Blaise regarded him with kind eyes. Draco had been sitting on the floor of Blaise's ballroom, knees hugged to his chest, for thirty-seven minutes without speaking—a personal best—and while Blaise had been nothing but understanding, Draco suspected they were reaching their limit.
"What's happened?" Blaise asked, like the traitor he was.
"I need a drink," Draco moaned.
"No. I'm not getting you a drink. Unless it's water; would you like a glass of water, Draco?"
"No."
"Then stop asking and tell me what's happened."
Draco unraveled his legs and let his head fall back against the wall. "I fucked up."
"Several times this month, I'm sure. What in particular have you done that has caused this latest wave of melancholy?"
Blaise's words were light, but his mouth was pursed into a tight line. He knew what was wrong. Any other person, and Draco would assume they were faking empathy, but with Blaise it was real. He'd clearly been asleep when Draco arrived, past midnight—probably enjoying an early night after his party the night before—and yet there was no sign of annoyance. He simply sat there in his white, silken robe and sleep-mussed hair, gazing at Draco and waiting.
"I didn't..." Draco trailed off, staring up at the cavernous ceiling of Blaise's ballroom. He didn't know why the fuck he'd led Blaise in here when he turned up in the Floo tonight. It just seemed like the best shot of being in a room where the walls didn't feel like they were closing in. "I didn't get help. You know how you told me to get help? I didn't do it, and now he's in trouble, and I think I need help."
Blaise's eyebrows drew together. "Why can't you get help now?"
"Because it's too late."
"It's not too late. If it were too late, you wouldn't be here."
Their voices rang out oddly in the huge space. The light blue walls didn't feel like they were closing in, but they made Draco feel very small. Very small and very lost and very alone. The sensation of it all was making Draco's head spin and his vision blur. Or maybe that was just the panic.
"No." Draco shook his head, scrubbing his hands through his hair and gripping the strands tight enough that it hurt. "I mean it's too late for my plan. I wanted to stay with him, Blaise, so that I could help him. I was the... the warning bell. I was meant to keep an eye on the signs and swoop in like a... a.. a fucking guardian angel or something. I was meant to save him, but I don't think I should be around him anymore."
"Why not?"
Draco's mind went back to the other night, when Potter's rage had seemed to surround them, buried in the walls like embers, and all he'd wanted to do to resolve it was fuck Draco's brains out.
"I'm not helping," he whispered. "He's using me to ignore the problem."
Blaise's mouth opened indignantly, but Draco cut him off.
"He's not using me. I'm a willing participant, Blaise. Merlin, what do you take me for?"
Blaise raised one eyebrow. "Certainly not a Slytherin." Then, he pulled a thoughtful face. "Or possibly the most Slytherin of us all."
They fell into silence before Blaise gave a little sigh and spoke again. "He's using you to cope; that's normal. You'd be better equipped to handle this if you'd spoken to a professional when I told you to, but it's certainly not too late to start, Draco."
"They're just going to tell me to stop seeing him."
"You don't know that." Irritation broke through into Blaise's tone. "Merlin, Draco. You're trying to do this all on your own. I warned you about this."
"I know!" Draco yelled, whipping his head up to glare at Blaise. "I know but he spooks so easily, Blaise. I tried to bring up the idea of therapy and he nearly attacked me!"
"Have you thought about telling him the truth?"
Draco's blood ran cold. "The what?"
Blaise's eyes were steady, his expression gentle but impassive. "You're playing against him like he's some skilled opponent you're trying to outwit. Really, you're meant to be working on this together. If you're terrified that taking action without his approval will ruin what you have going on, along with any chance to help him, and if you already know that what you have can't last in its current form, then you only have one option left."
"You're telling me..." Draco said slowly. "To tell the truth. You. Blaise Zabini."
Blaise laughed. "I'm telling you to take the smartest option. Make him listen to you. Be persuasive." He lifted his eyebrows suggestively before turning solemn once more. "Seriously, Draco—this has to stop."
"This has to stop," Draco echoed.
"Stop trying to outwit him. Stop trying to reveal only half your hand at a time so that he doesn't spook. He's a Gryffindor. Tell him everything and trust in his instincts."
"You think he has any left?"
"I think it's your only chance."
The words echoed in the empty room, surrounding Draco and filling him with a sense of inevitability.
"Right," he said a little weakly. "I'll just go... do that."
"Chin up." Blaise patted him on the back. "The worst you can do is fuck everything up completely, and hey—you're already doing that!"
"I don't know why I even come here anymore."
Blaise laughed, eyes lighting up with warmth and affection. He squeezed Draco on the shoulder, and Draco leant into the touch, just for a moment. It was grounding and real, and he needed that.
Then, he took a deep breath and left.
*
Draco stared at his reflection. He'd arranged to meet Potter, but an owl had come from Pansy asking them all to meet her at work. She'd probably been given a promotion, or otherwise was attempting to rope them into free labor, but either way he needed to make sure he was dressed to impress. Pansy was vicious about who she allowed near her work and in what state. She'd once set security on Theo for stepping foot in the building while wearing flip flops.
He eventually decided on the charcoal three-piece. He couldn't bring himself to choose anything brighter. He dressed slowly and carefully, poking and prodding at his face until it seemed to fall into some semblance of "alive". He chose a pale concealer for under his eyes, smoothing out the lines that he swore had popped up in the last few weeks alone. When he'd finished, there wasn't a hair out of place; he was dressed to kill, and he'd never felt less equipped to face the world.
