...

Author's Note:

TW: This chapter contains a depiction of self-harm. I recommend skipping the first 1000 words or so if this is something you're sensitive to or otherwise don't want to read. It's not glorified and is relevant to the overall theme, but it may be upsetting for some readers.

Thanks for reading!

...

It was the following morning before Draco really noticed how overwhelmed he was with what he had agreed to do. He didn't particularly want to spend the evening studying in a boisterous crowd of people when he could just as easily spend it alone, or just with Granger, or just with his roommates.

He knew that wasn't really an option, since Granger would undoubtedly be joining this little after-class study session, and for all he knew, Longbottom would be there too. This was another source of his worries—how had he let himself agree to something when he didn't even know who was involved?

Agreement had come to him so easily last night, after he had shared that series of memories comparing him to his father. Merlin, why had he done that?

He had intended to do it in anger, he thought, to lump Potter in with all the other people who had decided he was a smug little arsehole before he had the chance to decide otherwise. But he also knew that wasn't true. And it wouldn't even be an insult. There were worse people to be lumped in with than his mother and Severus Snape, that much was for certain.

He and Potter had walked back to their dorms yesterday in relative silence so as not to draw attention to themselves so late at night. It had felt a bit hazy, like he was walking through a dense fog with his brain floating above and trailing six feet behind.

Now, awoken from sleep at 5 AM in a cold sweat, Draco realized how apprehensive he was about spending time with people. He really had grown accustomed to doing everything on his own, and he doubted that this would be as easy as letting the Golden Trio ramble on about their own problems and interests on the Hogwarts Express.

He would need to get up sooner or later, he realized, and figured he might as well take a shower before the rest of his dormitory started to rise. Quietly gathering his belongings and clothes for the upcoming day, his gaze lingered on his wand—hawthorn wood and unicorn hair. He wavered, but ultimately took it with him as he crept over to the bathroom.

As expected, it was empty at this hour of the morning, and Draco breathed a small sigh of relief. He went over to one of the two shower stalls and placed his things down, locking the door behind him. Draco threw his black undershirt and boxer briefs on top of the rest of his things, moving slowly into the downpour of warm water and letting his hair fall wetly into his face.

He leaned a hand against the wall for a moment, taking a large inhale and trying to work his breathing back into a rhythm. He remembered his wand laying over by his pile of shower materials, but shook his head violently to clear the thought away.

This resolve did last for longer than usual, until he had successfully washed himself and his hair and shaved his face, but all good things must come to an end. "Bloody hell," Draco muttered, eventually giving in and grabbing his wand.

Draco held the tip of his wand to his inner bicep and then pulled it away as if disturbed and surprised by the action. He placed it there again, grip tight and breathing shallow, before pulling it away with even more force and placing his forehead up against the wet shower wall. He gripped his hair with his left hand and attempted to get a grip on the rest of his thoughts.

"You bloody idiot," he mumbled, not loud enough for anyone to hear despite being alone in the bathroom, gently smacking the palm of his hand against his forehead.

He stood like that for a few seconds, feeling properly at war with himself, before the self-destructive urge finally won out. He took his wand and cast an incantation while dragging the tip horizontally across his skin, feeling unjustly pleased when a crimson line bubbled to the surface of his flesh.

The traitorous little blood specs pooled and connected until a heavy droplet formed towards the end of the line and trickled down towards the shower train at his feet.

Draco's ragged breath thumped heavily in his ears, and the panic of facing the day ahead mixed with the instant numbing relief of his stinging arm. He held his wand clenched in his fist now, repetitively dragging the pointed tip across his already scarred skin with an almost feverish aggression.

One minute was all he would allow himself—one minute of unsheathed sanguinary violence, an onslaught on his pale flesh—and then he would (mostly) patch himself up, sort his thoughts back into their contained places, and carry on with his day.

As he surveyed the wreckage of his anxieties, seven surprisingly neat gashes running across the length of his upper arm, a wave of nauseating guilt came in to tangle up with the pleasant apathy.

Draco sighed, running his wand back over the wounds in the opposite direction, healing them just enough that he wouldn't get blood on his robes—but not so much that the arm wouldn't sting whenever his shirt brushed against it for the next few days.

