FIC: The Way Down - 8/9
Title: The Way Down
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 7.5K
Warnings: sex
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: I finished this last year, but felt something was wrong with the ending. Since then,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kjp_013 (I think? It's been a really long time!) and ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bowdlerized and a friend, R, have all looked over it and offered various comments. Thanks so much to all of you.
Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 8
When Harry thought about it later, those few days after almost losing it completely were some of the most peaceful. The monster had tried to do its worst and he had fought it back. He felt worn out, but Malfoy needed him. So Harry stayed.
The first day Malfoy brought work home with him. They played wizarding chess and had lunch and Malfoy looked at his papers; Harry read Malfoy’s books. Then Malfoy had to go back to work, and Harry made supper. They went out to see a film.
Malfoy suggested Harry see George about working in the shop, like he’d planned, and Harry did. They went to lunch with Hermione. Malfoy came home early and they chased the Snitch in the waning sun. The days were so surprisingly domestic. Harry couldn’t remember having this with another person, ever. Maybe he had those green days in sixth year with Ginny just before Dumbledore died. He didn’t know; he’d been so young, then.
It had been such a long time since Harry had lived with anyone. He’d forgotten it all, the simple touches: Malfoy’s hand touching the back of his to show him where the spoons were, touching Malfoy’s hips to get past him to go to the toilet, fingertips that trailed along arms when they both reached for the same thing. He’d forgotten what it was like to talk late into the night without having to think about going home. He didn’t remember having meals together or making plans.
He’d forgotten how the sun could shine in such a way that it hit the wood floors and made them seem to glow. He’d forgotten he loved kitchens, the way kitchens like Malfoy’s and Molly’s were always small and busy with a thousand things. He’d forgotten what it was to stare into the dark at night and know that not far from you, someone else was dreaming.
It had been a long time since Hogwarts, and when he’d tried to move in with Ginny, he already couldn’t stand himself. Harry had forgotten what it was like to have a home.
In the evening after the film, outside of Malfoy’s flat, Harry kissed him.
Malfoy pulled away. “This isn’t good night.”
“What?”
Malfoy shrugged it off and said very confidently—which always meant he thought no one would listen, “You’re coming in with me.”
“Yes,” said Harry, and kissed him again while Malfoy said, “Oh,” and fumbled with the spell to open his door.
Once inside, Harry kissed Malfoy up against the door, and Malfoy made muffled moaning sounds. Harry could taste him, all his warmth, his heart going like a rabbit’s. Malfoy was nervous and eager and his hands were shaking, and they were going for Harry’s shirt. He pulled it out; then Harry pulled away and closed his hands around Malfoy’s.
“Slower,” Harry said, and kissed him again, a long slow languid kiss.
“Okay,” said Malfoy, and Harry thought he might have agreed to anything. His eyes were glassy and his face was pink and his lips were swollen, and Harry thought he just might kiss him forever if it was only this, just this slow wanton hot roll of feeling, concentrating just on how Malfoy felt and not anything else.
Through the ratcheting of desire, Harry could feel the monster, and pulled away. He leaned his forehead to touch Malfoy’s. Malfoy was breathing noisily, with little catches. “Harry,” he whispered.
“I’ve got to stop.”
Malfoy took a deep breath, swallowed, and suddenly was in complete control of his air flow. “Alright.”
Harry stayed pressed to him, and lifted his hand to hear Malfoy’s heartbeat.
Malfoy pulled away. “Tea,” he said. “Or . . . um. Exploding Snap.”
“I’ll go for a walk.”
“Okay,” Malfoy said lightly, but when Harry looked at him, his face was turned away and his jaw was very hard.
“I’ll be back in a little while.”
“I’ll make the tea.”
Harry walked out under the stars, and thought about going to Chimera Downs. He thought about the field, the waving grass, the slope, and realized he didn’t need them. Instead, he thought of Malfoy, who had looked so pinched and pale and determined after seeing Malfoy Manor. Malfoy had needed him to stay.
Harry walked for half an hour in the starlight, and then turned and went to where he felt he might belong.
*
After a little more than a week, Malfoy and Harry were in on a Saturday, and Malfoy said, “I’ve been thinking about your monster.”
Harry had been reading. Now he stopped, looking at Malfoy warily.
Malfoy was tapping his quill nervously on his desk. “I think you should write a list.”
“A list.”
Malfoy nodded. His voice was very precise. “I think you should try to think of things that might help you—get control of it, and then you should try to do the things on it one at a time.”
Harry looked at him. Malfoy’s shoulders were held very squarely. “Don’t you think if I knew things that might help me, I’d do them?”
Malfoy nodded again. “I thought you might say that.” He paused. “You do know that’s what you have been doing though, right?”
“What?”
“You got a flat,” Malfoy pointed out. “And an occupation.”
“I guess.”
Malfoy nodded again. They were these short, sharp movements, as though Malfoy was afraid to move too much. “I thought you might draw a blank.” Taking a deep breath, he went on, “I’ve written a list for you. They’re suggestions,” he added quickly. “You don’t have to do them.”
“Let’s see it, then.”
Malfoy licked his lips, and flicked his wand. The parchment he’d been scratching on earlier floated over to Harry.
Harry looked at it. Then he looked at Malfoy. Then he looked at the list. “What does ‘get counseling’ mean?” he asked, his voice low.
Malfoy looked brittle, he was sitting so straight. “I think you need some help.”
Harry resisted putting his hand up to his scar. “You think I’m making it up.”
“No. Oh, no. Harry . . .” Malfoy stood up and came towards him, and then seemed to think better of it, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. “I think that it’s very real. But you said it yourself. It’s not a literal monster.”
“It’s something.”
“Yes.” Agitated, Malfoy seemed to be losing some of his carefulness. “Do you really think it’s something the Dark Lord put there? A Horcrux, or some kind of curse? Because if so, you’ve done a shocking job of keeping it under control. It’s been nearly two years now since you’ve been on your feet again, and seven years since the war; don’t you think the Dark Lord would have something more sinister in mind than—”
“It’s not him. It’s me.”
“That’s fine. I agree. But if it’s you, then you can’t—Harry, you can’t carve that part of yourself away.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t go hacking yourself to bits. Gets very messy. No one survives.”
“I’d survive without it.”
Malfoy came closer and took a hold on Harry’s arm. “I know that getting help isn’t very much like a storybook. And I know that when they came and told you you were a wizard—it must have felt very much like a storybook. Did you think this didn’t happen in the wizarding world? We’re not perfect. Our hearts aren’t magic too.”
“I don’t think it’s a storybook,” Harry said, and pulled away his arm.
“It was just a suggestion.” Malfoy thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down, frowning. “You don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want. But I think it’s—it’s something real. You can try to help it. It’s not a . . . there are no monsters, Harry.”
Harry closed his eyes. Instead of the field, he thought of Malfoy. Malfoy was against the door, looking worn about the mouth, circles under his eyes. He’d leaned back his head on the wood; his hand had still been on the knob.
I’m not any good, he had said. Nothing’s any good.
Harry swallowed. “Okay. I’ll try the list.”
Malfoy perked up. “You will?”
“Yeah. Can you tell me something?” Malfoy looked suspicious. “Why did you first come to Chimera Downs?”
“Granger really was getting difficult to work with.”
“But why did you really?”
For a long time, Malfoy was quiet. He was looking down at fidgeting hands. “I was trying to do something right.”
“I’m glad you did it.”
“Don’t,” said Malfoy, in a choked voice, and looked away.
“I think you do a lot of things right. And I think you’re really clever. And capable. I think you’re brave. I think—” He stopped because Malfoy had come up and had his hand twisted in his shirt. He looked feverish.
“Shut up,” said Malfoy, his voice rough. “Just shut up.” He kissed him, a hot, desperate kiss.
Malfoy’s hands pushed in Harry’s hair, and Harry kissed him back. Malfoy tasted good, all of it tasted good, because Malfoy said he wasn’t good and Harry knew he was. Warmth pooled in Harry until it was pushing up his throat, but it didn’t claw like the monster. It sang.
“You didn’t let me finish,” said Harry, when Malfoy pulled back, breath stuttering. “I think you’re spectacular; I think—”
Malfoy pulled him over to the couch. He kissed him, bringing him deeper, until Harry had to pull back next to breathe, breathing in scent and humidity of Malfoy’s skin, his tender, exposed neck.
Malfoy pulled his head in closer to his throat. “Please do it,” he whispered.
“What?” Harry pulled back.
Malfoy was having trouble breathing. His eyes were large and getting darker. “Don’t make me say it.”
Harry looked at the way Malfoy was baring his neck, and guessed there was only one thing Malfoy could mean. Harry leaned in.
Malfoy had said he liked it, and that was okay. Harry knew other people had liked it, too. Ginny had even liked it; it wasn’t a bad thing by definition. Harry licked and sucked until the spot on Malfoy’s neck was bright red, and then he carefully drew Malfoy’s skin into his mouth, and sucked some more.
Malfoy made a muffled sound. His hips thrust up under Harry, and Harry kept on sucking. Malfoy’s skin would be lilac, once the bruise settled in.
Harry was going to keep at it until it would be black.
It wasn’t right; it wasn’t right; it wasn’t right: the monster. But Malfoy said it was right, and Malfoy did right things. He couldn’t do some of them without Harry.
Harry started in on his neck on the other side.
When he realized Malfoy would probably look like someone who had tried to strangle him, Harry decided to find a different place instead. He tugged on Malfoy’s shirt.
“Don’t.” Malfoy pushed it back down.
“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was high in the back of his throat. He meant it to be a question, and didn’t know how to ask.