But he had a plan now; that was something. It was a better plan than the ridiculous mess of the last weeks, that was for sure. He was no longer going to pretend there was any way he could handle this on his own. He was going to do away with this stupid façade of a fake relationship and tell Potter what he really wanted, whilst making it clear that Draco's biggest priorities were respecting whatever boundaries Potter put into place and getting him the help he needed.
And if those boundaries were to tell Draco to fuck right off, that was what he would do. But before he left he would made it clear that Potter only had to say the word—there was nothing Draco wouldn't do to get Potter the help he needed, no matter how long it took, or how long Potter needed to come to terms with it. Draco would make sure Potter knew that Draco would give him space, if that's what it took, and that when Potter was ready, Draco had a list of resources waiting for him. He didn't have to face this alone anymore.
Draco had written those resources out to give to him. There was every chance Potter would tear it up, but at least he would know it was there. It would give him a light at the end of the tunnel, even if it took him years to see it.
Draco's mouth went dry; he hoped it didn't take years.
Finally, he couldn't delay the inevitable any longer. Hopefully Pansy didn't need them for too long, and he and Potter could escape with relative ease. He Apparated away.
The foyer was empty when he arrived, the marble pillars looming around him and making him feel strangely lonely. The lights weren't even on. He'd just found a corner to wait in when a noise from the entrance made him turn. Potter stood there, illuminated by the soft light of the setting sun behind him. There was something off about his expression, but Draco couldn't see it well enough to figure out what it was.
He stepped forward and smiled, noting that Potter took several seconds before he seemed to process the movement and realise that Draco was there.
He made a strangled noise, shook his head a little, and said, "Thought I must be in the wrong place."
"No one else is here," Draco agreed, looking around at the stark room. His voice echoed a little as he spoke. "I wonder if Pansy wants us to go upstairs."
Potter frowned. "But it's late. And Pansy... I mean, the receptionist isn't even here, though. Pansy must be working late or something." The words came slowly, like Potter had to force them out. Like it took him a second to remember which order they were meant to go in.
Suddenly, the lights flickered into life, and they turned to find Pansy leaning in the entrance to the stairwell, arms folded. For a moment, fear flickered in Draco's chest as he took in the faint note of apprehension on her face. But it was gone in a flash, replaced by a reluctant smile.
"Congratulations, gentlemen," she purred, just as the entrance doors swung open and Weasley and Granger burst through.
"Are we late?" Ron panted and then promptly shut his mouth when he saw they were all waiting.
Pansy laughed and strode over to join them, linking her arm with Granger. "I was just telling them."
The seconds before she turned back to them passed like years, and Draco felt his stomach sink right down to the floor. Not now. Please, not now.
"You win."
No.
"We believe you."
Please, no.
Granger began to laugh and Weasley strode forward to shake their hands. Draco couldn't feel his fingers; everything had gone numb.
"At first, we thought you had an elaborate scheme going," Pansy said, her eyes fixed on Draco. "But there were too many details that you couldn't have faked."
The sadness in her eyes, the worry, were all too clear as they stared at one another. More than anything, Draco wished he could make her stop—stop talking, stop thinking this was real, stop everything. He should have told her. He should have confessed to her and asked for her help; she would have known what to do.
Potter laughed beside him and swept Granger into a hug, but Draco couldn't turn, couldn't look.
"Against all odds," Pansy went on, her lips quirking into a reluctant smile. "You two are good for each other. I never would have believed it, but you seem to be in the depths of a healthy, mature relationship. Congratulations, boys. Shall we head to Bentleys?"
Draco's eyes pleaded with her, silently begging her to see through the lie. He felt a hand clasp his shoulder, and on reflex, he turned. Potter was there, green eyes shining with mirth and triumph. Beneath it, something strange simmered—the same thing that had been frozen in Potter's eyes when he'd first stepped through the doors. It was a little cold, a little tinged with a blank emptiness that sent warning bells ringing in Draco's mind. Draco frowned, but he couldn't think of what to say to address it, couldn't think how to help.
"Who would have thought it," Potter said softly, his face soft with amusement that only Draco understood. A private joke, just for them. "Shall we?"
Draco opened his mouth to end the charade, the truth on the tip of his tongue, but then Potter bent down and swept him into a kiss. His lips were warm and insistent, coaxing Draco forward. It was so familiar, so comforting, that Draco couldn't help but fall into it, his hand sliding around the back of Potter's neck and holding him there. All his willpower evaporated, and in that moment, he wouldn't have let go for the world.
"Get a room!" Pansy groaned, giving them a little shove as she walked passed, toward the door. "Come on, I'm hungry."
They broke apart, staring at each other. For a moment, Draco thought he saw something in Potter's eyes—something real. Then it was gone.
Potter winked and turned to the door. The space he left behind was cold, and Draco felt so empty.
He didn't remember the walk to Bentley's. Didn't remember handing over his coat. Didn't remember sitting down at the best table, high on the mezzanine with a view of the beautiful pond outside. He knew that Potter's hands were on his waist for most of it, knew that Potter kept leaning in to whisper commentary in his ear, like they were actually lovers instead of just one big fucking mess. Draco made sure to smile and laugh when necessary, but he felt like he was floating. The sounds of surrounding conversation blurred into one, and he couldn't focus beyond the painful tightening of his chest.
"Draco?"
The voice pierced through the fog of his increasing panic—something about its tone dragging him out of his thoughts. He looked up and saw Potter's concerned face mere inches from his own.
"There you are," he said softly.
Around the other side of the table, Pansy, Granger, and Weasley were all testing the wine. Granger even had the menu laid out in front of her and a frown on her face as she took small sips and ran her finger down the options. None of them were looking over at Draco and Potter; they had a moment of privacy.