He stood like that for a few more moments, savoring the sharp pain that burned at his fresh wounds whenever the water hit them at just the right angle—and the lack of morally perfectionistic guilt that would soon be replaced by regret.

When the fleeting euphoria started to fade and he found himself once again worried about classes and socializing and his bloody N.E.W.T. project, Draco cast a quick drying charm on his body, combed through the front of his hair with his fingers, and set a neutral look on his face.

He dressed himself and was pleased to find that the dormitory bathroom was still empty. Most of the eighth years had 8AM Transfigurations on Wednesdays, so students would be up and stirring a bit earlier than usual. Not as early as him, though, apparently.

Just as well, Draco quietly grabbed his bag in the dark, careful not to disturb the sleeping of his roommates. He ducked out of the dormitory and into the mostly empty common room, not pausing to look around before resolutely heading off towards transfigurations class over two hours early.

His Wednesday went by relatively quickly, with pretty much all of the eighth year students attending Transfigurations at 8AM and Defense Against the Dark Arts at 10AM. Then, Draco would branch off and go to Astronomy. That seemed to be one of the least common N.E.W.T. subjects, as there were only about a dozen students in the class and the only person that Draco ever really spoke with was Nott.

As usual, he snuck off to the kitchens after Astronomy and grabbed half a sandwich with a cup of tea, blushing at the kitchen elves' doting over him to take an apple or a sausage roll as well. He sat on a ledge by the courtyard—one on the side that was a bit less travelled—and sipped at the hot tea with a book charmed to levitate and flip pages as he read. The routine of it was nice, and he allowed himself a moment of peace after the events of the morning.

Once students started to trickle out of the Great Hall and flood the rest of the building, Draco packed up and headed up the usual three flights of stairs to Arithmancy. Professor Vector had prepared a particularly grueling lecture that day, one where even Granger looked confused.

After that was Herbology, where Draco spent most of class sitting with his roommates, listening to Longbottom discuss applications for his N.E.W.T. project while Nott and Corner got sidetracked from picking fluxweed leaves with discussion of their own project.

After that, Draco ran back up the 156 steps to the Eighth Year Common Room and spoke the new password, permitte me intrare—chosen by a snarky former Slytherin, no doubt. He was lucky that he was still so light on his feet from years of Quidditch; getting back from class and settling into his desk before the other students could occupy the common room would be a challenge otherwise.

When he got there, Draco took out some parchment and a quill, starting to write a letter to his mother. That was a concerning topic these days, with her all alone in the Manor. Draco was really the only one who knew what she had been through—not just with the Dark Lord, but with his father before that, and with her own family before that still.

It worried him immensely, having her holed up there with nobody to talk to, but that wasn't exactly something he could voice out loud. He knew that she must miss him dearly; if he couldn't tell by how quickly his letters were returned, the frequency with which she sent the family owl off with sweets for him would make it clear.

Draco wasn't sure how to help, though, other than to abandon any hope he had of supporting their family through the future by dropping out of school and moving back home. He wasn't sure he could handle it himself, to be honest, existing all day trapped in the Manor. It was a different kind of prison.

"Do you ever, you know, take a break?" came Theo's voice behind him, throwing his bag down before flopping exhaustedly onto the bed.

Draco exhaled a chortle, but still subtly grimaced, tapping his quill against the inkpot as he struggled with what to say. "This is my break."

"Mhm," Nott mused. "You look real relaxed."

It was then that Draco noticed that his body was tense with worry, shoulders hunched over a bit of parchment and face undoubtedly all knit up with concern. Consciously relaxing his shoulders and loosening his jaw, he turned back to Nott. "They don't call the tests nastily exhausting for nothing."

Theo looked over with a bemused smile, eyeing Draco in a way that was much too knowing and analytical for his liking. "Right."

It was almost a relief when 6 PM rolled around and Draco had an excuse to leave the room.

As he approached the common room, he heard the clattering of a couple dozen people and the unmistakable sound of his surname being ground out in annoyance.

"I can't believe you let Malfoy help you organize your notes when I've been trying to get your study habits in check for years," Granger protested, her voice tinged with jealousy.

