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Author's Note:

Hi y'all! Sorry that this took so long to update—I really wanted to get this scene right.

Massive content warnings on this chapter for past child abuse, self-harm, blood (sectumsempra) and near-death experiences. Please be mindful when making the decision to read this chapter; it could be potentially triggering for several reasons.

Thank you for reading!

...

Harry Potter hadn't dated when most of the other kids had dated. He didn't have an elementary school crush that he could have held the hand of or maybe even stolen a chaste kiss from under the slide at playtime while none of the adults were looking—and he was aware that was an incredibly muggle view on the idyllic childhood, but he couldn't help but to compare his own experiences against those.

He didn't get to have childish fantasies about sweet girls with freckles and unkempt auburn curls pulling him outside the view of camp counselors for a quick snog. He didn't get to feel his heartbeat quicken as the hand of a young man with silky platinum hair and too much confidence for his own good lingered for a moment too long on the small of his back at the school dance. He didn't get to feel the breath of somebody who was convinced they were in love with him warm on his neck, praying that their overbearing but well-intentioned parents didn't walk in.

Because Harry had been too busy trying to survive.

And survive he would—he was good at that. Great, even. Even when that meant digging through the bin for remnants of leftover Sunday dinner to keep his body going. Even when that meant nursing silent resentment for the woman who made him do yard work until the burnt skin on his back peeled off in clean sheets of white. Even when that meant spending long summer evenings stuffed into a cupboard making no noise and pretending not to exist so as not to draw enough attention to earn himself a few lashings onto his already scorched back. Even when that meant dying first and traversing through the liminal space version of King's Cross station to get back despite that imagery appearing creepy as shite to some people who know him now.

What a terrifying prospect that was to Harry—being known. Because, well, he couldn't very well pretend he didn't exist if people knew him at his core, now could he?

Harry became aware that he was humming as he assembled a plate full of food to bring to the Room of Requirement. This wasn't something that he knew he did until Luna had pointed it out—she had said that it was nice to have an audible indicator that Harry was nearby and he was doing just fine.

This had become a sort of routine of his. On Mondays and Wednesdays, we would assemble a small plate of whatever he had eaten for dinner and cast a spell to send it to the Room of Requirement. Except for the meat, because Draco never seemed to eat the meat on his plate. Harry suspected that it had something to do with seeing Nagini in the early stages of digesting human flesh one too many times—the kind of insight that really only came from being inside someone's mind to observe the scene—rather than what he would have assumed was the entitled fussiness of a boy who had never appreciated the value of whatever was put on his plate.

And Harry had never much prided himself on being perceptive like that—hell, he had studied the notes of a man whose handwriting he had seen every week in potions class since first year and not even recognized it—but he was insightful. He would give himself that much. A product of his environment, he supposed, where telling the difference between Aunt Petunia's footsteps on a good day and on a bad day could mean the difference between being mercifully given an extra meal and being hit with the hot frying pan used to cook said meal.

He may not have had any of the typical childhood and adolescent experiences, but at least he was able to pick up on minute cues in the demeanor of those around him. It was, admittedly, much more helpful for survival. Bully for him, he supposed.

"Meeting up with Draco," Harry said to his friends, slinging a bag with books over his shoulder and turning to make his exit.

"Use protection!" Ron yelled after him, earning a chuckle and a head shake from Harry and a not-so-gentle nudge in the ribs from Hermione.

The Room of Requirement was a welcome scene—Draco had already settled in by the desk, chewing on a buttered carrot and flipping through what appeared to be a muggle clinical psychology textbook. His face was lit gently by the fire, highlighting the grinding motion of his sharp jawline and the focus in his watercolor eyes.

He smiled warmly as Harry approached the table, looking up at him with what could only be thinly veiled excitement. "Did you know," he started, raising up the textbook before him like a talisman. "that muggle psychotherapy predates the practice of mind healing by nearly fifty years?"

Harry couldn't help but to smile at the infectious enthusiasm. "I didn't," he said, settling in next to Draco. "But I'm glad that Hermione's book has been useful."