“Yes, Potter, I want you to, don’t stop, keep going, I want you—how many times do I have to tell you that I want you—?”
Harry kissed him. He thought he could kiss him forever. He could crawl right in to Malfoy’s skin and be there forever, and there wouldn’t be a monster. Malfoy could crawl right into him and force the monster out. They could go on kissing and kissing, doing nothing but kissing, and something so simple had really only felt so sweet with just one person before, and Harry had messed that up.
He didn’t want to mess this up.
He pulled away, his head on Malfoy’s shoulder, his face pressed into Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy held him there, and Harry breathed in and in and in, in the bitten abuse on the flesh of Malfoy’s neck, in Malfoy’s shallow breathing, in the way that Malfoy’s arms held him close like he wasn’t ever going to let go. Harry laid a finger on the blossoming purple.
Malfoy’s breath hitched. When his voice came, it sounded distant. “I wonder what it means,” he said, “that I like it.”
“I wonder what it means that I like to give them.”
Harry could practically hear Malfoy roll his eyes. “Plenty of people leave love bites, Harry.”
“Plenty of people have love bites, Malfoy.”
“Yes. But.” The hand that wasn’t on Harry’s twitched.
For the first time, it occurred to Harry that Malfoy not only didn’t mind, that maybe this was something Malfoy needed. Harry took the hand that had trembled on his. When he started rolling up the sleeve, Malfoy tried to pull it away. Harry held on. “Is it because of this?”
Malfoy made a disapproving clicking sound somewhere in his throat, but he let Harry look at the Mark. “That,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll do it here,” Harry said, brought Malfoy’s arm up.
“Harry.” Malfoy sounded alarmed.
Harry brushed his hand over the Dark Mark, then began to trace the red raised scar with his fingernail.
Malfoy hissed, trying to pull away again. Harry still held fast.
Then Harry bent, replacing fingernail with tongue.
“S-sweet Merlin,” Malfoy croaked, and he was trembling all over.
Harry began to use his teeth.
The whole thing would be a bruise afterward, a great cracking one, the biggest one ever. Harry thought that it was horrible, and he really wanted it, and that was okay because Malfoy did too, and not just for his sake.
Malfoy held onto his hair. He held it hard, twisting, yanking hard enough that he should have been pulling Harry away, but Harry was still there. There was a litany of little chants; Harry thought Malfoy did it in order not to whimper, but it sounded like, “Oh God, oh sweet Merlin, Harry, please don’t stop, I’ll hate you if you ever stop, oh God, I need, I need, I need—”
Then Malfoy’s hips lifted up, and lifted again, and Harry put his hand on the front of Malfoy’s trousers. He pressed in with the heel of his hand while his mouth still sucked the underside of Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy came up into him—several times, and then at last in a long, strained arch during which Malfoy made no sound at all.
Then he came back and was breathing hard, and Harry moved his hand away. He licked Malfoy’s arm, then again, and at last pulled his head away.
“Mm,” said Malfoy, and pulled his hand through Harry’s hair.
“Yeah,” Harry whispered, and felt extraordinarily proud of himself. Malfoy looked so lazy and content and so perfectly happy, and there might have been bruises, but Harry hadn’t once lost control. He was still hard and aching and didn’t even want release, because he really wanted just to hold Malfoy, looking so spent and luxurious in his arms.
Harry held him, looking down at him. Writing a list was an okay idea, he decided.
*
Harry got counseling.
Her name was Devika Darwin. She had long dark hair she always wore clipped back, and a large smile full of bright teeth. Her eyes were liquid brown, almost amber, and she always said, “Yes, I see,” when Harry talked about his past.
Doctor Darwin was a Muggle. Malfoy didn’t like it.
“You’re supposed to be able to talk to her,” he said.
Harry shrugged. “I can talk to her.”
“In lies.”
“Like you never lie.” Malfoy got this look on his face, and Harry knew he had said the wrong thing.
But Malfoy just looked away. “You need someone who can listen.”
Harry wanted to touch him, and didn’t know how. “I’m doing the best I can,” he said instead. Somehow it helped him that Doctor Darwin didn’t know the truth.
“I know,” said Malfoy, and touched him.
*
The sex wasn’t perfect. Harry liked snogging Malfoy. He liked the way he went pink all over, and his eyes went bright. He got breathless and exhilarated; he was a lot like he got when playing Quidditch, actually. Harry thought he might be just like that, had Malfoy not been so heart-breakingly nervous. Harry thought Malfoy would be vocal and pushy and fun, and competitive, and athletic, and—sometimes Harry had to stop thinking about what it might be like, if Malfoy ever got any good at actually asking for the things he needed.
As it was, Malfoy was mostly muffled moans, with hands that directed Harry’s when words could not. A few days after Malfoy gave him the list, Harry was making love to him. Their bodies were warm and heated; Malfoy still had his shirt on, but his trousers were open, and Harry had his shirt off. They were on the bed, and Harry kept saying, “Is this alright?” and “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Malfoy kept whispering. “Yes,” and “yes” and “yes.”
“How about this?” Malfoy was above him, and Harry had both of their cocks sliding through one hand. His other head reached up to squeeze Malfoy’s balls, and Malfoy was doing what he could to hold himself above him and manage the jerking of his hips.
“Harry,” Malfoy whispered. His face was flushed almost dark, making his hair look bright.
“Do you like it?”
Malfoy was strained against him now, and Harry wanted to make him lose control. He wanted him to fall apart; it worked this way to see that Malfoy needed him. Harry couldn’t fall apart himself because Malfoy needed him to be there to pick up the pieces, afterward.
The monster never came when Harry thought of it that way. More often when Harry thought of the monster now, he thought of it along with Chimera Downs. Both were behind him, and it was as though the monster had curled itself up to sleep in that peaceful, broken place, and the present now was all Draco Malfoy: Malfoy touching him, those easy, homey touches like his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, and his thigh lined up with Harry’s when they sat on the couch. Malfoy kissing him, that warm, solid heartbeat pressed up against his, all the languid days of heat and sunshine and Malfoy tipping his head back to laugh. Malfoy on top of him, pink and slick with needy little sounds deep in his throat, going to come at any moment, saying, “I like it,” and “I like it, Harry,” “please, I need you,” and “make me come.”
“Good,” said Harry. “That’s really good.”
Malfoy arched, and the agony in his face was sweet, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy had ever let another person this close, ever. He wondered if Malfoy was just fucked up enough that he wouldn’t let any other person do it besides Harry, and thought that if that were not the case, he could still survive. He didn’t need Malfoy in a cage. He just needed Malfoy.
“Oh God,” whispered Malfoy, and relaxed on Harry’s body, the length of him limp now, like warm messy liquid.
“Yeah.”
“You,” Malfoy croaked, after he’d lain there long enough to get the energy to lift himself up a little.
Harry took the opportunity to lick the undersides of Malfoy’s open lips.
“You didn’t.” Malfoy looked down at Harry’s open trousers. “You didn’t yet.”
“It’s okay,” Harry said, and licked Malfoy’s mouth again.
Malfoy looked momentarily black, and then his features went hard in a way that was utterly surprising on the pink bliss of his post-orgasmic face. “No,” he breathed. “You’re not going to do that,” he said. His hand reached down for Harry’s cock.
Harry clamped a hand over his wrist. “I meant you don’t have to.” He licked dry lips, eyes searching Malfoy’s face. “It’s alright.”
“It’s not,” said Malfoy. He kissed him, and then his hand went down, and wrapped around Harry’s cock.
His hand was slow, a little uncertain, a little awkward. Harry felt like grabbing his hand again and moving it faster, closing his eyes and rolling his head back. Instead, he kept his eyes wide open, and watched. He wanted this to be for Malfoy. He wanted to do it for Malfoy, not for any monster or desire for possession that lingered deep inside.
Malfoy’s hand moved faster and Harry’s balls drew up tighter. Malfoy stopped and put oil on his hand, and it went on like that for several minutes, when Malfoy leaned in to Harry’s ear and said, “What do you need?”
“It’s good,” Harry said. His breath was short and sharp.
“Tell me what you want.”
“This. I want you.” Harry’s whole body was taught with the effort of control.
“Should I use my mouth?” Malfoy asked with a studied nonchalance that belied a rather nervous eagerness.
Harry big back a groan. “You don’t have to.”
Malfoy used his mouth. He moved down, gave the head of Harry’s cock a tentative lick first, and all the sudden Harry was sure Malfoy had used his hands but not his mouth before on someone else. Maybe it was true; it shouldn’t have mattered; Harry didn’t care. But somewhere deep inside the monster liked it very much, and Harry had to stop these thoughts and think of nothing, nothing as Malfoy explored him with his tongue, and at last closed his mouth around him.
Harry’s hips were inclined to jerk, but he steadied them, and he kept trying to think of Malfoy, Malfoy in his shirt, Malfoy being nervous, Malfoy’s first time doing this, and not the way it felt.
Malfoy came up, and replaced his mouth with his hand again, apparently so he could talk in Harry’s ear. “Are you trying to win some kind of competition, Harry?” Malfoy asked, a tone of something like frustration in his voice.
“I—” Harry caught his breath; Malfoy’s fingers twisted and snaked back down between Harry’s legs.
“Is it some kind of sacrifice?”
Malfoy’s hand was hurting on Harry now, too tight and it felt so good; Harry wanted to hurt harder. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t do this. Not with me, not right now. It’s stupid and I hate it and why can’t you just—”
“What?” Harry demanded, his voice choking again inside his throat. His hips were coming involuntarily off the bed now, and every touch of Malfoy’s hand felt like it was going to wring the life out of him, and still he moved up for it every time. “What? What do you want me to—”
“Really?” Then Malfoy met his eyes, and the frustration faded to an unbelievable softness. “Oh Merlin,” he whispered. “Harry—come. I want you to come; can’t you do that?”