"I didn't exactly let him," Potter chuckled. "It was kinda forced on me."

Draco smiled as he rounded the corner into the common room, trying not to look too pleased with himself. "It needed to be done."

The group—including Potter, Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, Lovegood, Dean Thomas, Hannah Abbott, and Michael Corner—sat splayed out on the couches and around the coffee table by the leftmost hearth.

"Hey, no argument there," Granger said, smiling and shrugging her small shoulders.

Potter groaned. "What is it, Bully Harry Day?"

"I told you having both of them around would be insufferable," Weasley grumbled to Potter under his breath, then turned to the rest of the group in exasperated protest. "He has a system!"

Draco chuckled despite himself. Weasley really did seem quite similar to Potter in speech and mannerisms, particularly when filled with defensive pride. Granger rolled her eyes in mock annoyance before leaning over and kissing Weasley on the cheek.

"I'm sure he does," she said, gently stroking the top of Weasley's hand with her fingers. "Now," she added, smirking as she cast Draco a sideways glance.

Draco let out a derisive snort at the comment, only causing Weasley to shoot him a pointed glance. He cleared his throat, settling down on the floor beside the coffee table. "So, where do we want to start? Charms exam and arithmancy problem set, right?"

"Well, we should probably go to dinner first, and then start on charms practice," Granger said.

Oh crap. Draco hadn't even thought about that. Had he just been manipulated into joining the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw heroes-of-the-school brigade for dinner? His chest tightened at the notion of needing to spend the next hour weathering stares in the Great Hall and attempting to make small talk with the Golden Trio's friends.

He sent a particularly accusatory glare in Potter's direction, but the bloody wizard chose that time to be incredibly wrapped in an apparently very amusing conversation with Weasley. Draco wasn't fooled, though—he could see that triumphant gleam in his emerald eyes that told Draco that Potter knew exactly what he was doing.

Draco only broke away from glaring at Potter to roll his eyes and let out an indignant huff. What bloody concern was it of Potter's whether or not he took his meals in the Great Hall? Potter let out a rather obvious giggle at this, trying to disguise the noise with a cough. When he finally did look back in Draco's direction, he was grinning victoriously. The bastard.

"We can work on the arithmancy problem set late at night, since it's just you, Neville, Michael, and I in that class." Granger leaned in with a soft smile. "I have a feeling that us four will be able to outlast everyone else's study capabilities."

"Something tells me that's not particularly difficult to do," he mused.

When the group rose and started making their way to the Great Hall, Draco would be lying if he said that he didn't consider feigning ill and turning back to the dorms. As it was, he opted to trail a few paces behind the rest of the group, hands in his pockets as he counted the 156 steps back down towards the Great Hall.

He half expected some of the younger students to hex him as they walked in, but he found that only a couple groups even turned to take notice of his presence as the group made their way to the eighth year table along the right wall.

"People don't mind," came Longbottom's kind voice to his left, as if reading his mind. "Theo eats lunch with us all the time now. Nobody stares."

"Theo didn't let a bunch of Death Eaters into the school," bit Draco. He looked beside him, expecting to see that pitying or awkward gaze that most people gave him, but Longbottom was still wearing a smile and his countenance seemed completely even.

"People can't forget if you won't," he returned, clapping Draco on the back gently and settling into the seat next to him. It took Draco a second to realize that he was smiling, too.

The dinner was much less painful than Draco had imagined. In fact, the group seemed to be making a concerted effort to include him in conversation.

They mostly spoke about everyday things, as if they had simply been students here rather than actively fighting a war just months prior. Grumbles about professors, idle adolescent dating gossip, and plans to stay out late in Hogsmeade on a Saturday night were all main topics of conversation.

As it turns out, Tracey Davis and Wayne Hopkins were rumored to be seeing each other regularly, as were Professor Vector and Professor Hooch. The latter finding was met with several squeals of both excitement and protest across the table.

"It's true!" Hannah Abbott exclaimed from a few seats down. "I saw them eating lunch alone in the Quidditch stands last week and there was a definite flirty vibe."