"This is insane," Draco said without thinking.
Potter laughed a little breathlessly. "I know. I can't wait to tell them."
Draco's chest lightened. "You want to break the charade?"
Potter looked at him funny. "Well, not till after dessert, yeah? Have to let them pick up the cheque first."
Icy fingers wrapped around Draco's heart. Of course—the bet.
"Listen," Draco said carefully. "I have something I want to talk to you about. Can we meet after dinner?"
The strangeness was still there, evident in the slight fumbling of Potter's movements, the awkward way he seemed to be unsure of where his body began and ended. Even with the warmth of conversation the two were sharing, Potter seemed absent, like the only moments he was truly here were when they were laughing over the bet. But it was superficial laughter—triumphant and proud, but barely cutting the surface. His eyes kept darting to the door and Draco realised he had chosen the seat against the wall. It sharpened his resolve to end this tonight.
A flash of concern crossed Potter's features. "Is everything all right?"
"Of course. I just... I just need to talk to you."
Tan fingers reached across the table and squeezed Draco's hand gently. "Absolutely," he agreed with a warm smile. "Whatever you need."
A surge of relief coursed through him; soon, it would all be over.
It took a second or two for Draco to register the rise in volume in the conversations around them. By the time he had, the Patronus had already reached them. A beautiful wolf skidded to a halt in front of Potter and howled.
Potter snapped to attention. "What is it?"
"Hate crime," the wolf said in Robards' voice. "Muggle-born shopping for Hogwarts supplies. We were too late on the scene."
If he hadn't been so attuned to Potter's every moment, he never would have noticed it—the subtle shift in Potter's breathing, the unnatural stillness of his features. Across the table, the other three were whispering in muted tones of horror, unaware that something was horribly, horribly wrong.
"Potter," Draco whispered, laying a hand on his arm.
There was no response. Potter's eyes were glazed and far-seeing.
The wolf continued to speak. "Meet in five for a full report." Then, it vanished.
"Harry," Draco hissed, urgently now.
Still nothing. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the others starting to take note, sitting up taller and reaching forward.
"Harry, stop it." He could hear the urgency, the fear, in his own voice but he couldn't stop it. "What's wrong? Harry!"
There was nothing there on his face, no expression, no emotion, nothing. Draco grabbed Potter's arm and shook it, but when he dropped his hand, Potter's arm remained in place—stuck out rigidly and almost inhuman. True fear hit Draco like a tidal wave, rising in his chest and threatening to spill over.
Draco felt hands on his shoulders pulling him back. He fell into the person holding him and began to shake.
Pansy moved in front of him and began tapping Potter on the cheek, lightly at first and then harder as she became more panicked.
"Is he in shock?" Granger asked, her voice smaller than Draco had ever heard it.
"I don't know," Pansy hissed. "I don't— Potter, can you hear me? Potter!" She grabbed his chin and spun his face so that he was looking at her, but his eyes remained fixed and unseeing.
"Fuck!" She muttered, the word sounding like a sob. She closed her eyes for half a second, and then snapped them open again. "Get St Mungo's," she said to a hovering waiter, her tone sure and authoritative.
"Right away, Miss."
Warm hands were running circles on Draco's back. In front of him, Granger was arranging her coat around Potter, who still hadn't moved. Her hands were shaking, and she kept stroking Potter's hair tentatively, as if unsure whether or not she should be touching him.
"Get Blaise," Draco whispered.
Pansy frowned at him. "Blaise?"
"I just need him to be here." There was an edge of hysteria to his voice but he didn't care.
Pansy nodded and sent off a Patronus immediately.
Long, long moments passed. All Draco could hear were the excited whispers of the people around them, the faint whimper from Granger when she could no longer hold it in, the steady tap of Pansy's nails against the table. It was excruciating.
Until the room descended into chaos and Draco would have given anything to have the silence again. They were shoved out of the way so that tests could be run for spells and curses. Draco didn't bother to tell them it was useless; he didn't want to give anything away publicly, and he didn't think he was capable of speech anyway.
In the background, he could hear the Healers asking questions and his friends answering as best they could. He couldn't work out what they were saying; the words didn't make sense anymore.
The Healers shoved a Portkey into Potter's hands and disappeared with a flash just as Blaise Apparated into the restaurant, dressed in nothing but a silk robe with water pooling on his skin and hair.
He spotted Draco immediately and hurried over, resting his hand on the shoulder that Weasley wasn't currently holding.
"Right," Blaise said, breathing heavily, ignoring the looks of confusion from the other three.
Draco reached up and clasped his hand, squeezing it.
"Right," Blaise repeated, steadier now. "To St Mungo's?"
Draco took a deep breath, and together they all Apparated away.
*
The waiting room was ice cold. They hadn't been allowed in to see him yet, but they'd been told that he'd come out of the catatonia as soon as they'd landed from the Portkey. Draco read between the lines on that one. He wondered just how violent Potter had been when he'd come back to himself hurtling through empty space and landing somewhere he didn't recognise.
All they knew now was that he was safe and they would be able to see him shortly. It seemed Healers had a different sense of time, though, since they'd already been waiting over two hours.
Blaise had disappeared to get clothing early on, returning with steaming coffees and bars of chocolate for them all. Draco's tasted like ash but he knew it would help, and Blaise had gone to the effort of it, so he ate it all. Every bite caught in his throat, the rich scent of sugar drowned by the bile he kept wanting to spit out. The coffee was better—at least it was warm.