For a moment Harry felt helpless. He didn’t think he could say, “Oh.” Yeah, that. Of course. No wonder that Malfoy pitied him, that Harry hadn’t been thinking about something so perfectly natural: that thing that human beings did.
Harry was ready for it, so ready, but on the other side of the edge on which he lay there swirled a chasm of darkness and fear and loss of control, and Harry suddenly realized he’d been walking that edge for what felt like miles. His muscles felt strained with the tautness of not grabbing Malfoy’s hand, not throwing him down, not forcing himself inside Malfoy’s body, without a care or thought for what Malfoy wanted or needed. It was actually physically hurting, not roaring a release and becoming someone he’d never wanted to be.
“Stop.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrist again. Seeing Malfoy’s face contort, Harry said, “No, please. Just for a minute, stop.”
Malfoy looked upset and hurt all at once. “If—”
“No. It’s not like that.” Harry got off the bed, causing Malfoy to reach out in muted protest. Harry stripped down until he was absolutely bare, and then took Malfoy’s hand.
He kissed him there, then kissed him up his arm, his neck. Malfoy shied away. “I want to—I want it to be you, now. Harry, you’re not the only one who . . .” Malfoy trailed off.
“I know. It has to be slow.”
“Oh.” Malfoy thought about that. “I can go for hours, Harry.”
“Can you?” Harry smiled.
Malfoy nodded vigorously. “I’m remarkably persistent. No, really. It’s my best quality.”
“You’ve got many qualities,” Harry said, and kissed him again.
Harry lay back, and Malfoy stretched out on top of him. Harry explored his mouth, and everything was gentle and so warm, and at last Malfoy’s hand moved slowly back to Harry’s cock. “I can make you feel so good, Harry,” Malfoy whispering. “It’s going to feel so good; I can do it for you; it’s going to be so good; I’m so good for you; let me be good for you.”
He made Harry feel like a man, stretched out under him. Malfoy tasted good, and felt good, warm and humid and heavy right where Harry needed. He looked good, bright and flushed, like a light had been turned on inside, and what had been sharp and unharmonious before glowed with a unity of light.
Harry thought about Malfoy. The way Malfoy looked at him and the way Malfoy had forced him to live, the way Malfoy loved classic Muggle rock and would’ve mocked Charlie’s dragons, the way he obsessed and the things he created. He thought too of the way Malfoy needed him, the way Malfoy still didn’t expect to be treated like a man, the way he wouldn’t get close to people, the way he still had such a hard time telling Harry he wanted him.
These were the reasons Harry was here, kissing Malfoy, stroking his tongue with his, making Malfoy moan again despite himself. These were the reasons people kissed and groped and made love in the sunlight, the way Harry had once with Ginny beside a lake when he was closer to an innocence he’d never really had. These were the reasons people were human; these were the reasons people lived.
“Harry,” Malfoy whispered, his voice heavy and liquid and all golden honey rich right in Harry’s ear. “Come.”
“Draco,” Harry said.
“Come for me.” Malfoy squeezed a little, said, “for me, Harry,” again, and Harry said, “Oh God,” fisting Malfoy’s hair in his hands.
Then he was coming and Malfoy was smiling a blazing smile of triumph. “There. That wasn’t hard, was it?”
*
Devika Darwin was the fourth doctor Harry tried, and when he stayed on he stayed on because he liked her, and not because he could tell she was helping. Even after months and months of counseling, Harry didn’t know whether it was helping. But he did tell her things, and Devika nodded and said, “Yes, I see.”
He didn’t tell her about the war, about the Dark Lord, about magic. At first, he talked about Draco, about how he was afraid of hurting him, about how he knew his control could slip and he could do so much damage. Devika didn’t ask how he would do damage. She didn’t tell Harry he wasn’t going to hurt anyone, and she didn’t tell Harry he couldn’t destroy the world, if he wanted too. Devika didn’t know either of these things. She just nodded, looking over the rims of her rather gigantic frames, scribbled with a biro on a notepad, and said, “Yes. I see.”
After counseling, the next thing Malfoy had put on the list was See a Healer. In some ways, getting a counselor was easier. When the first three had told Harry that nothing was really wrong with him, he could easily enough decide that they were wrong. Once a Healer told him he was physically healthy, however, Harry would know that it was all in his head.
Malfoy told him that it didn’t matter. The effects were still there, he said. If Harry felt like he was constantly in danger of losing control of his magic, then there were people who could help him learn to control it. Those people were Healers.
The thought of seeing a Healer had never occurred to Harry. He couldn’t ever bring back his parents, stop Voldemort from scarring him, give himself a normal life. Whatever Voldemort had done to him, Harry had always thought he would have to deal with it.
Malfoy just stared at him when he explained. “Just because magic is something you can control with your mind doesn’t mean other people can’t help you. You control your body as well; would you still take medicine if you were sick?”
Harry looked away.
Malfoy didn’t stop staring. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Taking a deep breath, Harry met his eyes. “Yes.”
*
Malfoy said he knew a Healer in Paris. How Malfoy knew a Healer in Paris, Harry didn’t know, but he didn’t want the media circus of going to St. Mungo’s. Even if he could trust a Healer there to be discreet, someone still might see him; word might still leak out. Then what had happened after Harry had quit the Aurors would happen all over again: he’d be splashed all over the pages of the Prophet and Witch Weekly and every other wizarding publication, and everyone would be wondering whether he was the Golden Boy or insane or the next Dark Lord. No one ever wondered whether he was just Harry.
The Healer in Paris was a man from Egypt named Amon. He had dark skin and silver hair, and a short stocky body that would not have impressed most people. He asked Harry what his symptoms were, and Harry was sure he didn’t mean symptoms like, “I have a monster in my chest.” Maybe he did mean for Harry to say, “I have anger control problems,” but that was exactly what he was afraid of, and so instead Harry explained exactly how it felt: the clawing, climbing, shaking loss of control.
Malfoy stood very close.
Healer Amon went through a series of them, asking things like, “How often does this occur?” and “Do you have a magical response?” He didn’t say Harry was making it up, or that he didn’t kill Dolores Umbridge. In fact, he reminded Harry a lot of Doctor Darwin, and the way she was very pragmatic and clinical.
At the end Healer Amon asked, “For how long has this been going on?” and then, “Why didn’t you see a Healer before?”
And Harry had to ask, “Does that mean it’s real?”
Healer Amon looked at him above his glasses.
Malfoy glanced at Harry apologetically, and then told Healer Amon, “He means purely psychological.”
Healer Amon said it was hard to tell, and that he cast some diagnostic spells.
In the end, he said that he couldn’t find anything wrong with Harry. Harry’s shoulders sagged, because of course he had been hoping that someone could find something wrong, because that meant he wasn’t just messed up. Malfoy had told him that wasn’t so—he was telling him that now by clamping his hand around one of Harry’s wrists. But then Healer Amon took off his glasses, and looked at Harry with sharp black eyes.
You may never know, was what he said. Some curses are undetectable, and some even effect the mind. He said that what Harry was suffering from sounded a lot like psychologic trauma, and Malfoy’s grip went very tight. But Healer Amon also said that that whether caused by trauma or not, Harry had lost control of his magic, and that could exacerbate or cause any number of mental conditions, and that he should have gone to a Healer sooner.
“Accidental magic is very dangerous,” Healer Amon said in a very sharp, clipped voice.
“Accidental magic?” Harry said.
Healer Amon raised his brows over his glasses. “You said that the ground shakes.”
“Sometimes there are tree stumps,” Malfoy said helpfully.
“I thought that was . . .” Harry hadn’t known what he thought that was.
(“You thought that was your melodrama,” Malfoy told him later. “You can comfort yourself in the knowledge that you were entirely wrong. As you usually are.” He smiled affectionately, and Harry still didn’t understand his sense of humor.)
Healer Amon was still looking at him over his glasses. “A result of your terrible and overwhelming power?” he finished for Harry.
“Well,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“You are a powerful wizard, Mr. Potter, but you aren’t Voldemort.” Healer Amon said the name without a flinch, but Malfoy’s knuckles were white where he clenched Harry’s arm. “Even if you were as powerful as he was, magic itself isn’t an evil force. It’s as natural as wind and water—out of control, these elements can cause damage. Stabilized, they aid our survival.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think of to say. He suddenly felt like he was a child again, and this was a professor at Hogwarts.
“What could cause a loss of control of accidental magic?” Malfoy’s fingers were digging into Harry’s arm.
Harry waited for Healer Amon to say the Killing Curse, or whatever ancient magic his mum had used to protect him, or something about Horcruxes. Instead, Healer Amon started going on about trauma or something and emotional strain.
“But what about the war?” Harry said.
Healer Amon frowned. “Mr. Potter,” he said, very patiently. I am talking about the war.” He was nothing at all like Snape, and yet he reminded Harry very much of Snape anyway. “Did you think you were the only one?”
The only one.
The only
One.
The Chosen One.
Chosen for this, he was supposed to be chosen for this, and Harry somehow wanted to be, because then it wouldn’t be his fault, then it would be the war all over again, and it wouldn’t be his fault, it had never been his fault—
Malfoy’s hand tightened again on his arm. “What should we do?” he asked, and he was asking Healer Amon, but he meant it for Harry. It was for Harry; Harry was meant to hear, because it was not, What should he do? What should Harry do? What should I do? It was:
What should we do?
Healer Amon told them.
*
It began with Wingardium Leviosa.