"Well, based on the length of the problem set that Vector assigned today, I'd guess that there's trouble in paradise," Draco joked, earning chuckles and nods of understanding from those in her class.

Draco wondered how much he had really missed out on in the past few weeks by exclusively keeping to himself—apparently, it was quite a bit.

Granger and Longbottom seemed antsy about grabbing drinks and about staying in Hogsmeade past curfew, even though those rules technically no longer applied to the students in their year.

"It's about the precedent!" Granger protested. "What if you run into younger students while you're stumbling back to the dorm at 2 AM?"

"Come on, 'Mione, the younger students have surely seen worse than Harry's subpar drag rendition of She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain When She Comes," said Weasley. Potter's face flushed immediately and he gave Weasley a hard shove, which did nothing to stop the other boy's uproarious laughter.

Even Granger's perfect prefect persona started to crumble at that. "I don't know if I've seen anything worse than that." She laughed, and Harry's blush only deepened.

"Besides," Weasley continued. "We basically spent last year entirely on our own. What are they gonna do—give us detention? Threaten to call home?"

"Yeah, who are they gonna tell, my parents?" Potter chuckled.

This was met with various reactions around the table—some appreciative chuckles, some exasperated eye rolls, and even some lingering looks of pity. Draco opted to look down, suddenly really interested in his peas, and go for a tight smile while he tried not to think of his own parents.

It wasn't until Potter offered him another pumpkin pasty that he realized that there had been more food subtly making its way onto his plate. All under the guise of "everybody needing more chips" and him "needing to try the brussels sprouts, they're really good today" but the intentionality and the stealth of it wasn't lost on Draco.

And more yet, Draco had allowed himself to get pleasantly full. He had taken down several servings of chips, brussels sprouts, mushy peas, a scone with butter, and a pumpkin pasty—which seemed like nothing compared to the accumulating plates of Weasley and Thomas, but was more than double what he'd typically snag from the kitchens. He couldn't remember the last time he had actually felt comfortable enough to rest and digest in that way, much less surrounded by so many people.

"I think I'll bust open if I have any more," he responded, reclining with a hand on his stomach. The satisfactory grin that flitted across Potter's face wasn't lost on him either.

Mutters of agreement filled the air as people started packing up to leave. "Skill issue," Weasley jested, taking the final pasty from Potter's hand and shoving it into his mouth. Potter and Draco practically snorted and rolled their eyes in unison.

Draco didn't even hang behind on the walk back to the dorms, opting instead to join the conversation going on between Lovegood and Michael Corner about lesser known flora and fauna.

"I'm glad you came to dinner with us, Draco," Lovegood said. Draco was taken slightly aback by the use of his first name, but he grinned gently. "Me too."

"I think Harry was glad, too," Lovegood said. "He wouldn't say it, but his metasprum like when you're around. They scatter from his head and spread around yours instead."

"His metasprum?" he questioned.

Lovegood just hummed and nodded in response. "Mhm."

Draco could feel a flush of pride in his chest at the knowledge, even if he wasn't entirely sure he knew what Lovegood was going on about. He only hoped that his cheeks didn't look as warm as they felt.

What followed was possibly the most enjoyable study session that Draco had ever had. The nine of them spent the evening curled up on the couches and the floor surrounding one of the common room's hearths, textbooks and bits of parchment splayed out around them in all directions.

When a charm went awry in some comedic way—like Weasley accidentally producing a flock of little green ducklings that seemed to have imprinted on him as they quacked around and tried to nuzzle into his legs—the group only laughed for a moment before chiming in with all kinds of helpful tips.

For a while, nothing seemed so serious. It made Draco wonder if he had simply brought the war zone with him while everyone else had been somehow able to instantly reframe the space as a place of learning and friendship.

The group dwindled throughout the night until they transitioned to focus on the Arithmancy problem set, and then dwindled again until it was just Granger, Longbottom, and Draco by the fire.

"So, Granger, is this what you're up to whenever you aren't holed up with me in some quiet corner of the library?" Draco asked.

"Heh, pretty much," she answered. "I probably get a bit less done with all the distractions, but sometimes I think it's important as a sanity check."