Granger had tried to ask him what he knew at first, but she'd quickly given up. Draco wasn't about to share Potter's secrets, especially since he'd never given them freely in the first place.
A noise by the doorway made him look up. He nearly spilled his coffee when he realised the nurse was standing there. He lurched to his feet and stumbled forward.
"How is he?"
She smiled, but it was the gentle, soft smile that nurses give when they're about to say something bad. "He's calmer now," she said, addressing them all. "But I'm afraid we really can't let you all in to see him yet. Unless any of you are family?"
Weasley stepped forward. "Yeah, we're his family."
The nurse frowned. "Blood?"
"He's Harry Potter," Weasley snapped. "We're his only family."
The nurse held up a hand in apology. "I understand, but I really must stress he's not in the most appropriate condition for visitors. Unless you're a relative or spouse, I can't let you through yet."
"Draco's his partner," Pansy said, giving him a little shove forward.
He felt Blaise turn to him, his eyes practically burning a hole into the side of Draco's head.
The nurse smiled at him. "In that case, please come through. The rest of you will be able to visit shortly."
Draco followed the nurse down the hall, sterile white walls surrounding him and making his teeth ache. So much white; it was blinding. Before long, they arrived at a tiny, secluded room away from everything else. All Draco could think as he walked inside was how lonely it was.
Potter looked a mess, sitting in the bed with his head tipped back against the wall and his eyes staring, unseeing, at the ceiling. For a moment, Draco was terrified that he'd fallen back into the state he was in before, but then he shifted and looked over at them. A strange emotion passed across his face for a split second—a mix of surprise and fear and anger all at once—and then it was gone.
"Draco," he muttered, voice raspy from disuse. Or from yelling. Draco wasn't sure. "What are you doing here?"
"I'll leave you alone," the nurse said, patting Draco on the shoulder with a kind smile and leaving the room.
Draco hovered awkwardly by the foot of the bed. He wanted to reach out, to clasp Potter's face between his hands and reassure him that it would be all right. But how did he know that? For all he knew, it wouldn't be.
"How do you feel?" he asked finally, perching on the edge of the bed. He didn't know if he was allowed any closer.
Potter gave a wry smile. "Embarrassed. I don't know what the fuck came over me. It was... it was really strange."
"In what way?"
"It felt nice."
A shiver ran down Draco's spine but Potter didn't notice.
"It felt as though everything had just gone away." His voice took on a dream-like quality for a moment, but then he shook his head and it returned to normal. "I guess I've just been really stressed lately. Sorry you had to see that." He laughed. "At least we won the bet."
Cold rage clenched tight in Draco's chest. He willed himself to squash it down, but he was strung so tight, it was the last straw.
"Who cares about the fucking bet," he snapped and then immediately regretted it.
He dropped his head into his hands to hide from the shock on Potter's face and spoke into the space between his fingers. "You need help. You're sick."
"What?"
He looked up at the incredulity in Potter's tone. "Sick. You're sick. What came over you was a dissociative state so strong that you became fucking catatonic."
Potter's face closed over, and the anger Draco had seen just before rose to the surface again. "And I suppose you think you know the answer?"
"No," Draco spat. "Of course I don't know the answer. But at least I can see the fucking problem."
"So I'm a problem now?"
Draco's anger drained away as suddenly as it had appeared. "Stop looking for an argument and work with me," he begged.
"Work with you on what? Completely misunderstanding what's going on and trying to make it out like I'm some kind of basket case?"
Internally, Draco shrieked. Externally, he fought to keep as calm as he could.
"I don't want to argue with you about this," he said gently. "I want to help you. You're not a basket case; you have trauma. I do too, and I've dealt with it only marginally better than you have, but fortunately I don't get faced with mine every single day at work. Please, please let me help you, Harry."
They stared at one another, the flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital room giving everything a surreal sensation that Draco couldn't seem to shake. It was like watching something from under water, or coming off a sedative after surgery. He ached to reach for Potter, to climb into the bed with him and just hold him, but he couldn't. They didn't have that sort of relationship.
Finally, Potter spoke, all emotion removed from his voice. "I don't want to talk about it."
Draco held up his hands in defence. "I'm not going to make you."
"But you think I'm nuts."
Draco grit his teeth together and counted to three. "No. I think you're sick."
"In the head. So: nuts."
"I already said I don't want to argue with you—"
"You think I'm a freak."
Ah.
A deep ache started up in Draco's chest, filling him with a sadness so deep he didn't know if it would ever end.
"I don't think you're a freak," he said quietly.
Potter wouldn't look at him. He stared mutely ahead, eyes blazing. "Why are you even here, Malfoy? We're not actually dating. We're barely even friends. Bet's off; just go home."
Draco felt hollow. The sound of distant conversation washed over him, filling him with a burning irritation that he lacked the energy to do anything about.
"If that's what you want." He reached into his pocket and drew out the folded sheet of parchment with the list of names he'd compiled for Potter. "If you decide you change your mind, if you want to see someone and start on the road to healing, here's a few places you can begin." He refused to look at Potter as he set the parchment down on the bedside table, tucking it beneath Potter's wand. "The one at the top is the lady I first saw. Talks a bit too much, but she helped me open up."
He stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. Potter didn't look at him, but at least he didn't tear up the parchment either. After a moment of silence, Draco nodded awkwardly.
"Goodbye Potter."
There was no response.
He left the room quickly, eyes already blurring as he took corners at random, hoping he'd stumble on the exit before he stumbled on anyone he knew.
"Mr. Malfoy?"