Harry began with brief exercises in magic, just the simple spells, spells he’d learned that very first year in school. He used Malfoy’s old hawthorn wand, and it wasn’t until he began to use it that he realized he hadn’t used a wand in over a year. It was difficult to push all that power through that tiny channel, but he was getting better at it.
He was doing Wingardium Leviosa, no problem, and that was when Malfoy said he should talk to Ron and Hermione. Not just talk about music and the weather and George’s shop, but actually talk. Ron and Hermione were on the list, so Harry went and he told them everything.
He told them about Chimera Downs. He told them how much damage he still wanted to do, and how hard it was to stop it. He even told them how he wanted to hurt them sometimes, but he wasn’t that, he wasn’t; he wasn’t Voldemort; he had never wanted to be anything but Harry, but inside of Harry was a monster, and he told them that, too. He told them about Doctor Darwin and Healer Amon; he told them about Wingardium Leviosa and the Elder Wand.
Hermione tried to talk about magical theory, because she could see that Harry needed to move on from this, move on, move on. She tried to talk about accidental magic, traumatic stress, wands and how they worked; she tried to talk about the biological interaction between magic, the mind, and body.
Ron’s hand clamped down on Hermione’s shoulder. “I bet it was Voldemort’s Horcrux,” Ron said.
Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. “I’m not sure that’s what—”
“That made you lose control of your magic,” Ron said, “and once the accidental magic started happening, it started feeding off itself, just like Healer Amon said.”
Hermione glanced from Harry to Ron, then back again. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“Thanks,” said Harry. He paused. “It’s taking a long time, but I’m kind of getting used to the idea of the idea that I might just be a crazy person.”
“But you should still learn to control your magic,” Hermione said anxiously.
“Yeah. I’m going to.”
Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. “Should’ve helped you do it before. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was . . .” He looked down, scuffing his shoe.
“It was never you,” Harry said.
Ron lifted his head. “I know,” he said, “but it was us.” He waved a hand at Harry’s protest. “I don’t mean anything we did; I meant . . . all three of us. Everything we went through. I don’t think we were . . .” Now Ron waved a hand at Hermione. “We had stuff to get through too, and we needed you, and didn’t know how to—”
“Ron,” Hermione said, in her quelling way. “He doesn’t need to—”
“No,” said Harry. “It’s . . . it’s good to hear, actually. That you . . . you’re not perfect either, and you needed me. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Hermione rushed to say. “You don’t ever need to be sorry for anything, Harry. Not with us.”
“Sometimes I want to be,” Harry said.
Ron just shrugged. “Sometimes I want to be, too.”
*
Harry stuck to the plan Healer Amon had laid out for him. He practiced rudimentary wand usage every day, and Malfoy helped him. He did not use his wandless magic. He took the potions Healer Amon prescribed, and he saw the Healer regularly. He even told Doctor Darwin about it.
“Yes,” said Malfoy. “And how did that go over?”
“Well,” said Harry. “I told her I was seeing a physical therapist. And that he was making me take vitamins. And that I do yoga.”
“Is lying to your therapist and therapy in and of itself?” Malfoy wondered.
Harry thought about it. “Sort of. Yeah.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Darwin. “I see.”
Harry also told Doctor Darwin about the way he wasn’t good at orgasming. He was embarrassed at first, but Doctor Darwin said, “Yes, I see.” She asked a lot of questions, and was very kind.
Harry found that he liked to tell her things, someone who didn’t know anything about his past and didn’t care particularly about his future. He wondered if that was why things had been so easy with Malfoy at first, at Chimera Downs. He wasn’t sure, because he had thought at that time he wouldn’t have been able to feel the peace with strangers that he had felt with Malfoy. But things were different now, and Harry was trying to make a go of it with Malfoy.
One day after Harry had been seeing Doctor Darwin for two months, she said, “I would like you to see a psychiatrist.”
“Er,” said Harry. “Aren’t you . . . ?”
“I’m a therapist,” Doctor Darwin said. “It means I can’t prescribe medicine.”
“You think I need medicine?”
She told him to see the other doctor, and to be very careful about his medications. Harry didn’t like the word, “medication”, and talked to Healer Amon about it instead.
Healer Amon’s mouth tightened, and he wanted to know why Harry hadn’t told him he was seeing a counselor, and then he asked what kind of medications she meant. Once Harry told him, Healer Amon reviewed Harry’s potions regimen and made changes. He said he would get Harry to talk to a mind Healer he knew, and that that Healer could help him get potions that could make him feel calmer and happier.
“What about the Muggle stuff?” said Harry.
“A lot of it is exactly the same thing.” Healer Amon looked at Harry over his glasses. “Have you discussed this with Mr. Malfoy?”
“Well,” said Harry. “I will.”
“He’ll be able to help you decipher the differences and similarities between the Muggle medicine and the potions, and will be of assistance with dosages.”
Harry laughed a little. “Malfoy doesn’t know anything about Muggle medicine.” Then he thought about it, and looked at Healer Amon, who had not reacted. But Healer Amon was a very good doctor, who first of all would probably have not said that about Malfoy if it weren’t true, and second of all would not react once he realized Harry didn’t know that it was true. “Does he?” said Harry.
“I’m don’t discuss my other patients.”
“You mean Malfoy . . .” Harry tried to figure out what that could possibly mean. “Malfoy is your patient?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Healer Amon.
*
That was the first row Harry and Malfoy had since Chimera Downs. Harry was so frightened and angry and hurt, he didn’t wait for Malfoy to explain. He thought that he could feel the monster. Something was clawing up his chest.
The gound didn’t shake; Malfoy’s flat didn’t shake. Harry felt himself grow cold, but he kept on blinking. The exercises Healer Amon had been having him do must be helping, he thought. Then he finally focused on Malfoy, who was pinched and pale and holding his ground, and somehow everything was easier.
There was something in that narrow face that had settled in Harry’s heart at a time when he most needed it. Now the sight of it, haggard and trying to be brave, made him able to think of other things, able to calm down. For the first time, Harry considered that the monster may never go away, and that he might not be able to keep it down all the time. For the first time, he considered that it could change into something else.
This was not a feeling that could destroy the world, that could topple buildings or kill people with a glance. This, perhaps, was what some people would call anger. Harry still wanted to shake Malfoy until his teeth clattered, but maybe that was normal too.
When Harry had finally calmed down enough, Malfoy told him that he had been seeing Healer Amon since shortly after the war. His mother had brought him there, when once Voldemort had left their house completely, Malfoy still couldn’t hold his food down, or sleep at night. Healer Amon had given him a mental aid potion, something a lot like the Muggle medicines Doctor Darwin had wanted for Harry.
Vernon Dursley used to snort at pills like that, saying they were for weirdos, or people who were weak-willed. Petunia had looked strained about the mouth, when he said that, and hadn’t mentioned it again.
Malfoy had taken the potions until he could sleep again and get through a day without jumping at shadows. Then he had lessened his dosage. Then he had stopped completely, but he still sometimes saw Healer Amon, and still sometimes started the potions again for brief periods, when everything seemed more difficult than before.
He’d taken them the whole time Harry had been in Romania.
“You could have told me,” Harry said.
That was when Malfoy lost his own temper. “Why? So you could help me? You want to fucking hold me, Potter, and tell me everything will be alright, when you can barely keep together yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Harry tried to think about Chimera Downs, tried to think about Malfoy coming down and saying, I’m here because helping you is going to help me. I’m here so you can fix one last person.
I’m here so you can save me.
Malfoy was right. It never would have worked. “I’m doing better,” Harry said.
Malfoy almost flinched at that, as though the very thought was worrisome. “I know,” he said, in a softer way. Let me keep helping you. Let me just . . .”
All of a sudden, Harry knew what the problem was. “You can,” he said. “You are.” He took a step closer. “Malfoy, I’m not going to leave you just because you’re—I’m not. We’re both in this. We both need this. I’m . . . Malfoy, I’m not going anywhere.
Malfoy sneered. “Is that what you’re going to do, Potter? Stay? Share Christmas with my family, ask after my mother’s flowers? My father’s health? Pretend to care for my sake?”
“Yes.”
Malfoy looked shocked. “Don’t.”
That was when Harry realized the worst of it: that Malfoy had never thought anyone could care about something purely for his sake.
“I would,” said Harry, and took a step toward Malfoy, who was holding himself rigid. “I’d play Exploding Snap with Lucius, if that was what you wanted.” He told Malfoy what he’d told him once before, and hoped this time Malfoy would believe it. “I’d do anything.”
Malfoy shuddered, and let go of something he must have been holding onto very tightly. His shoulders slumped, and whatever it had been came to rest between them, quiet and inert. Harry walked right through it, and closed the space between them. “Will you tell me next time?”
Malfoy made a weak huffing sound. “Last time I told you something that was on my mind, you had a crack up.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “but I’m getting better.”
Malfoy sighed. “Just don’t run away.”
“I’ll come to you if you come to me.”
Malfoy thought about that for a while. “Can we have that rule with sex, as well?”
“Well,” said Harry. “There’s nothing wrong with trying.”
*
Go to: Chapter 9
Rating: this chapter, pg
Length: this chapter, 7.5K
Warnings: sex
Characters: Harry/Draco, past Harry/Ginny
Epilogue: not epilogue compliant
Summary: Malfoy’s all, “Come out of there,” the way you say to a cat who is badly behaved. And Harry’s all like, “No, what, I’m a hermit! And I have a chest-monster! And I am crazy magically powerful!” and Malfoy’s all, “We all have problems, bub.” (thoughtfully) “You are crazy though. I’ll give you that.”