Draco chuckled darkly, looking back down at the half-solved problem in front of him. "Probably why I haven't felt very sane in a while."

"Well, you're welcome to join us whenever you want," Longbottom said earnestly, dropping his quill for a moment to look at Draco. "Especially if you have more of those note sorting spells."

Draco chuckled again, meeting Longbottom's gaze now as he pointed an accusatory quill at him. "Ah, so you want me around for my study tricks."

"Well, yes, I do," he conceded, putting his hands up in mock defeat. "But also, I can't imagine anybody staying sane on the round-the-clock solitary study schedule you seem to be on. And I meant what I said earlier…about forgiving and forgetting. Really, you don't need to punish yourself forever."

It took Draco until he was nestled into bed that night to realize that Longbottom had described exactly what had occurred that morning. He hadn't hacked up his arm to relieve the stress of performing normalcy for people, as much as he would've loved to convince himself was the case. What he had done was allowed himself to agree to something that might actually be nice and enjoyable—and he had punished himself for it.

…

"Infinitely better," Draco praised, shaking off a bit of imaginary water as he removed his head from the pensieve. The liquid didn't actually dampen your face or hair, of course, but it was still human nature to shake off when exiting a wet place.

Potter beamed at him, looking satisfied with what he had chosen to be the new memory.

Potter's new visualization was leagues better, Draco thought, than whatever that absolutely disconcerting shite with the liminal space version of King's Cross had been. The visualization he had shared now was one that was much more pleasant and intimate, of him and his parents.

Potter couldn't have been much older than a toddler—and, well, he couldn't have realistically been much older than one or two if his parents were present, which is likely why the visualization was a bit hazy. They didn't appear to be doing anything, which was good for a visualization, just standing and laughing and cooing at baby Potter as he flashed a radiant grin right back.

"Is the memory with your mum the same one that you use to conjure a patronus?" Potter questioned.

Draco's ears colored in shame. "Actually, I've never been able to produce one."

"And that's not even a real memory with my mum; I made it up," he added, eyes downcast towards the shimmering liquid that still swirled beckoningly in the pensieve. He nonchalantly ran his fingers along the edge again, remembering the many times he had attempted to produce a patronus and found his wand barely coughing out wisps of silvery mist.

"Oh, I didn't—" Potter started. "That wasn't a dig. I just assumed because of your advice on using the patronus memory."

Draco hummed softly, contemplative. "Mhmm."

"I could teach you, if you want?" Potter suggested, attempting to sound dispassionate despite the clear ring of excitement creeping into his tone. "I taught quite a few people how during fifth year, and have been teaching the younger students again this year."

"I've never really had a need for it, to be honest."

"What do you mean?" Potter was leaning in now, curious.

Draco shrugged. "The dementors don't really affect me that much."

"The dementors don't…?" Potter sounded incredulous. "The dementors don't affect you that much." He repeated Draco's words with raised eyebrows, sounding suspicious.

Draco chuckled darkly. "Well the dementors suck all the joy out of your world, make everything feel dark and hopeless and like it's your fault."

Potter nodded—he knew this already.

"I guess I just sort of felt like that all the time anyways. So they didn't do much."

He hated the look that crossed Potter's face—it was pity again, maybe, or just realization.

"Don't go soft on me, Potter," Draco snarked. "I'll remind you that I frequently exploited that fact because I knew how upset the dementors made you. I used that to my advantage on more than one occasion."

Potter shuddered, eyes glazing over as he remembered the Quidditch incident.

"I was jealous, you know," Draco said, breaking Potter out of his reflective stupor. "I knew that how severely you reacted to the dementors meant that you didn't feel that way most of the time. I was hurting and that made me jealous and angry and I wanted you to hurt with me."

Draco wasn't sure why he was admitting to all of this now. Maybe it was how kindly and instinctively Potter and his friends had accepted him into their group a few days ago. Maybe it was the fact that he was going to be stuck showing Potter intimate details of his life whether he wanted to or not. Or maybe he just simply didn't care to hide it anymore.

"Did you feel how the dementors affected me when you saw that memory in my head?" Potter asked.

"A bit," Draco admitted. "But I don't think I felt the whole thing. I mostly just heard screaming."