"A man named Franz Mesmer thought that you could treat all kinds of psychosomatic and psychological problems with hypnotherapy. All the evidence suggests that he was a muggle with no knowledge of actual magical thought manipulation. And that was as early as the 1700s!" Draco continued to flip through the book and then pointed at another section vigorously. "And then Sigmund Freud—I'm sure you remember him; he's the Oedipus complex guy—essentially started modern talk therapy in the 19th century. Wixen people didn't start the practice of mind healing until the 40s!"

Draco's hands shook slightly as he spoke, either a product of his excitement or the aftermath of early December chill creeping into the air. Without much thought, Harry went to grab the fuzzy, grey throw blanket from the back of the couch and slung it over Draco's shoulders, nudging his chair a bit closer to cozy up to him.

"That's actually really interesting," Harry admitted, grabbing the roll of parchment that Draco had been taking notes on. "It wouldn't hurt to have more muggle sources in our dissertation. I feel like I wouldn't even be improving on occlumency without the muggle emotional processing theory stuff."

When he looked up, Draco seemed to have stopped reading the texts and was staring at him with an expression of tender discernment. He had a hand holding the small throw blanket around his slender shoulders—shoulders that were too slender for Harry's liking, and he noted that the slice of pie on his plate had gone untouched.

Draco put down his wand and pulled a leg up onto his chair, wrapping the blanket around it. His eyes flitted to his half-eaten dinner plate and then back to Harry. "Are we gonna talk about this?"

Harry straightened out his posture a bit, holding his hands in his lap. "Talk about what?"

"Come on, Harry. Are we gonna talk about why you're always bringing me food and making sure I'm warm enough?" He motioned again to the blanket wrapped around his frame, eyes flitting back over to the plate of food as his voice dropped. "About the things that I saw in the pensieve?"

Harry looked confused, eyebrows knitting together perplexedly. "What is there to talk about?"

"I mean, nothing—if you really don't want to." Draco suddenly felt like his tongue was dry. "I just…I worry…have you talked to anybody about it?"

Harry's stomach was rising into his throat, all sense of Gryffindor bravery feeling as if it had been sucked from his core. "People know," he protested weakly. "Ron, Fred, and George came to my house and ripped the bars off my window to get me to school one time."

Draco's eyes widened a bit at ripped the bars off my window, but he said nothing.

"I'm sure that Ron and Hermione knew what was going on to some extent." Harry sighed. "They saw me come back from summer break a stone lighter than when I left. They knew not to expect to hear much from me by owl over the summers. They saw the bruises and the scars. They knew that I wasn't allowed near my things to do coursework."

"Okay, so your friends knew to some extent. Did you ever tell an adult about it?" Draco hoped that the question didn't sound accusatory.

"Somebody must have known," Harry rationalized. "My Hogwarts letters were addressed to Harry Potter in The Cupboard Under the Stairs."

Draco's jaw tightened and Harry swallowed his anxiety to press forward. "Do you remember that line that Dumbledore used to give in speeches about help being given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it?" Harry asked.

Draco nodded.

"Last year, Dumbledore amended that statement." Harry was fiddling with the cuff of his robes again, looking down as he shrugged in the most nonchalant way he could manage. "He told me that help would always be given at Hogwarts to those who deserve it. And I guess I just figured that I didn't deserve it."

Draco repetitively clenched and unclenched his fists, standing in a flurry with the blanket still wrapped around him and beginning to pace in front of the hearth. Harry could swear that he saw a vein that he hadn't ever seen before bulge out of his neck.

"Well, this is the first time I've genuinely regretted not killing the bastard," Draco said, voice low and tone sharp enough to cut glass.

"You don't mean that," Harry said. "It's alright."

"It's not alright," Draco spat, whirling on his heels and causing Harry to flinch. His gaze softened just slightly upon seeing Harry recoil, but his eyes were still narrowed in rage. "And I mean what I say."

"Come over here," Harry suggested, moving to settle in on the couch. "Come sit."