A/N: I finished this last year, but felt something was wrong with the ending. Since then,
kjp_013 (I think? It's been a really long time!) and bowdlerized and a friend, R, have all looked over it and offered various comments. Thanks so much to all of you.Go to: Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9
Chapter 8
When Harry thought about it later, those few days after almost losing it completely were some of the most peaceful. The monster had tried to do its worst and he had fought it back. He felt worn out, but Malfoy needed him. So Harry stayed.
The first day Malfoy brought work home with him. They played wizarding chess and had lunch and Malfoy looked at his papers; Harry read Malfoy’s books. Then Malfoy had to go back to work, and Harry made supper. They went out to see a film.
Malfoy suggested Harry see George about working in the shop, like he’d planned, and Harry did. They went to lunch with Hermione. Malfoy came home early and they chased the Snitch in the waning sun. The days were so surprisingly domestic. Harry couldn’t remember having this with another person, ever. Maybe he had those green days in sixth year with Ginny just before Dumbledore died. He didn’t know; he’d been so young, then.
It had been such a long time since Harry had lived with anyone. He’d forgotten it all, the simple touches: Malfoy’s hand touching the back of his to show him where the spoons were, touching Malfoy’s hips to get past him to go to the toilet, fingertips that trailed along arms when they both reached for the same thing. He’d forgotten what it was like to talk late into the night without having to think about going home. He didn’t remember having meals together or making plans.
He’d forgotten how the sun could shine in such a way that it hit the wood floors and made them seem to glow. He’d forgotten he loved kitchens, the way kitchens like Malfoy’s and Molly’s were always small and busy with a thousand things. He’d forgotten what it was to stare into the dark at night and know that not far from you, someone else was dreaming.
It had been a long time since Hogwarts, and when he’d tried to move in with Ginny, he already couldn’t stand himself. Harry had forgotten what it was like to have a home.
In the evening after the film, outside of Malfoy’s flat, Harry kissed him.
Malfoy pulled away. “This isn’t good night.”
“What?”
Malfoy shrugged it off and said very confidently—which always meant he thought no one would listen, “You’re coming in with me.”
“Yes,” said Harry, and kissed him again while Malfoy said, “Oh,” and fumbled with the spell to open his door.
Once inside, Harry kissed Malfoy up against the door, and Malfoy made muffled moaning sounds. Harry could taste him, all his warmth, his heart going like a rabbit’s. Malfoy was nervous and eager and his hands were shaking, and they were going for Harry’s shirt. He pulled it out; then Harry pulled away and closed his hands around Malfoy’s.
“Slower,” Harry said, and kissed him again, a long slow languid kiss.
“Okay,” said Malfoy, and Harry thought he might have agreed to anything. His eyes were glassy and his face was pink and his lips were swollen, and Harry thought he just might kiss him forever if it was only this, just this slow wanton hot roll of feeling, concentrating just on how Malfoy felt and not anything else.
Through the ratcheting of desire, Harry could feel the monster, and pulled away. He leaned his forehead to touch Malfoy’s. Malfoy was breathing noisily, with little catches. “Harry,” he whispered.
“I’ve got to stop.”
Malfoy took a deep breath, swallowed, and suddenly was in complete control of his air flow. “Alright.”
Harry stayed pressed to him, and lifted his hand to hear Malfoy’s heartbeat.
Malfoy pulled away. “Tea,” he said. “Or . . . um. Exploding Snap.”
“I’ll go for a walk.”
“Okay,” Malfoy said lightly, but when Harry looked at him, his face was turned away and his jaw was very hard.
“I’ll be back in a little while.”
“I’ll make the tea.”
Harry walked out under the stars, and thought about going to Chimera Downs. He thought about the field, the waving grass, the slope, and realized he didn’t need them. Instead, he thought of Malfoy, who had looked so pinched and pale and determined after seeing Malfoy Manor. Malfoy had needed him to stay.
Harry walked for half an hour in the starlight, and then turned and went to where he felt he might belong.
*
After a little more than a week, Malfoy and Harry were in on a Saturday, and Malfoy said, “I’ve been thinking about your monster.”
Harry had been reading. Now he stopped, looking at Malfoy warily.
Malfoy was tapping his quill nervously on his desk. “I think you should write a list.”
“A list.”
Malfoy nodded. His voice was very precise. “I think you should try to think of things that might help you—get control of it, and then you should try to do the things on it one at a time.”
Harry looked at him. Malfoy’s shoulders were held very squarely. “Don’t you think if I knew things that might help me, I’d do them?”
Malfoy nodded again. “I thought you might say that.” He paused. “You do know that’s what you have been doing though, right?”
“What?”
“You got a flat,” Malfoy pointed out. “And an occupation.”
“I guess.”
Malfoy nodded again. They were these short, sharp movements, as though Malfoy was afraid to move too much. “I thought you might draw a blank.” Taking a deep breath, he went on, “I’ve written a list for you. They’re suggestions,” he added quickly. “You don’t have to do them.”
“Let’s see it, then.”
Malfoy licked his lips, and flicked his wand. The parchment he’d been scratching on earlier floated over to Harry.
Harry looked at it. Then he looked at Malfoy. Then he looked at the list. “What does ‘get counseling’ mean?” he asked, his voice low.
Malfoy looked brittle, he was sitting so straight. “I think you need some help.”
Harry resisted putting his hand up to his scar. “You think I’m making it up.”
“No. Oh, no. Harry . . .” Malfoy stood up and came towards him, and then seemed to think better of it, stopping suddenly in the middle of the room. “I think that it’s very real. But you said it yourself. It’s not a literal monster.”
“It’s something.”
“Yes.” Agitated, Malfoy seemed to be losing some of his carefulness. “Do you really think it’s something the Dark Lord put there? A Horcrux, or some kind of curse? Because if so, you’ve done a shocking job of keeping it under control. It’s been nearly two years now since you’ve been on your feet again, and seven years since the war; don’t you think the Dark Lord would have something more sinister in mind than—”
“It’s not him. It’s me.”
“That’s fine. I agree. But if it’s you, then you can’t—Harry, you can’t carve that part of yourself away.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t go hacking yourself to bits. Gets very messy. No one survives.”
“I’d survive without it.”
Malfoy came closer and took a hold on Harry’s arm. “I know that getting help isn’t very much like a storybook. And I know that when they came and told you you were a wizard—it must have felt very much like a storybook. Did you think this didn’t happen in the wizarding world? We’re not perfect. Our hearts aren’t magic too.”
“I don’t think it’s a storybook,” Harry said, and pulled away his arm.
“It was just a suggestion.” Malfoy thrust his hands in his pockets and looked down, frowning. “You don’t have to see anyone if you don’t want. But I think it’s—it’s something real. You can try to help it. It’s not a . . . there are no monsters, Harry.”
Harry closed his eyes. Instead of the field, he thought of Malfoy. Malfoy was against the door, looking worn about the mouth, circles under his eyes. He’d leaned back his head on the wood; his hand had still been on the knob.
I’m not any good, he had said. Nothing’s any good.
Harry swallowed. “Okay. I’ll try the list.”
Malfoy perked up. “You will?”
“Yeah. Can you tell me something?” Malfoy looked suspicious. “Why did you first come to Chimera Downs?”
“Granger really was getting difficult to work with.”
“But why did you really?”
For a long time, Malfoy was quiet. He was looking down at fidgeting hands. “I was trying to do something right.”
“I’m glad you did it.”
“Don’t,” said Malfoy, in a choked voice, and looked away.
“I think you do a lot of things right. And I think you’re really clever. And capable. I think you’re brave. I think—” He stopped because Malfoy had come up and had his hand twisted in his shirt. He looked feverish.
“Shut up,” said Malfoy, his voice rough. “Just shut up.” He kissed him, a hot, desperate kiss.
Malfoy’s hands pushed in Harry’s hair, and Harry kissed him back. Malfoy tasted good, all of it tasted good, because Malfoy said he wasn’t good and Harry knew he was. Warmth pooled in Harry until it was pushing up his throat, but it didn’t claw like the monster. It sang.
“You didn’t let me finish,” said Harry, when Malfoy pulled back, breath stuttering. “I think you’re spectacular; I think—”
Malfoy pulled him over to the couch. He kissed him, bringing him deeper, until Harry had to pull back next to breathe, breathing in scent and humidity of Malfoy’s skin, his tender, exposed neck.
Malfoy pulled his head in closer to his throat. “Please do it,” he whispered.
“What?” Harry pulled back.
Malfoy was having trouble breathing. His eyes were large and getting darker. “Don’t make me say it.”
Harry looked at the way Malfoy was baring his neck, and guessed there was only one thing Malfoy could mean. Harry leaned in.
Malfoy had said he liked it, and that was okay. Harry knew other people had liked it, too. Ginny had even liked it; it wasn’t a bad thing by definition. Harry licked and sucked until the spot on Malfoy’s neck was bright red, and then he carefully drew Malfoy’s skin into his mouth, and sucked some more.
Malfoy made a muffled sound. His hips thrust up under Harry, and Harry kept on sucking. Malfoy’s skin would be lilac, once the bruise settled in.
Harry was going to keep at it until it would be black.
It wasn’t right; it wasn’t right; it wasn’t right: the monster. But Malfoy said it was right, and Malfoy did right things. He couldn’t do some of them without Harry.
Harry started in on his neck on the other side.
When he realized Malfoy would probably look like someone who had tried to strangle him, Harry decided to find a different place instead. He tugged on Malfoy’s shirt.
“Don’t.” Malfoy pushed it back down.
“Malfoy.” Harry’s voice was high in the back of his throat. He meant it to be a question, and didn’t know how to ask.