He turned to see the nurse waving at him from the reception. He froze still and waited.
"Could you help us fill out Mr. Potter's forms? It will only take a moment; we just need a few contact details. You're his partner, is that correct?"
He remembered Potter's hands on him, the way they came together with an urgency he'd never found in anyone else. He remembered late nights spent together, planning and working on various projects, the way the lamp-light caught Potter's eyes and made them blaze like fire. He remembered Pansy watching them, expression full of concern about things that Draco had thought she didn't understand. Really, she had understood far better and far sooner than the rest of them. He remembered her giving them her blessing only hours ago.
"No," he said, relieved to hear how calm his voice was, how steady. "We just broke up."
*
When Draco arrived in France, it was the middle of the night and—fittingly—pouring with rain. The old apartment blocks had changed a little since he'd been here last, but the alleys looked the same. He picked his way over the broken bottles and piles of trash until he reached the dumpsters at the end of the lane. There used to be squatters here, when he'd been here last, but the apartments were cleaner now, trendier, and they didn't stand for that sort of thing anymore.
Draco had stayed here for six months or so, not long after the war. His first therapist—the one he'd recommended to Potter—had been back in London. She'd got him to open up, but by the time he was ready to talk about things he was so sick of her saccharinely sweet chatter that he had to leave. He tried a Mind Healer recommended by St Mungo's, but it had only taken two sessions before he'd had to either leave or punch the smarmy git's face in. He'd reminded Draco of himself, and at the time that had been the very last thing he'd needed.
Eventually, he'd run so far he'd ended up here. He hadn't intended to keep searching for therapists, but he'd found one all the same. In the middle of a night quite similar to this one, he'd sent up a beacon from his wand. It wasn't meant to reach anyone—didn't even mean anything. It was just a bright, golden light full of glittering blue stars, filling a tiny corner of the sky above France. He'd lit up the night for hours, lying on the top of these apartment roofs while confused Muggles crowded below and tried to work out where the fireworks were coming from.
In the centre of his beacon, there was no light. There was a darkness there that had somehow been darker than shadow—not just the mere absence of light, but an unearthly pit that swallowed the rest whole. When the tiny witch with the bright pink hair had Apparated next to him, startling him out of a trance he hadn't known he'd fallen into, she explained that it had been that centre that drew her here.
"There's darkness in you," she had said, crossing her legs to sit beside him and watch the stars. "That's where the light comes from."
If anyone else had said it, he would have hexed them before the words had even finished leaving their mouth, but from her, it sounded different. She wasn't trying to impress him, to make him into something he wasn't like some kind of poor, lost, misunderstood soul. She was simply recognizing something in him—something real and true, and that few other people had ever been interested in knowing.
"I suppose," he'd said, unwilling to reveal any of what he was thinking.
She turned to him and grinned. "You think it makes you look like a tosser, don't you?"
That had surprised a laugh out of him when, really, it should have made him angry.
"I am a tosser," he'd corrected her. "Just not for the reasons everyone thinks."
She nodded at that, taking in the words and just absorbing them without commentary. For half a second, Draco had fallen in love with her, just for the simple reason that she had been given the opportunity to weigh in on his life choices and had chosen not to.
"If you ever want to talk about those reasons, I'm uniquely qualified to listen." She handed him a card.
It held the same words as the other two had, but they meant something different to Draco that night. For the first time in weeks, he began to feel hope.
She stood, brushing off her jeans and taking one last look at the fading lights above them. "I reckon you can get them brighter," she teased.
Then she winked at him and Apparated away. He stared at the empty space she left behind for long moments, and then fired off another spell. The golden lights lit up the sky as far as the eye could see, full of blues and reds and a startling green that coursed through it all like a snake. He let his head fall back against the cool concrete of the roof and laughed.
The roof was empty tonight, the occupants of the apartments fast asleep. Draco Apparated to the uppermost apartment, the one he had stayed in, and found it empty. He wasn't surprised—he'd left a strong illusion on it to deter any onlookers, and the entire space was taken over by enlargement spells and charms. It felt like home, if a little dusty and forgotten.
He collapsed on the bed, plumes of dust startling into the air around him, and stared at the ceiling. After a moment, he lifted his wand and sent a tiny ball of golden sparks into the air. It hovered for a second, and then disappeared through the wall and into the night.
He didn't know if Eleanor still practiced here. She might not even be in the country anymore. But she would get his message and know where to find him. Hopefully, she would be able to see him despite the short notice.
Then, he closed his eyes and pushed aside all the thoughts and memories he didn't have the energy to think about. He'd keep them hidden for another night at least, and then, when he was able to find someone who could help him, he would let them all pour out.
*
As it happened, she arranged an extra session in her schedule to see him the next day. When he woke up to her ferret Patronus skittering about the living room, he'd just about cried from relief. He hadn't known how much he was holding onto until that moment.
He made a note of the booking time—8pm, well after her last appointment—and left the apartment in search of food and clothing.
He'd tried to pack the essentials before he left London, but in typically dramatic fashion, everything had reminded him of Potter. He could smell Potter's shampoo on his bedsheets, feel his heavy presence lingering in the foyer—even Draco's shirts reminded him of Potter because all he could think was the was the man reveled in peeling them away button by button.
The realisation that he had become every bit the pathetic, love-struck teenager he thought himself above had made him so angry he'd left with nothing but the clothes on his back.
He strolled down the shopping district, searching for a café he remembered from his time here. They'd made an exceptionally good cappuccino, and he was in dire need. Before long, he'd found it tucked away in a little corner of the street, and once he emerged with a steaming ceramic takeaway mug, he felt ready to tackle the day.