Draco did as he was bid, spine tense and upright as he still seemed to have a quiet rage simmering below the surface. He took a deep inhale, then a deep exhale, and looked back at Harry. "How do you feel about that?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Harry rationalized. "Dumbledore was my idol. I thought he could do no wrong. Hell, the man coached me through my death."

Draco shot him an incredulous look.

"We can talk about that later." Harry chuckled dryly, scratching his head. "Honestly, I guess I—I feel like a preteen Harry a lot recently."

Draco leaned against the couch and towards Harry. "In what ways?"

"Just the things I find myself wanting to do…" Harry recalled his recent inclination towards spending extended periods of time locked away in the vanishing cabinet, making no noise and pretending that he didn't exist.

"My sleep schedule…" he continued, thinking of the late nights he'd spent either wide awake in bed or fighting off fitful nightmares of everyone he loved going through immense agony and facing certain death amidst the Inferi on his behalf. And making up for that lost sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

"My interests…" he said, mind flitting to the late-night flights on his broomstick and the reckless nosedives that made him feel something.

"My reactions to things," he finished, reflecting on how he had taken back up the flinching at sudden movements despite that particular reflex of his being all but stamped out over the course of the war.

"Well, preteen Harry is still inside you." Draco's eyes flitted to the fire and then back to Harry, all innocent and earnest. "Maybe he's trying to communicate something."

"You've read one too many muggle psychotherapy books." Harry scoffed. "What in Merlin's name could preteen Harry have to communicate that adult Harry doesn't know?"

"Well, I'm not sure." Draco ignored the comment on muggle psychotherapy books, pressing on anyway. "This preteen Harry—what were things like for him?"

Harry's eyes widened. His lower lip began to quiver and he could feel his throat getting thick. Dammit.

"Sorry, I—" Harry began to say, his voice hitching. "I feel like I'm gonna cry for some reason."

"Hey, it's alright." Draco spoke softly, wrapping a delicate arm around Harry's shoulders and bringing the thick, gray throw blanket with it. "It's alright."

A quiet sob broke from Harry's throat, a strangled sound, as a few tears fell down his face and into Draco's robes. "Nobody's ever asked me that."

"I'm sorry that nobody did." Draco pulled Harry closer into his chest, face pressing into the top of his head. "Somebody should have. You deserve to talk about it."

The response from Harry was muffled as he allowed his face to be pressed deeper into Draco's shoulder. "I—he—things were so bad."

Draco started rubbing gentle circles on Harry's back. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No," Harry said, sniffling slightly. "I just…"

Draco waited and continued to hold Harry close until he straightened up of his own accord and continued speaking. "I guess sometimes I wonder who I could've been."

Draco hummed in affirmation. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, I just…Dumbledore left me with the Dursleys to ensure that I'd be willing to sacrifice myself. But I wonder if I would have anyways. I mean, I know that my dad was no saint as a teenager—I saw the hell that he put Snape through—but my mom was always described as a saint. And I think she would've given herself up for people anyways. Well, I know that she would have, because she gave herself up for me."

Harry's voice had grown thick again. "I just like to think that I would've done it anyways. That I didn't need to think of my life without value. That I would've done it even knowing that my life had value—because I was noble…and—and brave…"

"You're incredibly brave, Harry," said Draco, taking his hand. "And so was your mother."

"My aunt and uncle told me that she died driving drunk." Harry's voice should've been bitter, but it wasn't—he just sounded full of grief. "I thought that my parents were drunks who didn't give a shit about me and that I'd never amount to anything because I was their kid. I was told constantly that I was stupid and lazy and wasn't worth the food on my plate."

Harry's eyes skipped back over to the untouched pie on the desk and Draco's eyes followed, a stony wrath overtaking them before they landed back on Harry.

"In my house, doing magical homework was wrong," Harry explained, then chuckled dryly. "Actually, doing muggle homework was also wrong. Because then I might perform better than my dear cousin Dudley and hurt his fragile self-esteem."

"So basically you weren't allowed to succeed?" Draco questioned, his tone soft but his angular jaw tighter than usual. "And then they acted like it was a self-fulfilling prophecy when you didn't?"