Potter nodded. "Yeah, I hear my mum."

Draco's stomach lurched. "Your mum?"

Potter nodded again.

The words took Draco a moment to process, and it felt a little as if he were going to be sick. Here he was, so comforted by the presence of his own mum that it was the only calming façade he could reasonably create, and he had still spent years unintentionally tormenting Potter about auditory hallucinations of his mother screaming as she was murdered.

"You were old enough to remember that?" The question came out almost without his permission.

Potter just shrugged. "I guess so. I don't remember anything else."

"I—"

"You don't need to apologize," Potter cut him off. "I've had enough pity about it to last a lifetime."

"I do," Draco asserted, still feeling the guilty rolling sensation in his gut. "I'm sorry for the dementor-related harassment specifically. How about that?"

"It's ok," Potter said, easily. "It made me better. Made me accept help. Made me learn how to produce a patronus for the first time—which actually saved my life at the end of third year."

Draco was unsettled by how smoothly this conversation was going. "How can you even say that?" he protested.

Potter's brows knitted together in confusion. "What do you mean?"

"How can you forgive me so easily?" Draco asked.

Potter shrugged nonchalantly. "We were kids."

"But I'm still that person," Draco argued.

"Are you?"

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Draco re-asserted, expression serious.

"Bullshit."

"Look, I know that you think you know who I am, Potter, but you don't," Draco declared, feeling righteous self-loathing flare up in his chest in lieu of the gnawing guilt in his stomach. "You know the tip of the iceberg."

Potter opened his mouth as if to protest, but Draco carried on. "And maybe my mother and I saving your life during the war would be enough to forgive the bullying and the bigotry and the childish scheming but—but that's not…I've done things. Terrible things. I've…I—" Draco struggled for words. He suddenly felt as if there were a choking hex cast his way, and he coughed slightly.

"I know," Potter asserted.

Merlin, why did he need to do that? To act like he somehow knew all of the vile shit from his past and that it wouldn't change things.

"You don't." Draco's voice sounded harsh, even to himself.

He half expected Potter to wince or back down from the assertion, but if anything, his eyes seemed alight with challenge.

"Show me," Potter demanded, voice matching the harshness of Draco's, then softening. "Please."

Draco could feel himself getting emotional, could feel the choking sensation welling up in his throat again. "You don't wanna see that shit, Potter."

"I think we're both gonna see the shit anyways," he said easily—too easily for Draco's liking. "Might as well start with the worst shit so it stops butting into our occlumency practice. Or at least we'll be prepared for it; it won't be anything new."

Draco winced at the mere idea of Potter seeing the worst things he'd ever done, witnessing the violence and the terrible mistakes as an innocent bystander. You won't want to keep doing the project with me, he wanted to say. You won't even want to be in the same room as me.

But how does one say that?

"I want you to see it from my eyes," Draco said finally. If he had to stand by the pensieve and wait for Potter to re-emerge and curse him into oblivion, he didn't know what he'd do. Do it himself, maybe. Or run away—he's always been good at that. Like father, like son, he supposed.

Potter's eyes widened in surprise at the request. "You want to do legilimency again?"

"Just for this. If I'm going to show you, I want it to be on my terms. Please." His voice came out weak and pleading now, a stark contrast to the firm assertions he had made just minutes earlier.

Potter paused and opened his mouth, fiddling with one of the vials on the side of the pensieve. Draco was sure that he was going to protest, but he didn't.

"Okay," he said, nodding solemnly. "I'll do it. On one condition."

"I don't usually do conditions," Draco spoke quietly. "What is it?"

"I want you to see it through my eyes, too."

Draco thought about protesting, but his mouth responded before he could. "Deal."

The Room of Requirement had created a small, grey couch by the fireplace today instead of a desk—seeming to anticipate their needs before they even realized that they had them. As the two settled in there, Potter's eyes seemed to bore into Draco's. The intensity was enough to make Draco wonder if Potter was going to do wandless legilimency on him again.

"Are you ready?" Potter asked, raising his wand.

Draco flinched at the movement before closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and forcing himself to respond. "Yes."

"Legilimens."