“Yes, Potter, I want you to, don’t stop, keep going, I want you—how many times do I have to tell you that I want you—?”
Harry kissed him. He thought he could kiss him forever. He could crawl right in to Malfoy’s skin and be there forever, and there wouldn’t be a monster. Malfoy could crawl right into him and force the monster out. They could go on kissing and kissing, doing nothing but kissing, and something so simple had really only felt so sweet with just one person before, and Harry had messed that up.
He didn’t want to mess this up.
He pulled away, his head on Malfoy’s shoulder, his face pressed into Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy held him there, and Harry breathed in and in and in, in the bitten abuse on the flesh of Malfoy’s neck, in Malfoy’s shallow breathing, in the way that Malfoy’s arms held him close like he wasn’t ever going to let go. Harry laid a finger on the blossoming purple.
Malfoy’s breath hitched. When his voice came, it sounded distant. “I wonder what it means,” he said, “that I like it.”
“I wonder what it means that I like to give them.”
Harry could practically hear Malfoy roll his eyes. “Plenty of people leave love bites, Harry.”
“Plenty of people have love bites, Malfoy.”
“Yes. But.” The hand that wasn’t on Harry’s twitched.
For the first time, it occurred to Harry that Malfoy not only didn’t mind, that maybe this was something Malfoy needed. Harry took the hand that had trembled on his. When he started rolling up the sleeve, Malfoy tried to pull it away. Harry held on. “Is it because of this?”
Malfoy made a disapproving clicking sound somewhere in his throat, but he let Harry look at the Mark. “That,” he agreed.
“Then I’ll do it here,” Harry said, brought Malfoy’s arm up.
“Harry.” Malfoy sounded alarmed.
Harry brushed his hand over the Dark Mark, then began to trace the red raised scar with his fingernail.
Malfoy hissed, trying to pull away again. Harry still held fast.
Then Harry bent, replacing fingernail with tongue.
“S-sweet Merlin,” Malfoy croaked, and he was trembling all over.
Harry began to use his teeth.
The whole thing would be a bruise afterward, a great cracking one, the biggest one ever. Harry thought that it was horrible, and he really wanted it, and that was okay because Malfoy did too, and not just for his sake.
Malfoy held onto his hair. He held it hard, twisting, yanking hard enough that he should have been pulling Harry away, but Harry was still there. There was a litany of little chants; Harry thought Malfoy did it in order not to whimper, but it sounded like, “Oh God, oh sweet Merlin, Harry, please don’t stop, I’ll hate you if you ever stop, oh God, I need, I need, I need—”
Then Malfoy’s hips lifted up, and lifted again, and Harry put his hand on the front of Malfoy’s trousers. He pressed in with the heel of his hand while his mouth still sucked the underside of Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy came up into him—several times, and then at last in a long, strained arch during which Malfoy made no sound at all.
Then he came back and was breathing hard, and Harry moved his hand away. He licked Malfoy’s arm, then again, and at last pulled his head away.
“Mm,” said Malfoy, and pulled his hand through Harry’s hair.
“Yeah,” Harry whispered, and felt extraordinarily proud of himself. Malfoy looked so lazy and content and so perfectly happy, and there might have been bruises, but Harry hadn’t once lost control. He was still hard and aching and didn’t even want release, because he really wanted just to hold Malfoy, looking so spent and luxurious in his arms.
Harry held him, looking down at him. Writing a list was an okay idea, he decided.
*
Harry got counseling.
Her name was Devika Darwin. She had long dark hair she always wore clipped back, and a large smile full of bright teeth. Her eyes were liquid brown, almost amber, and she always said, “Yes, I see,” when Harry talked about his past.
Doctor Darwin was a Muggle. Malfoy didn’t like it.
“You’re supposed to be able to talk to her,” he said.
Harry shrugged. “I can talk to her.”
“In lies.”
“Like you never lie.” Malfoy got this look on his face, and Harry knew he had said the wrong thing.
But Malfoy just looked away. “You need someone who can listen.”
Harry wanted to touch him, and didn’t know how. “I’m doing the best I can,” he said instead. Somehow it helped him that Doctor Darwin didn’t know the truth.
“I know,” said Malfoy, and touched him.
*
The sex wasn’t perfect. Harry liked snogging Malfoy. He liked the way he went pink all over, and his eyes went bright. He got breathless and exhilarated; he was a lot like he got when playing Quidditch, actually. Harry thought he might be just like that, had Malfoy not been so heart-breakingly nervous. Harry thought Malfoy would be vocal and pushy and fun, and competitive, and athletic, and—sometimes Harry had to stop thinking about what it might be like, if Malfoy ever got any good at actually asking for the things he needed.
As it was, Malfoy was mostly muffled moans, with hands that directed Harry’s when words could not. A few days after Malfoy gave him the list, Harry was making love to him. Their bodies were warm and heated; Malfoy still had his shirt on, but his trousers were open, and Harry had his shirt off. They were on the bed, and Harry kept saying, “Is this alright?” and “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” Malfoy kept whispering. “Yes,” and “yes” and “yes.”
“How about this?” Malfoy was above him, and Harry had both of their cocks sliding through one hand. His other head reached up to squeeze Malfoy’s balls, and Malfoy was doing what he could to hold himself above him and manage the jerking of his hips.
“Harry,” Malfoy whispered. His face was flushed almost dark, making his hair look bright.
“Do you like it?”
Malfoy was strained against him now, and Harry wanted to make him lose control. He wanted him to fall apart; it worked this way to see that Malfoy needed him. Harry couldn’t fall apart himself because Malfoy needed him to be there to pick up the pieces, afterward.
The monster never came when Harry thought of it that way. More often when Harry thought of the monster now, he thought of it along with Chimera Downs. Both were behind him, and it was as though the monster had curled itself up to sleep in that peaceful, broken place, and the present now was all Draco Malfoy: Malfoy touching him, those easy, homey touches like his hand on the back of Harry’s neck, and his thigh lined up with Harry’s when they sat on the couch. Malfoy kissing him, that warm, solid heartbeat pressed up against his, all the languid days of heat and sunshine and Malfoy tipping his head back to laugh. Malfoy on top of him, pink and slick with needy little sounds deep in his throat, going to come at any moment, saying, “I like it,” and “I like it, Harry,” “please, I need you,” and “make me come.”
“Good,” said Harry. “That’s really good.”
Malfoy arched, and the agony in his face was sweet, and Harry wondered whether Malfoy had ever let another person this close, ever. He wondered if Malfoy was just fucked up enough that he wouldn’t let any other person do it besides Harry, and thought that if that were not the case, he could still survive. He didn’t need Malfoy in a cage. He just needed Malfoy.
“Oh God,” whispered Malfoy, and relaxed on Harry’s body, the length of him limp now, like warm messy liquid.
“Yeah.”
“You,” Malfoy croaked, after he’d lain there long enough to get the energy to lift himself up a little.
Harry took the opportunity to lick the undersides of Malfoy’s open lips.
“You didn’t.” Malfoy looked down at Harry’s open trousers. “You didn’t yet.”
“It’s okay,” Harry said, and licked Malfoy’s mouth again.
Malfoy looked momentarily black, and then his features went hard in a way that was utterly surprising on the pink bliss of his post-orgasmic face. “No,” he breathed. “You’re not going to do that,” he said. His hand reached down for Harry’s cock.
Harry clamped a hand over his wrist. “I meant you don’t have to.” He licked dry lips, eyes searching Malfoy’s face. “It’s alright.”
“It’s not,” said Malfoy. He kissed him, and then his hand went down, and wrapped around Harry’s cock.
His hand was slow, a little uncertain, a little awkward. Harry felt like grabbing his hand again and moving it faster, closing his eyes and rolling his head back. Instead, he kept his eyes wide open, and watched. He wanted this to be for Malfoy. He wanted to do it for Malfoy, not for any monster or desire for possession that lingered deep inside.
Malfoy’s hand moved faster and Harry’s balls drew up tighter. Malfoy stopped and put oil on his hand, and it went on like that for several minutes, when Malfoy leaned in to Harry’s ear and said, “What do you need?”
“It’s good,” Harry said. His breath was short and sharp.
“Tell me what you want.”
“This. I want you.” Harry’s whole body was taught with the effort of control.
“Should I use my mouth?” Malfoy asked with a studied nonchalance that belied a rather nervous eagerness.
Harry big back a groan. “You don’t have to.”
Malfoy used his mouth. He moved down, gave the head of Harry’s cock a tentative lick first, and all the sudden Harry was sure Malfoy had used his hands but not his mouth before on someone else. Maybe it was true; it shouldn’t have mattered; Harry didn’t care. But somewhere deep inside the monster liked it very much, and Harry had to stop these thoughts and think of nothing, nothing as Malfoy explored him with his tongue, and at last closed his mouth around him.
Harry’s hips were inclined to jerk, but he steadied them, and he kept trying to think of Malfoy, Malfoy in his shirt, Malfoy being nervous, Malfoy’s first time doing this, and not the way it felt.
Malfoy came up, and replaced his mouth with his hand again, apparently so he could talk in Harry’s ear. “Are you trying to win some kind of competition, Harry?” Malfoy asked, a tone of something like frustration in his voice.
“I—” Harry caught his breath; Malfoy’s fingers twisted and snaked back down between Harry’s legs.
“Is it some kind of sacrifice?”