"My uncle—well, he just didn't like me very much." Harry's gaze trailed back over to the fire, which had started raging in the nearby hearth. "None of my family did."

Draco leaned a bit closer, moving his thumb to brush stray strands of black hair off of Harry's forehead. "Well…" Draco said, mouth tightening into a melancholic smile. "They missed out."

Harry chuckled again, the action bereft of humor. "Do you know what my cousin said to me before my family moved houses?"

Draco shook his head.

"I don't think you're a waste of space," Harry said solemnly. "It was meant to be a consolation. And I—I took it as one. As an apology. Not I'm sorry for having my friends beat the piss out of you, Harry. Not I'm sorry for the ways that I encouraged my parents to abuse you, Harry. But I don't think you're a waste of space. And I cried over that shit."

"That must've been really hard," Draco affirmed, tightening his grip on Harry's hand beneath the blanket. Harry's eyes started to water again, and a cascade of mumbled apologies for it came tumbling out of his mouth.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Draco said, picking at the sleeve of his robes. "I'm sorry that I didn't pick up on some of that when we were kids."

"You were eleven." Harry objected, his voice strained.

"Yeah, well—you were eleven, too."

For a moment, all that could be heard was the delicate instrumentals that defined the Room of Requirement study space and the crackling of logs in the hearth.

"Hey Harry," Draco leaned in and spoke very softly, as if he might break Harry with his voice. "If your loved ones don't care that you're suffering, maybe those loved ones don't actually love you very much."

"Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for listening."

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for talking."

Harry looked up at Draco, eyes red-rimmed and tear-stained, and smiled.

A line had been crossed. Draco Malfoy had allowed himself to feel comfortable in the company of another person. So comfortable, in fact, that he had barely noticed Harry staring at him—eyeing him cautiously as if he were a potion with too much lady's mantle added that could explode at any minute.

Draco was perceptive—he would give himself that much. How many stairs were there between the Great Hall and the Eighth Year dormitories? 156. But having any earthly clue what Harry Potter was thinking at any given moment? Well, he figured that his chances of knowing that with any confidence were slim to none.

Draco had multiple open textbooks and bits of parchment splayed around him on the floor. As he leaned forward to flip a page, the fire in the hearth cast a warm glow across his face.

His eyes looked curious, scouring the pages for information, seemingly entirely enthralled and borderline enamored rather than overwhelmed by his volume of work.

The thick, oversized dark green sweater that he wore had been rolled up to his elbows and he was sitting with one leg out, leaning on his forearms as he wrote down important bits of information.

He looked serene, Harry thought, body poised atop his mountains of text. Harry realized then that he had never really seen Draco in a relaxed state before. He had always been tensed up, at attention, as if he were waiting for some imaginary alarm to go off.

The thought caused a clench in Harry's stomach.

"You know…" Harry started, gathering himself to go and sit cross-legged by Draco on the floor. "It was really helpful for me to talk through everything last week."

"That's wonderful," Draco said with a soft smile, taking a moment to peel his attention away from the essay and placing a hand onto Harry's knee. "I'm happy to talk whenever you need it."

"I'm happy to talk whenever you need it, too," Harry said gently, placing his hands on top of Draco's.

"I know," said Draco, suddenly stiffening.

"Do you?" questioned Harry.

"What?" asked Draco, terse confusion spreading across his face.

"I just…we talked all about my issues. With food and Dumbledore and my childhood. And it was helpful," Harry added quickly. "But we haven't talked very much about what I saw in your head either."

Draco stiffened further, his posture resembling the poised version of himself he had displayed throughout their earlier school years. "My childhood was fine," he added brusquely.

"So you'd want other children to have the childhood you had?" Harry pressed, his tone gently prodding.

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes. "What are you, bloody therapizing me, Potter?"

Harry didn't blink at the sudden name change. "It's what Luna said."

Now it was Draco's turn to look at Harry as if he were a potion that might explode. "Do share," he drawled contemptuously.

"So you'd want other children to have the childhood you had? It's what Luna said to me when I said exactly what you just said. That my childhood was fine."