Retail therapy had always been Draco's go-to. It was enjoyable, distracting, and most importantly required nothing from him emotionally. By lunchtime, his pockets were fall of shrunken bags of clothing, books, an expensive watch that he justified because he'd left home without one, and several pieces of jewelry for Pansy. He'd eyed off a number of ancient texts with Blaise in mind, but he felt he owed Blaise more than a dusty old book, even if the man did go wild for them. He'd settled for a delicate tome on the origins of Herbology and decided to think carefully about something more indicative of the depths of his appreciation.
By evening, the shopping had done what it had been intended to do. Draco felt more at ease within his own skin, and just the knowledge that he was about to visit Eleanor, who would without a doubt carry him through whatever mess he'd backed himself into, filled him with a sense of calm. He took his time getting ready, dressing with care but choosing not to conceal the lines and shadows on his face, and left.
"Draco." Eleanor's voice was warm, filled with genuine pleasure at the sight of him on the doorstep of her office. "It's been years."
"Too long." He smiled as he followed her in and took a seat at the armchair by the fire.
"You're happy there?" she asked. "The furniture has been rearranged a little since you were here last, so feel free to take any of the other seats."
Draco shifted in the chair, allowing himself to acknowledge the emotions he kept so tightly reined in. He felt safe here, and he liked sitting with his back to the window.
"I'm happy," he agreed.
She took a seat opposite him, set her blank sheets of paper and pen down on the table between them, and smiled. "You look well," she said, regarding his choice of clothing. "Tired but well."
"I have been well." As he said the words, he acknowledged both the truth in them and the lie he hadn't wanted to admit, even with everything that had happened. "But I should have come to see you sooner. Not even because of all this, but—" he stalled, trying to think of the words while Eleanor sat patiently and waited. "I don't think we ever finished here. I just sort of... disappeared."
Eleanor leaned back in her seat, getting comfortable. "Therapy is an ongoing process. It looks different for everyone, but that's not to say that you were doing it wrong by disappearing. Good therapy takes time. Above all else, you need to be ready, willing, and able."
Draco smiled a little at the memory of the phrase. It had been years since he'd heard it. Somehow now, he thought he understood it.
"I think, before, I was ready..." he said slowly.
Eleanor nodded. "Absolutely."
"Willing, too."
"More willing than most."
"But I wasn't able."
Eleanor regarded him. "Why do you think that?"
The words came haltingly. "I didn't know how to do what I needed to do. Your words made sense, and I could see how things weren't right, but it was all from a distance. It was like I understood the theory but not the practice."
"And you think that's changed?"
Draco nodded. Something beneath his skin was burning—a need to throw himself into something, to do, to be, in a way that he hadn't ever before. He felt that, and he felt something else too. He had an awareness of the need to slow down, to listen, to feel.
In the past, Eleanor had worked with him to process the parts of his past that haunted him, but whenever he'd tried to he'd ended up wound tighter and tighter, unable to feel anything except the urgency to fix it. The burning need beneath his skin had consumed him, and eventually he'd reached a limit on all that he could achieve with her. But this new part... this slower, more accepting part... he thought he might be able to work with that.
"I can feel it now," he said. "I couldn't before because I had nothing to compare it to. These last few weeks have been intense. I met someone—well, I've known them a long time but never really known them—and they've made me see the world a little differently. When I saw you before, I was still stuck in survival mode, I think. But that doesn't allow for compassion." He took a breath. "I had to learn compassion with... with this man. It feels different now. I've spent so long trying to convince them that change is possible that I think I accidentally convinced myself along the way."
"I can certainly hear you considering yourself with more compassion," she said gently. "Even while we've been apart, you've been changing the way you think about yourself, the way you treat yourself. I can hear a gentleness there—even love."
Merlin, wasn't that pathetic. He'd fallen in love with Potter, and on the way he'd learned to love himself.
The harsh, urgent side of him piped up, pointing out that by doing so, he had lost Potter. Was it worth it? Was he a better trade than the Boy Who Lived?
Tears pricked his eyes, and when he looked up to meet Eleanor's he saw a depth of empathy that he'd never found anywhere else. He took a deep breath and began to tell the full story.
By the time their session ended, the sun had long since set, and Draco felt lighter.
In the quiet of his apartment that night, he felt a lingering sadness at the thought of Potter all alone across the sea. He hoped Potter chose to listen to him, to seek help, but he also knew that it could take years. It had taken Draco himself this long to be ready, willing, and able, and he'd started with a desperate need to feel anything different to how he always felt. It hadn't been enough, and he wasn't sure that Potter even had that.
So he resigned himself to the knowledge that, for now, all he could do was give Potter space. He'd wait a few days and then check in with Blaise. It killed him to leave Potter alone so long, but he was in good hands—better hands than Draco had proven to be.
As he fell asleep, his thoughts shifted into something new. The urgent voice faded and the gentle, compassionate one took over. It assured him that what he'd had with Potter wasn't a trade. There wasn't a finite amount of love, and he wasn't some consolation prize compared to the Boy Who Lived. They had built love between them in whatever messy, stilted way that they could. The only thing that remained to be seen was where they allowed that love to go—to themselves, to each other, or to everywhere it was welcome.
He didn't know if he'd ever have anything more with Potter than the few weeks of graceless connection they'd shared. He didn't know if Potter would choose to heal or if he'd just keep going as he was until it ground him into the dirt. He couldn't plan for this sort of future, just as he hadn't been able to plan for a life spent with the Dark Lord living in his house.
