chest, lips pursed, and said nothing.

Will scratched his chin thoughtfully and changed the subject. "What are you practising the curse on?"

"A spellcasting dummy, obviously," Draco muttered scathingly. "I don't know if you're aware, but I have to keep extremely detailed records of any spell that might be considered 'Dark Magic'. So I perform it on a dummy at the lab. There's always an attendant at reception, recording when I come and go." He gave Will a challenging look. "You can check the logs, if you like."

"I'm not concerned about your recordkeeping, Draco," the Mind Healer returned, undaunted by his defensive tone. "If you're using a dummy, how do you know if you're casting it effectively?"

Draco held his gaze and inhaled a little sharply. "Because of how it feels."

"And how does it feel?"

"Like I'm destroying something." The words came out in a rush, well before coherent thought could interfere.

"And do you find that…" Will considered his words for a moment. "Satisfying?"

Draco frowned. "I don't know."

It wasn't a lie.

Congratulations, Malfoy, you're exactly what everyone always expected you'd be.

The Mind Healer inclined his head. "Crucio requires a desire to inflict pain, correct?"

Draco nodded. Absently, his thumb came towards his mouth to chew on the nail, his nervous system apparently desperate for some form of grounding to reality. Automatically, the memory of his father's disdainful expression and the sharp rap of his cane against the back of Draco's hand flashed in his mind - a warning.

He lowered his hand back down onto the armrest and gripped his fingers over the edge of it.

"But if you're casting it against a dummy," Will persisted, "who is it that you want to inflict pain on?"

That was the question, wasn't it.

It took several sessions to untangle what Draco was truly doing, that the Cruciatus was his justice and his atonement. He needed it to work, and to make it work he needed to want to hurt someone. After years of keeping his head down just surviving and taking it and taking it - it felt good to hurt.

And, best of all - who could possibly deserve it more than he did?

Will argued with him that no one deserved to suffer (utter shit, Draco thought), that it wasn't healthy, that psychically punishing himself over and over again could only bring destruction.

Draco had nearly walked out when Will pointed out that obsessively combing through his transgressions would not undo them.

He debated with Draco about what responsibilities could reasonably be assigned to a teenaged boy.

Draco asserted that sixteen was well fucking old enough to know that he was reaping carnage. He hadn't murdered anyone by his own wand, but that had been pure luck on his part, considering his behaviour. Indirectly, his actions had wrought more than enough destruction - making it so the Death Eaters could infiltrate Hogwarts, cursing that innocent girl with the necklace, poisoning Weasley. Imperiusing Madame Rosmerta for the better part of a year. Standing by and doing fucking nothing as he watched others be killed, imprisoned, tortured.

If he'd had any semblance of a spine, he would've taken one of the many outs that had been offered to him. Instead, because of his bloody arrogance, and the ridiculous thought that he'd be able to protect his family - maybe even make Lucius proud in the process, dare to dream - he left nothing but charred, wasted earth in his wake.

None of it had helped. None of it had mattered at all.

Draco had neither met expectations nor been courageous enough to mitigate any of the destruction.

Yes, he deserved this.

Will had nearly pulled the plug on all of it, concluding that Draco's constant, concentrated rumination was just a creative form of self-flagellation that he justified by calling it professional responsibility. He was only convinced when Draco would finally admit that his primary motivation had been the outcome, at least at first. Reversing Obliviation did actually matter to him, and not just because he hoped that it would ease the conditions of his probation. He wanted to produce something that might alleviate pain, rather than always being the one to generate it.

The Mind Healer looked smug as Draco was forced to confess that he may, in fact, possess some of the empathy that Will had alluded to when they first met. Finally, finally, he was willing to work with Draco to find a way to cast the spell without destroying himself in the process.

In the end, there was no great solution. It was an amalgam of countless small changes, simpler things than Draco might've expected. He learned to limit focusing on those self-critical thoughts to when he was performing the curse. To be intentional about how often he did it, and how long he could practise before needing to give himself a break. Eating regular meals. Exercising.

Will lectured him that he needed an "outlet" (Draco had never heard the term before; he didn't ask for clarification) for the anxious energy and rage that bubbled up after practising the Cruciatus.

"You used to play Quidditch, didn't you?" Will asked.

"I don't do group activities."

"Because…?"

"Because I don't have time," he replied irritably, which was not a lie. It also was not the true reason, but he hardly thought that was any of Will's business.

"There's an all-hours drop in at the London practice pitch," Will suggested lightly. "Lots of shift workers play."

Draco looked up. "No," he said flatly.

"I think some physical activity and socialisation would do you goo-"

"I have no desire to show up just to have a dozen people glaring at me and praying I'll get struck by lightning," Draco said angrily. "I could just walk through Diagon Alley instead, and save myself the trouble of dusting off my broomstick."

The Mind Healer offered him a sad look in response, which made Draco want to scream, but at least Will didn't try to deny it.

"What if it was something a little less conspicuous?"

Draco scoffed. "Polyjuice is expensive. And the texture is disgusting."

Will shook his head, rolling his eyes with good humour. "Why don't you sign up for something run by Muggles? No one's going to recognise you there."

Draco exhaled all of his breath at once, a disbelieving "puh" sound escaping from his lips. This, truly, was not something he'd ever considered. He allowed himself to think about it for a moment, a smile slowly forming.

Anonymous. Nameless. No one.

It sounded too sweet to be true.

Present

"Malfoy!"

He was greeted by a beaming face that was slick with sweat. Draco offered a nod of acknowledgment and a small smile in response.

Meaty hands clapped on his shoulders. "Where've you been? I was starting to worry you'd found someone else to go dancing with. Someone prettier."

Draco raised his eyebrows, looking over the man's crooked, squashed looking nose, and the mild cauliflower ear he had on the left side. He huffed out a laugh. "Shut up, Barclay."

"I've just finished two rounds, but I'll do it if you ask nicely."

If someone had told him he'd be spending his limited leisure time in a mixed-martial arts gym in a in a dodgy part of Muggle London, wearing Muggle clothes, scrapping with a stocky Scottish bloke until his body and brain were blissfully emptied, Draco would not have believed them.

But healing didn't happen in a straight line.

Draco grappled and kicked and struck until the crushing thought of Granger and blood magic and Obliviation finally eased its grip, and he could breathe again.