Draco's lips pressed into a tight line. "Hardly the same thing."

"Isn't it, though?"

"Harry, I had two parents that loved me." Draco looked cynical at Harry's line of questioning. "I know that Lucius sometimes had an interesting way of showing it and that he made some incredibly questionable life decisions. But my parents kept me fed and clothed and I had a bed to sleep in at night. I was fine."

Harry shrugged. "If you say so."

Draco could feel his anger boiling over now. "What the fuck does that even mean?" he spat.

Harry shrugged again, shrinking back a bit at Draco's irritation.

Draco crossed his arms over his chest, letting out a huff of air exasperatedly. "No, if you have something to say, then out with it."

Harry seemed to struggle with himself, debating whether or not it was worth it to necessitate the conversation. "Look, Draco, I see how you act. And I've seen why you act that way. But any time it's been brought up, it's all he tried his best and he didn't know any better and thank Merlin he knocked it out of me before the Dark Lord could. It's not healthy."

"Mm." Draco hummed sarcastically, demeanor tightening defensively. "And you're just the champion of what's healthy, are you, sneaking in here at night to rewatch the memory of your Godfather passing over and over again as if you can change the outcome?"

Harry's eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in anger.

"Oh yeah, don't think I didn't notice that fun little habit of yours," Draco spat. "If you're so concerned about me, why wait to bring it up now when I was having a perfectly peaceful evening?"

"I was trying not to upset you." Harry could feel the familiar rage bubbling up in his stomach, but he clenched his jaw and did all he could to make it simmer down. "But maybe things need to get a little upsetting before we can continue. It's not good for you and it's not good for the occlumency work."

"Oh." Draco's left eye twitched. "Not good for the occlumency work, huh? Well, Merlin forbid that I not pull my weight on the project—I'm sure that's all you care about anyways."

Harry winced slightly at the accusation, softening his gaze ever so slightly. "I—you know that's not true."

"I guess that I had thought—hoped—that maybe you weren't just doing all of this out of obligation," Draco said bitterly. "That maybe you didn't hate me so much anymore. Egg on my face, I guess."

"Draco," Harry said softly. "That's not true. It's not just out of obligation. I can practically feel you ripping yourself to shreds in your head, waiting for some violent punishment that's never going to come. And I think if you just talked about it—"

"Fine." Draco cut him off. "You wanna talk about it—let's talk about it. You know how you said that doing coursework in your house was wrong?"

Harry nodded, silent.

"Well in my house, doing anything but coursework was wrong. Until Lucius figured out that I liked doing my coursework. Then there really wasn't anything that was safe to be doing. I think he was just miserable and seeing other people doing anything that didn't make them miserable too pissed him off. But acting miserable while doing the thing that was supposed to make you miserable also pissed him off. You were supposed to do things that made you miserable, but act grateful and contrite about it."

Draco said it with a neutral tone and dull eyes, reciting the instructions as if he were giving an academic lecture. Maybe, in his mind, he was.

"But don't act like you're so open with me," Draco went on. "You're getting better at the occlumency. And I can feel you tugging me every which way against the pull of the thing that you really don't want me to see. So what is it, hm? Since you're all about getting personal today?"

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. "The sectumsempra incident."

The anger looked as if it had suddenly evaporated from Draco. "Why does that get to you so badly?"

"I used dark magic on someone I care about." Harry was back to fiddling with his robes.

Draco blinked. "You care about me?"

"Of course," Harry admitted, then took a risk. "Why does it get to you so badly?"

Draco looked as if he were about to say something difficult, then just made eye contact with Harry and solemnly shook his head.

"Okay, hey—," Harry said, wrapping an arm around Draco's shoulders. "That's okay."

"No, I…I want to tell you," Draco whispered through shaky breaths. "But I think it may be one of those things that's easier to show you, if I can. Is that alright?"

Harry went to say yes, but found that the assertion didn't sit quite right with him. "No, it's not alright. But we can do it anyway. Do you want to do it now?"

"No time like the present," Draco quipped primly, dragging himself backwards a bit to prop his back against the couch and shutting his eyes in anticipation.