Malfoy’s hand was hurting on Harry now, too tight and it felt so good; Harry wanted to hurt harder. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t do this. Not with me, not right now. It’s stupid and I hate it and why can’t you just—”
“What?” Harry demanded, his voice choking again inside his throat. His hips were coming involuntarily off the bed now, and every touch of Malfoy’s hand felt like it was going to wring the life out of him, and still he moved up for it every time. “What? What do you want me to—”
“Really?” Then Malfoy met his eyes, and the frustration faded to an unbelievable softness. “Oh Merlin,” he whispered. “Harry—come. I want you to come; can’t you do that?”
For a moment Harry felt helpless. He didn’t think he could say, “Oh.” Yeah, that. Of course. No wonder that Malfoy pitied him, that Harry hadn’t been thinking about something so perfectly natural: that thing that human beings did.
Harry was ready for it, so ready, but on the other side of the edge on which he lay there swirled a chasm of darkness and fear and loss of control, and Harry suddenly realized he’d been walking that edge for what felt like miles. His muscles felt strained with the tautness of not grabbing Malfoy’s hand, not throwing him down, not forcing himself inside Malfoy’s body, without a care or thought for what Malfoy wanted or needed. It was actually physically hurting, not roaring a release and becoming someone he’d never wanted to be.
“Stop.” Harry grabbed Malfoy’s wrist again. Seeing Malfoy’s face contort, Harry said, “No, please. Just for a minute, stop.”
Malfoy looked upset and hurt all at once. “If—”
“No. It’s not like that.” Harry got off the bed, causing Malfoy to reach out in muted protest. Harry stripped down until he was absolutely bare, and then took Malfoy’s hand.
He kissed him there, then kissed him up his arm, his neck. Malfoy shied away. “I want to—I want it to be you, now. Harry, you’re not the only one who . . .” Malfoy trailed off.
“I know. It has to be slow.”
“Oh.” Malfoy thought about that. “I can go for hours, Harry.”
“Can you?” Harry smiled.
Malfoy nodded vigorously. “I’m remarkably persistent. No, really. It’s my best quality.”
“You’ve got many qualities,” Harry said, and kissed him again.
Harry lay back, and Malfoy stretched out on top of him. Harry explored his mouth, and everything was gentle and so warm, and at last Malfoy’s hand moved slowly back to Harry’s cock. “I can make you feel so good, Harry,” Malfoy whispering. “It’s going to feel so good; I can do it for you; it’s going to be so good; I’m so good for you; let me be good for you.”
He made Harry feel like a man, stretched out under him. Malfoy tasted good, and felt good, warm and humid and heavy right where Harry needed. He looked good, bright and flushed, like a light had been turned on inside, and what had been sharp and unharmonious before glowed with a unity of light.
Harry thought about Malfoy. The way Malfoy looked at him and the way Malfoy had forced him to live, the way Malfoy loved classic Muggle rock and would’ve mocked Charlie’s dragons, the way he obsessed and the things he created. He thought too of the way Malfoy needed him, the way Malfoy still didn’t expect to be treated like a man, the way he wouldn’t get close to people, the way he still had such a hard time telling Harry he wanted him.
These were the reasons Harry was here, kissing Malfoy, stroking his tongue with his, making Malfoy moan again despite himself. These were the reasons people kissed and groped and made love in the sunlight, the way Harry had once with Ginny beside a lake when he was closer to an innocence he’d never really had. These were the reasons people were human; these were the reasons people lived.
“Harry,” Malfoy whispered, his voice heavy and liquid and all golden honey rich right in Harry’s ear. “Come.”
“Draco,” Harry said.
“Come for me.” Malfoy squeezed a little, said, “for me, Harry,” again, and Harry said, “Oh God,” fisting Malfoy’s hair in his hands.
Then he was coming and Malfoy was smiling a blazing smile of triumph. “There. That wasn’t hard, was it?”
*
Devika Darwin was the fourth doctor Harry tried, and when he stayed on he stayed on because he liked her, and not because he could tell she was helping. Even after months and months of counseling, Harry didn’t know whether it was helping. But he did tell her things, and Devika nodded and said, “Yes, I see.”
He didn’t tell her about the war, about the Dark Lord, about magic. At first, he talked about Draco, about how he was afraid of hurting him, about how he knew his control could slip and he could do so much damage. Devika didn’t ask how he would do damage. She didn’t tell Harry he wasn’t going to hurt anyone, and she didn’t tell Harry he couldn’t destroy the world, if he wanted too. Devika didn’t know either of these things. She just nodded, looking over the rims of her rather gigantic frames, scribbled with a biro on a notepad, and said, “Yes. I see.”
After counseling, the next thing Malfoy had put on the list was See a Healer. In some ways, getting a counselor was easier. When the first three had told Harry that nothing was really wrong with him, he could easily enough decide that they were wrong. Once a Healer told him he was physically healthy, however, Harry would know that it was all in his head.
Malfoy told him that it didn’t matter. The effects were still there, he said. If Harry felt like he was constantly in danger of losing control of his magic, then there were people who could help him learn to control it. Those people were Healers.
The thought of seeing a Healer had never occurred to Harry. He couldn’t ever bring back his parents, stop Voldemort from scarring him, give himself a normal life. Whatever Voldemort had done to him, Harry had always thought he would have to deal with it.
Malfoy just stared at him when he explained. “Just because magic is something you can control with your mind doesn’t mean other people can’t help you. You control your body as well; would you still take medicine if you were sick?”
Harry looked away.
Malfoy didn’t stop staring. “Do you want me to go with you?”
Taking a deep breath, Harry met his eyes. “Yes.”
*
Malfoy said he knew a Healer in Paris. How Malfoy knew a Healer in Paris, Harry didn’t know, but he didn’t want the media circus of going to St. Mungo’s. Even if he could trust a Healer there to be discreet, someone still might see him; word might still leak out. Then what had happened after Harry had quit the Aurors would happen all over again: he’d be splashed all over the pages of the Prophet and Witch Weekly and every other wizarding publication, and everyone would be wondering whether he was the Golden Boy or insane or the next Dark Lord. No one ever wondered whether he was just Harry.
The Healer in Paris was a man from Egypt named Amon. He had dark skin and silver hair, and a short stocky body that would not have impressed most people. He asked Harry what his symptoms were, and Harry was sure he didn’t mean symptoms like, “I have a monster in my chest.” Maybe he did mean for Harry to say, “I have anger control problems,” but that was exactly what he was afraid of, and so instead Harry explained exactly how it felt: the clawing, climbing, shaking loss of control.
Malfoy stood very close.
Healer Amon went through a series of them, asking things like, “How often does this occur?” and “Do you have a magical response?” He didn’t say Harry was making it up, or that he didn’t kill Dolores Umbridge. In fact, he reminded Harry a lot of Doctor Darwin, and the way she was very pragmatic and clinical.
At the end Healer Amon asked, “For how long has this been going on?” and then, “Why didn’t you see a Healer before?”
And Harry had to ask, “Does that mean it’s real?”
Healer Amon looked at him above his glasses.
Malfoy glanced at Harry apologetically, and then told Healer Amon, “He means purely psychological.”
Healer Amon said it was hard to tell, and that he cast some diagnostic spells.
In the end, he said that he couldn’t find anything wrong with Harry. Harry’s shoulders sagged, because of course he had been hoping that someone could find something wrong, because that meant he wasn’t just messed up. Malfoy had told him that wasn’t so—he was telling him that now by clamping his hand around one of Harry’s wrists. But then Healer Amon took off his glasses, and looked at Harry with sharp black eyes.
You may never know, was what he said. Some curses are undetectable, and some even effect the mind. He said that what Harry was suffering from sounded a lot like psychologic trauma, and Malfoy’s grip went very tight. But Healer Amon also said that that whether caused by trauma or not, Harry had lost control of his magic, and that could exacerbate or cause any number of mental conditions, and that he should have gone to a Healer sooner.
“Accidental magic is very dangerous,” Healer Amon said in a very sharp, clipped voice.
“Accidental magic?” Harry said.
Healer Amon raised his brows over his glasses. “You said that the ground shakes.”
“Sometimes there are tree stumps,” Malfoy said helpfully.
“I thought that was . . .” Harry hadn’t known what he thought that was.
(“You thought that was your melodrama,” Malfoy told him later. “You can comfort yourself in the knowledge that you were entirely wrong. As you usually are.” He smiled affectionately, and Harry still didn’t understand his sense of humor.)
Healer Amon was still looking at him over his glasses. “A result of your terrible and overwhelming power?” he finished for Harry.
“Well,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Yes.”
“You are a powerful wizard, Mr. Potter, but you aren’t Voldemort.” Healer Amon said the name without a flinch, but Malfoy’s knuckles were white where he clenched Harry’s arm. “Even if you were as powerful as he was, magic itself isn’t an evil force. It’s as natural as wind and water—out of control, these elements can cause damage. Stabilized, they aid our survival.”
“Oh,” was all Harry could think of to say. He suddenly felt like he was a child again, and this was a professor at Hogwarts.
“What could cause a loss of control of accidental magic?” Malfoy’s fingers were digging into Harry’s arm.
Harry waited for Healer Amon to say the Killing Curse, or whatever ancient magic his mum had used to protect him, or something about Horcruxes. Instead, Healer Amon started going on about trauma or something and emotional strain.
“But what about the war?” Harry said.
Healer Amon frowned. “Mr. Potter,” he said, very patiently. I am talking about the war.” He was nothing at all like Snape, and yet he reminded Harry very much of Snape anyway. “Did you think you were the only one?”
The only one.
The only
One.
The Chosen One.
Chosen for this, he was supposed to be chosen for this, and Harry somehow wanted to be, because then it wouldn’t be his fault, then it would be the war all over again, and it wouldn’t be his fault, it had never been his fault—
Malfoy’s hand tightened again on his arm. “What should we do?” he asked, and he was asking Healer Amon, but he meant it for Harry. It was for Harry; Harry was meant to hear, because it was not, What should he do? What should Harry do? What should I do? It was:
What should we do?