But there was a difference between just barely getting by from day to day and choosing to accept what he could not control. Draco was ready to do that now. The urgent voice was fading; he was shifting from survival to something new. He would do what he could for Potter and accept what he couldn't.
And whether he ended up with Potter's love or not, Draco was learning to love himself. Whatever else happened, that was enough.
*
As the days went by, Draco established a sort of routine. Twice a week, he met with Eleanor. They took things slowly, working within the boundaries that Draco set. It was different to the therapy sessions he'd been to before. At that time in his life, he'd been working just to cope, just to get through each day without falling apart. He recalled times where he'd fallen to the ground, clutching in on himself, because a session had been cancelled and he didn't know what he was going to do, how he was going to get by.
Those times were gone now. He trusted more easily, could interact with his emotions more freely. In some ways, he needed Eleanor less—and by needing her less, he was able to heal more, heal deeper than before.
"Therapy can take years," Eleanor said when he expressed this to her. "And our relationship will change over time. We try to stay vague about this at the start. Can you imagine how you would have felt in those early days, if I'd told you there would be years of this?"
He remembered those times huddled on his living room floor, crying because he had never felt emptier or more alone.
He shuddered. "Yes."
"But it's different now, isn't it?"
"When I started this," Draco said slowly. "I thought I knew what needed to be fixed, and once it was fixed, I'd be fine. But I now feel like it's changing who I am. I can deal with those memories now. I don't feel so haunted. But I keep coming here." He laughed. "I want to keep coming, because now we're reaching all these things inside that I never knew needed to be reached, to be held."
Eleanor grinned and shook her bubblegum pink hair back from her face. "How do you feel now about the idea that therapy might take years?"
Draco laughed. "I don't know that I want it to end."
The times when he wasn't in therapy, Draco worked from his apartment. He conducted meetings via Floo call, arranged paperwork via owl, and started to enjoy his time alone. He'd never much liked being alone. The silence would build in his ears until he started to hear things and he had to run, to escape. But it was different now. He could play whatever music he wanted, whenever he felt like it. He ate in fine restaurants, enjoying the atmosphere just as much as the food. There was no need to pretend, no need to put on a mask just to get by in simple interactions.
As much as it hurt, he realised how much of a mask he had been wearing with his friends. It was only on those nights with Potter—ironically, when they had been planning complex deception—that he had been able to stop constantly trying to be something he wasn't. They had been simple nights. In their mutual deception, they had entered a space where their true selves could come forth. They'd accepted each other's flaws, admired hidden strengths, and learned to know each other in ways that Draco was only just beginning to know himself.
When he noticed things like that, he wrote them down, compiling them in collections of letters to Potter that he never sent. Sometimes he read them out to Eleanor, or to an empty chair between the two of them, allowing his relationship with Potter space to breathe and grow in an environment where no one got hurt.
"Why didn't you stop me?" he asked Pansy one night when her head was bobbing in the fire.
He didn't really mean it. It hadn't been her responsibility to stop him, and he wouldn't have stopped even if she'd tried.
"Who am I to make that call?" she answered, gazing at him with an empathy that made him uncomfortable.
He turned away, staring at the tears in the wallpaper, the way the shadows elongated down the walls as the sun dipped below the horizon.
"I know," he said quietly.
"I don't think you do, Draco," Pansy insisted. "You think that you did something stupid, or wrong, and that you should have known better. But that's not the case. Things went wrong, and there were times when you could have made a better decision, but you did all you could with the information that was available to you."
"Doesn't feel like it."
Pansy sighed. "It's never that easy, not when it matters. Did you try to do what you thought was right?"
"Yes."
"Did you try to look after both Potter and yourself?"
"Yes."
"Did you acknowledge when things were going wrong and do your best to right them, to the best of your ability?"
"Yes—Pansy what are you doing? And how do you know all this anyway? I've hardly told you anything about it."
"Blaise," she said simply. "And Draco, I'm answering your question. This is why I didn't stop you—because I trust you. It's your life to live, not mine, and who's to say my decisions are worth anything? You did what you could, what you thought best. I worry about you. I care about you. But I'm not going to live your life for you."
Draco nodded, forcing himself to listen to the words instead of drifting away where he didn't have to acknowledge them.
"One thing I don't understand," he said slowly, "is why you even acceded the bet in the first place? It was clear we weren't in a healthy or mature relationship at all, even if it was at least obvious we were fucking."
Pansy bit her lip. "I know," she admitted. "I let you win because I could see that, whatever else it was, it was real." She ran her hands through her hair in frustration. "I wish I'd never made that stupid bet, at least not with that wording. Who are any of us to judge your relationship, Draco? We don't know what you're going through. I guess I hoped that by bringing it out into the light, it might... I don't know... encourage you to make it into something healthy? I'll admit that doesn't make much sense. I just didn't want you to keep going for the sake of the bet. You were trying to fake a relationship for the sake of people who weren't even involved in it; that should have been a red flag right from the start. Relationships are deeply personal, but this one was all about trying to fit some arbitrary mold made by everyone else. I'm willing to bet you hadn't even thought about what a relationship might look like to each of you, which means that even if it became real—even when it became real—its foundations were all wrong. I just wanted to fix that."
Draco met her eyes then, and for once the empathy didn't overwhelm him. He stopped pushing it away and let it fill him instead. He opened his mouth to address everything she'd said, but he couldn't find the words, couldn't figure out how to express the depth of emotion he was feeling for her right that second. In the end, all he said was, "Thank you, Pansy."
She smiled at him. "You're welcome, knucklehead."