"Draco?" Harry asked softly.

Draco opened his eyes. "Yes, Harry?"

Harry felt as if he needed to summon all of his Gryffindor courage for this question. More than he had needed to fight a basilisk, or face down a werewolf, or steal a dragon's egg. "Can I hold your hand?"

Draco's heart sank, and his expression softened. "Yes, Harry," he confirmed, gently taking Harry's left hand in his. "I'm ready."

Draco heard Harry's intake of breath as he drew his wand, unsteady and uncertain. And then, with a shaking voice, "Legilimens."

Harry had been expecting resistance, as there typically would be when he was accessing a memory that had been repressed, but instead found that his brain transitioned smoothly into Draco's recollection of the Great Hall. Draco was standing towards the entrance, observing the back of Harry's head as he spoke in hushed tones to Katie Bell.

Harry turned to look at Draco and Draco felt himself pale, hearing his heartbeat ringing in his ears as he turned and nearly sprinted out of the hall. Draco could feel the panic rising in his throat, loosening his tie in a vain attempt at being able to breathe.

Bursting into the sixth-floor boys' lavatory, which was nearly always empty due to the lack of classrooms on the sixth floor, Draco tore his vest over his head and threw it into the wash basin. He clutched the edge of the basin tightly with his left hand, already positioning his wand up against his left bicep with his right hand.

He tore a deep gash into the skin there with his wand—dress shirt be damned—thinking of the cursed necklace and of poor Katie Bell, who was no doubt traumatized for life at his hands.

He slashed again thinking of his mother, who would be dead soon if he couldn't succeed—brutally tortured and then hopefully, mercifully killed at the hands of the Dark Lord for his failure. The thought made him grunt in frustration and drag the wand violently and haphazardly in a zigzag pattern, ripping apart full sections of skin as he cut through muscle tissue.

Finally, he thought of his father. If his father had cursed him for falling asleep next to Blaise, what would he do to him now? The thought made his stomach curdle, but it was enough to put his wand down at the near-promise of future agony. He used his right arm to steady himself as the mangled mess of his left arm dripped into the basin, spilled blood incubating the memories as it mingled with the running water and swirled down the drain.

Draco allowed himself to cry—not the pitiful whining he had done for display as a young boy, but truly panicked and agonied sobs that wracked his body and made it difficult to stand. His breath hitched as he whimpered and tried to collect himself, but found that he couldn't. His vision was swimming and his eyes stung with tears, barely able to recognize the hollowed-out man that the mirror reflected back.

Suddenly, a voice. "I know what you did, Malfoy." It was Potter, who appeared in his field of vision and raised his wand in accusation. "You hexed her, didn't you?"

It was true. He had. Not even hexed her—the necklace had been cursed. Sure, she hadn't been the target, but she had been cursed all the same. Draco's mind flashed to his father again and he could feel himself gasping for air as he raised his own wand in retaliation, sending a hex flying through the air that narrowly missed Potter as he ducked behind a stall.

The two sent hexes flying back and forth—narrowly missing each other around tile walls and underneath the toilets, sending porcelain shrapnel flying throughout the room. As Draco rounded a corner, he saw Harry standing with his wand raised.

"Sectumsempra!" he yelled.

Draco saw the aftermath before he felt it—a bright flash of white on the tip of Potter's wand as he was catapulted backwards. The fall knocked the wind out of him and he suddenly felt the familiar sting from his left arm radiating all over his body tenfold.

His breathing instantly became labored as he choked and gasped for air, the slicing pain from his torso seeming to congregate in his neck and chest as the blood constructed his airways. His blood, he realized. Too much of his blood.

That should bother him, he thought, but a part of him felt resigned to it. He didn't deserve a hero's fate. He deserved to gag and cough violently on the undoubtedly filthy floor of the loo.

It was curious how everything seemed to move in slow motion. Every rasping gasp felt like a minute, each sanguinous cough an hour. The back of his throat tasted like the time he had shoved a handful of sickles into his mouth as a kid. Thank Merlin his mum had stormed in before he choked to death. Kind of like he was doing now.