Healer Amon told them.
*
It began with Wingardium Leviosa.
Harry began with brief exercises in magic, just the simple spells, spells he’d learned that very first year in school. He used Malfoy’s old hawthorn wand, and it wasn’t until he began to use it that he realized he hadn’t used a wand in over a year. It was difficult to push all that power through that tiny channel, but he was getting better at it.
He was doing Wingardium Leviosa, no problem, and that was when Malfoy said he should talk to Ron and Hermione. Not just talk about music and the weather and George’s shop, but actually talk. Ron and Hermione were on the list, so Harry went and he told them everything.
He told them about Chimera Downs. He told them how much damage he still wanted to do, and how hard it was to stop it. He even told them how he wanted to hurt them sometimes, but he wasn’t that, he wasn’t; he wasn’t Voldemort; he had never wanted to be anything but Harry, but inside of Harry was a monster, and he told them that, too. He told them about Doctor Darwin and Healer Amon; he told them about Wingardium Leviosa and the Elder Wand.
Hermione tried to talk about magical theory, because she could see that Harry needed to move on from this, move on, move on. She tried to talk about accidental magic, traumatic stress, wands and how they worked; she tried to talk about the biological interaction between magic, the mind, and body.
Ron’s hand clamped down on Hermione’s shoulder. “I bet it was Voldemort’s Horcrux,” Ron said.
Hermione glanced up at him in surprise. “I’m not sure that’s what—”
“That made you lose control of your magic,” Ron said, “and once the accidental magic started happening, it started feeding off itself, just like Healer Amon said.”
Hermione glanced from Harry to Ron, then back again. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I’m sure that’s it.”
“Thanks,” said Harry. He paused. “It’s taking a long time, but I’m kind of getting used to the idea of the idea that I might just be a crazy person.”
“But you should still learn to control your magic,” Hermione said anxiously.
“Yeah. I’m going to.”
Ron shoved his hands in his pockets. “Should’ve helped you do it before. I didn’t know what it was. I thought it was . . .” He looked down, scuffing his shoe.
“It was never you,” Harry said.
Ron lifted his head. “I know,” he said, “but it was us.” He waved a hand at Harry’s protest. “I don’t mean anything we did; I meant . . . all three of us. Everything we went through. I don’t think we were . . .” Now Ron waved a hand at Hermione. “We had stuff to get through too, and we needed you, and didn’t know how to—”
“Ron,” Hermione said, in her quelling way. “He doesn’t need to—”
“No,” said Harry. “It’s . . . it’s good to hear, actually. That you . . . you’re not perfect either, and you needed me. I’m just sorry I wasn’t there for you.”
“You don’t need to be sorry,” Hermione rushed to say. “You don’t ever need to be sorry for anything, Harry. Not with us.”
“Sometimes I want to be,” Harry said.
Ron just shrugged. “Sometimes I want to be, too.”
*
Harry stuck to the plan Healer Amon had laid out for him. He practiced rudimentary wand usage every day, and Malfoy helped him. He did not use his wandless magic. He took the potions Healer Amon prescribed, and he saw the Healer regularly. He even told Doctor Darwin about it.
“Yes,” said Malfoy. “And how did that go over?”
“Well,” said Harry. “I told her I was seeing a physical therapist. And that he was making me take vitamins. And that I do yoga.”
“Is lying to your therapist and therapy in and of itself?” Malfoy wondered.
Harry thought about it. “Sort of. Yeah.”
“Yes,” said Doctor Darwin. “I see.”
Harry also told Doctor Darwin about the way he wasn’t good at orgasming. He was embarrassed at first, but Doctor Darwin said, “Yes, I see.” She asked a lot of questions, and was very kind.
Harry found that he liked to tell her things, someone who didn’t know anything about his past and didn’t care particularly about his future. He wondered if that was why things had been so easy with Malfoy at first, at Chimera Downs. He wasn’t sure, because he had thought at that time he wouldn’t have been able to feel the peace with strangers that he had felt with Malfoy. But things were different now, and Harry was trying to make a go of it with Malfoy.
One day after Harry had been seeing Doctor Darwin for two months, she said, “I would like you to see a psychiatrist.”
“Er,” said Harry. “Aren’t you . . . ?”
“I’m a therapist,” Doctor Darwin said. “It means I can’t prescribe medicine.”
“You think I need medicine?”
She told him to see the other doctor, and to be very careful about his medications. Harry didn’t like the word, “medication”, and talked to Healer Amon about it instead.
Healer Amon’s mouth tightened, and he wanted to know why Harry hadn’t told him he was seeing a counselor, and then he asked what kind of medications she meant. Once Harry told him, Healer Amon reviewed Harry’s potions regimen and made changes. He said he would get Harry to talk to a mind Healer he knew, and that that Healer could help him get potions that could make him feel calmer and happier.
“What about the Muggle stuff?” said Harry.
“A lot of it is exactly the same thing.” Healer Amon looked at Harry over his glasses. “Have you discussed this with Mr. Malfoy?”
“Well,” said Harry. “I will.”
“He’ll be able to help you decipher the differences and similarities between the Muggle medicine and the potions, and will be of assistance with dosages.”
Harry laughed a little. “Malfoy doesn’t know anything about Muggle medicine.” Then he thought about it, and looked at Healer Amon, who had not reacted. But Healer Amon was a very good doctor, who first of all would probably have not said that about Malfoy if it weren’t true, and second of all would not react once he realized Harry didn’t know that it was true. “Does he?” said Harry.
“I’m don’t discuss my other patients.”
“You mean Malfoy . . .” Harry tried to figure out what that could possibly mean. “Malfoy is your patient?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” said Healer Amon.
*
That was the first row Harry and Malfoy had since Chimera Downs. Harry was so frightened and angry and hurt, he didn’t wait for Malfoy to explain. He thought that he could feel the monster. Something was clawing up his chest.
The gound didn’t shake; Malfoy’s flat didn’t shake. Harry felt himself grow cold, but he kept on blinking. The exercises Healer Amon had been having him do must be helping, he thought. Then he finally focused on Malfoy, who was pinched and pale and holding his ground, and somehow everything was easier.
There was something in that narrow face that had settled in Harry’s heart at a time when he most needed it. Now the sight of it, haggard and trying to be brave, made him able to think of other things, able to calm down. For the first time, Harry considered that the monster may never go away, and that he might not be able to keep it down all the time. For the first time, he considered that it could change into something else.
This was not a feeling that could destroy the world, that could topple buildings or kill people with a glance. This, perhaps, was what some people would call anger. Harry still wanted to shake Malfoy until his teeth clattered, but maybe that was normal too.
When Harry had finally calmed down enough, Malfoy told him that he had been seeing Healer Amon since shortly after the war. His mother had brought him there, when once Voldemort had left their house completely, Malfoy still couldn’t hold his food down, or sleep at night. Healer Amon had given him a mental aid potion, something a lot like the Muggle medicines Doctor Darwin had wanted for Harry.
Vernon Dursley used to snort at pills like that, saying they were for weirdos, or people who were weak-willed. Petunia had looked strained about the mouth, when he said that, and hadn’t mentioned it again.
Malfoy had taken the potions until he could sleep again and get through a day without jumping at shadows. Then he had lessened his dosage. Then he had stopped completely, but he still sometimes saw Healer Amon, and still sometimes started the potions again for brief periods, when everything seemed more difficult than before.
He’d taken them the whole time Harry had been in Romania.
“You could have told me,” Harry said.
That was when Malfoy lost his own temper. “Why? So you could help me? You want to fucking hold me, Potter, and tell me everything will be alright, when you can barely keep together yourself?”
“I don’t know.” Harry tried to think about Chimera Downs, tried to think about Malfoy coming down and saying, I’m here because helping you is going to help me. I’m here so you can fix one last person.
I’m here so you can save me.
Malfoy was right. It never would have worked. “I’m doing better,” Harry said.
Malfoy almost flinched at that, as though the very thought was worrisome. “I know,” he said, in a softer way. Let me keep helping you. Let me just . . .”
All of a sudden, Harry knew what the problem was. “You can,” he said. “You are.” He took a step closer. “Malfoy, I’m not going to leave you just because you’re—I’m not. We’re both in this. We both need this. I’m . . . Malfoy, I’m not going anywhere.
Malfoy sneered. “Is that what you’re going to do, Potter? Stay? Share Christmas with my family, ask after my mother’s flowers? My father’s health? Pretend to care for my sake?”
“Yes.”
Malfoy looked shocked. “Don’t.”
That was when Harry realized the worst of it: that Malfoy had never thought anyone could care about something purely for his sake.
“I would,” said Harry, and took a step toward Malfoy, who was holding himself rigid. “I’d play Exploding Snap with Lucius, if that was what you wanted.” He told Malfoy what he’d told him once before, and hoped this time Malfoy would believe it. “I’d do anything.”
Malfoy shuddered, and let go of something he must have been holding onto very tightly. His shoulders slumped, and whatever it had been came to rest between them, quiet and inert. Harry walked right through it, and closed the space between them. “Will you tell me next time?”
Malfoy made a weak huffing sound. “Last time I told you something that was on my mind, you had a crack up.”
“Yeah,” said Harry, “but I’m getting better.”
Malfoy sighed. “Just don’t run away.”
“I’ll come to you if you come to me.”
Malfoy thought about that for a while. “Can we have that rule with sex, as well?”
“Well,” said Harry. “There’s nothing wrong with trying.”
*
Go to: Chapter 9