The days passed by, and for the most part, things were different. Nice, soothing, healing, but different. He began to miss Pansy and Blaise more than their brief Floo calls allowed. He longed for news of Potter, but even though Granger wrote him weekly with updates, it was clear that nothing much had changed.
Does he ask about me? Draco had written one night after far too much wine. The parchment was blotched and torn where he'd tried to grab it back from the owl after it had taken flight.
I'm sorry, Draco, had been the only response.
He'd shoved it aside and carried on. Potter was safe, surrounded by friends who finally understood the severity of his condition. Had Draco been welcome back home, he would have Apparated that second. It was no great hardship to travel to France for his own therapy sessions, and he longed more than anything to be by Potter's side as he took those steps toward hope. But Potter didn't want him there, and Draco's presence would hurt more than it would help—a visual reminder of the seething emotions and poor coping skills that ruled Potter's mind.
So, months later, when Draco arrived home one night and found a letter waiting for him in a familiar hand, his heart skipped a beat.
He stared at the letter for a long time before he opened it. His hands shook a little and it took him several attempts just to break the seal.
Malfoy,
Not off to a good start. He closed his eyes for a second and then forced himself to keep reading.
Malfoy,
I don't know how you're feeling right now, and I'd completely understand if you wanted to just tear this whole thing up. I hope you read it to the end, though. I think it will be worth it.
After I left the hospital, I was really angry at you. I'm still not sure why. I think it was because I'd managed to get myself into a headspace where I could still ignore what I was going through, even with everything that had just happened. But then you came along. And you were so... right. Everything you said was right, and it was said in such a calm, gentle way that I couldn't fucking stand it. You gave me nothing to get mad at, nothing to attack, and I was furious with you for it.
It was like, with you standing there, being so calm and understanding and gentle, it had to mean that I really was a mess. Does that make sense? I really was a freak, even if you didn't think so. I don't know. I'm not making sense.
My point is that I was mad at you, and then suddenly I wasn't. After about a week, I was just tired. I went looking for you and that's when I found out you'd gone. So... then I got mad at you all over again.
For some reason, though, I kept your list. And oddly enough, I think it was the fact that you disappeared that finally made me look at it properly. Blaise told me you'd gone back to one of your old therapists. I made him promise he wouldn't tell anyone I was asking, by the way. If you're wondering why you never heard. I... er... sort of... hounded him a lot. He's a really good guy. He probably deserves a fruit basket or something at the very least.
Anyway, when week after week went by and you hadn't come back, and Blaise kept telling me that you were seeing that therapist two times a week (seriously, two times a week?!) I think that was what did it. I needed to try, not because I thought it would work, but because there was no part in me—not one small part—that understood how or why you could be so committed to this. I wanted to try it, just so that I could show you that it didn't work.
Spite's always been a great motivator for us, hasn't it? It got us to date, even if it was fake, and it finally got me to see a therapist.
She's great, Draco. She's really, really great. I tried the first therapist you first suggested, and she referred me onto someone else. It's someone you don't know, actually, since apparently our lives are a bit too entwined for it to be fair on me to be treated by someone who treated you. Is it weird that it was that detail that suddenly made this all seem serious? Like, maybe all those things I'd dismissed as just stuff that happened were really... I don't know. They were actually big. Anyway. It's going slowly, but there are already things that I can see changing in my day to day life. I wasn't coping, and you were the only one who really saw that.
They talk a lot about masks in trauma therapy—did you know that? About the masks we wear to hide who we are, to conceal our authentic self from the world. It made me think about a few things. I never really wore a mask with you. Well, insomuch as I can avoid wearing a mask at all. I still don't really get all that stuff, to be honest. I'm sure I will in time, but for now I'm just rolling with it.
I never really wore a mask with you, and it got me thinking: you can't fake a relationship. Okay, we put on an act in public, made people think there were things happening that weren't, but that's only superficial stuff. All those conversations we had. All those plans we made, working together. The way your skin felt beneath my lips and how much I loved it when you moved in me. Those were real. They were all real, even if our communication was fucking terrible.
This isn't the kind of letter where I beg you to come back to me. It's not the kind of letter where I want you to feel so guilty and overcome with emotion that you come hurtling back across the sea and we can pick up where we left off. I don't want to make you do anything you don't want to do, Draco. But I'm beginning to see where we went wrong, where we hurt each other.
I'm not asking for all that stuff back again; I don't think either of us are ready for that yet. But if you want to—if it means as much to you as it does to me—I'd like to have a go at the things we never had. Like talking. Really, properly talking.
I'll leave it at that, though I'm sure I could fill like eight more pages about this. I don't think that's fair to you, though. Letters are pretty one-sided, and I've had enough of living in my own head. Relationships are a two-way street. Whether we realised it at the time or not, we already have a relationship, Draco; I'd like to find out what that relationship is.
Harry
Draco stared at the letter for a long, long time. The string bag of vegetables on his arm grew heavy, and he dropped it to the ground before sinking slowly down beside it. Potter had done it. He'd really done it.
He glanced down at the bag by his feet. His planner was at the bottom, filled with pages and pages of scribble about past therapy sessions and upcoming dates. He had three sessions booked; he could make all of them with a pre-arranged Portkey.
It would take him less than three hours to pack up everything he owned here in France and return to England. Less than three hours to turn everything around and take that first, terrifying step into the unknown—acknowledging that there was something there between him and Potter. Acknowledging that it was worth pursuing. Knowing that their individual sanities and health were just as important.
It should have taken him less than three hours; he did it in one.