Wasn't blood supposed to be warm? Draco felt cold—no, freezing. He would be shivering if he weren't already shaking from the pain. And oh, Merlin, he was so tired—if only he could just rest for a minute.

The thought sounded nice, and he had just finished his last attempt at clearing the bloody mucus from his throat when a familiar whirl of greasy black hair and robes entered his field of vision. He felt relief, and also maybe a bit of disappointment, before he blacked out.

Upon mentally returning to the Room of Requirement, both Draco and Harry collapsed backwards onto the couch in exhaustion.

The two stayed like that for a while, slumped against the grey fabric with Harry's head on Draco's shoulder and Draco's head on Harry's head.

"I'm so sorry that I did that," said Harry finally. "I didn't know what the spell did and I never should have used it. I've spent months regretting that day."

"No worries," Draco said flatly, voice sounding void of any emotion. "As you can see, I was doing a pretty good job of slicing myself up on my own before you showed up."

They sat in silence for a moment.

Without warning, a harsh sob ripped from Draco's throat, sounding as if it had torn through a gate that was meant to hold it back.

"I…you…" Harry trailed off, voice filling with concern. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Draco looked towards the floor, ashamed. "To avoid the look that you're giving me right now."

"This was good back then." Draco steeled himself against Harry's pitying gaze. "It was…adaptive. When I'd cut myself, I'd imagine that all of the little bubbles of blood were a different thought or different feeling. And as they'd merge together, I'd imagine sorting the different parts of my brain into neat little lines. Self-contained stories. And I'd imagine building walls up around them, so that each memory was contained to its place. And I guess that helped me to keep things from him, to keep them in line—literally."

"When was the last time?" Harry asked softly, keeping his eyes on the fireplace.

Draco debated lying, but decided that Harry knew most of it at this point anyway. "A couple weeks ago. After we went out with your friends."

Harry winced. That clearly wasn't the answer he had been expecting—or hoping for. He wrapped his hands around Draco's forearm and squeezed gently. And then, softly, "Why?"

"I don't know," said Draco honestly. "It's like the only time that I feel allowed to hate myself a little bit less is when I'm suffering."

"Nobody benefits from your suffering." It was meant to be an argument, but it sounded more like pleading, even to Harry's ears.

"Maybe not, but some people want it," Draco said in earnest, then paused. "And I know what you're gonna say."

Harry shook his head against Draco's shoulder, then turned to peer up at him. "No, you don't."

"That they're wrong to want that," Draco voiced expressionlessly. "That all the death and suffering couldn't possibly have been the fault of one teenage boy."

A small smile made its way onto Harry's face. "Ok, so you did know."

Draco chuckled darkly, then shook his head, wiping at the edges of his eyes with the sleeve of his cloak. "Merlin, what is wrong with me? I just feel so angry all the time…"

Harry nodded in sympathy. "Well, I understand that."

Draco looked surprised—and hopeful. "You do?"

"Of course."

Draco's right hand wandered up to dig into his left upper arm, causing Harry to wince. "Who are you angry at?"

"Well, I'm not so angry anymore," Harry clarified.

Draco's brows knit together. "What?"

"I used to be angry pretty much always," he said, voice trailing off.

"How did you get it to stop?" Draco asked.

"Well, er—I died." Harry smiled apologetically at the response.

"Oh." Draco's voice was dry. "That's helpful."

Harry's lips turned up in amusement, then settled back down into a line. "Nothing is wrong with you, ya know. It's okay that you're angry."

"Something is absolutely wrong with me," Draco claimed. "That's why I'm so angry."

"You know." Harry reached up to grab Draco's right hand and pulled it away from his harm, gripping it in his lap. "A wise man once told me that the world isn't made up of good people and Death Eaters. We've all got both light and dark inside of us."

Draco chuckled darkly, staring down at their now intertwined fingers. "I'd imagine that's more of a consolation to people who aren't literal Death Eaters."

"You aren't a Death Eater anymore. It's not too late to choose where your story goes."

"What kind of Hufflepuff rubbish is that?" Draco asked doubtfully.

"It's true." Harry looked back up to meet Draco's gaze. "Nobody's born bad."

"Okay, maybe I wasn't born bad," Draco relented. "But I'm bad now."

"Says who?" Harry pressed.

"Says me."

"Yeah, that guy's full of shit."

Draco snorted quietly in amusement.

"I really did enjoy going out with your friends," he confirmed. "They're good people."

"Yeah, I think so, too," Harry agreed, grinning.

"Weasley still looks like he wants to slit my throat at times," Draco recalled, suddenly looking serious again. "But Granger and Longbottom have been unnervingly kind to me."

"You're really very similar to Hermione in a lot of ways," Harry said. He chuckled as Draco raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "You even look a bit like her when you do that."

"I mean that as the highest compliment," Harry added. "Hermione was the only one who never left my side. Through everything."

Harry rubbed his thumb back and forth over Draco's left hand.

"I owe Longbottom my life," Draco admitted softly.

"How so?" Harry questioned.

"If he hadn't stopped me that day in the courtyard, I don't think I would've had the courage to throw you the wand. I felt like I was screaming for somebody—anybody—to stop me from joining my family. But if he hadn't grabbed my arm, I would have walked away from the wreckage with my mum and never looked back—make no mistake about that."

Draco groaned. "Now that I'm recalling this, I think I may have said something to him about that in my drunken state."

"Yeah, you said a lot of things in your drunken state…" Harry goaded, snickering.

Draco groaned again, burying his face in his hands. "Do I even wanna know?"

"I believe there was something in there about my eyes glimmering like emeralds…"

Draco gasped indignantly. "I did not!"

"You did too!" Harry laughed.

"That doesn't even make any sense! Your eyes aren't even emerald. They're more of a sea foam." Draco protested, eyes widening as he realized what he had said. "Tell anybody I said that and I'll—"

"Hex me into next week," Harry finished the sentence, rolling his seafoam green eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure."

"Drunken Draco is quite romantic," Harry added, laughing. "I would never make a move on you in that state, of course. Luckily, you said that you were very good at being patient."

"I am very good at being patient," Draco asserted.

Harry sent a disbelieving look towards Draco.

"What? I am!" Draco crossed his arms and huffed, feeling a sense of juvenile indignation creeping in. "Do you remember in fourth year when Moody transfigured me into a ferret? How I had been posted up in that tree in the courtyard ready to taunt you about the Tournament?"

Draco thought that Harry might laugh at the memory, but instead he grimaced. He looked as if he were about to say something, but decided against it and just nodded his head.

"I waited in that tree for almost 2 hours." The way that Draco said this, with his nose in the air at a point well-proven and a shimmer of something playfully beckoning in his eyes, caused all other thoughts and worries inside Harry to melt.

Harry nearly choked on the laugh that ripped from his lungs. "Why on earth did you do that?"

Draco shrugged nonchalantly. "I wanted to look cool."

"And the answer to that was...?"

"Tree," Draco said, motioning with his hands as if it were obvious.

Harry snorted, suddenly feeling the warmth from the fireplace tenfold as he watched Draco defend the ridiculous ploy for his attention. "So have you ever had hinges, or…?"

Hinges? The realization took Draco a second. Oh. Unhinged.

He narrowed his eyes in mock upset, but by then Harry was nearly falling over with glee at how well his clever wordplay had landed. Draco had to cover his mouth with his hand to stop the stupid grin that was spreading over his face at the sight.

"You're very clever, Harry," he admitted, taking Harry's hands back in his own. "I should've just told you that before instead of waiting in trees for you to notice me. And I shouldn't have run off that night we went out with your friends. I'm sorry that I'm such a coward."

"Hey—" Harry interjected, pulling his hands free to wrap his arms around Draco's shoulders. "There's no need to apologize for bolting when you're scared. That's probably good self-preservation instincts."

Draco smirked, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "You could probably use some of those."

Harry chuckled, running his thumb lovingly across Draco's cheek. "Yeah, I probably could."