Chapter Text
Harry was surprised to see Draco in the way that one was surprised to see a raccoon on their porch--not exactly pleased, but not too concerned over it, either.
Draco, meanwhile, stared at Harry with his pale face pinched in horror. He stopped mid stride out of the therapist’s office, his mouth falling open. He stared at Harry like he was a gang of raccoons who had mastered two skills: bipedalism, and holding baseball bats.
“Potter,” he began, “what are you doing here?”
Harry gave Draco a flat look. “Paperwork.”
Draco looked around, like he might find someone behind Harry.
“Are you--waiting for someone?”
“Yeah,” Harry said, putting in his address. “The therapist.”
Draco remained rooted to the spot as Harry continued ticking boxes and filling out lines.
Harry wished offices could just fax this stuff to each other. This part actually tended to annoy Harry more than the sessions--he understood keeping patient information confidential, but it got tiring, seeing the same forms every three weeks or so.
One session to meet with the therapist.
A second session next week, to give them another try.
Another week for Harry to calm down and try a new office.
After six cycles of this, the lines of information flowed readily from Harry’s palm to the page. Much as he loathed it, it was nice to not have to call Sirius to ask the answers to these questions anymore.
Still. Harry would be more pleased to not have to fill another questionnaire out ever again.
Harry flipped the page, finding a short mental health screening. He sighed, closing his eyes, and tried to separate his feelings.
“But what are you doing here?”
Harry’s eyes popped open. Draco was still there.
Harry set his pen down and moved the paperwork aside, so Draco couldn’t see it.
“You seem confused about where you are, Draco,” he said. “Do you need an ambulance?”
“Don’t play coy, Potter,” Draco snapped. “You aren’t smart enough for it.”
Harry tilted his head. “We aren’t in school anymore. You can call me by my name.” Harry lifted his chin, enunciating his next words. “Dra-co. Dra-co Mal-foy. See?”
“Harr-y Pott-er,” Draco said snarkily, “why do you need therapy?”
Harry picked up his pen and pointed it at Draco. “Personal question. I don’t have to answer that.” Harry’s thumb hovered over the end of the pen, clicking it down. He swallowed, glancing at the door Draco had exited. “But...do you like her?”
“Her?” Draco asked.
“Dr. Ashford,” Harry clarified. “I usually walk in blind, kind of hoping for the best, but are you--have you--” Harry drew a breath, forming a proper question. “How long have you been seeing her?”
Draco retracted a bit, starting to get some life back into his limbs. He looked away from Harry, briefly focusing on a corner of the room.
“Personal question,” Draco replied, hardly to Harry’s surprise. The walls were up again, but they’d never really gone.
Harry and Draco were no longer bitter, mortal enemies, but no one would mistake them for friends. All they had together were a handful of surprised moments, when the guard of the other was down, and something threatened to connect.
At each opportunity, they’d each taken a knife and swiftly broken any bond that attempted to moor. Because they both understood sides and wars, even before the one they knew engulfed them. Allegiances, duty, morality--Harry and Draco could hardly say they ever truly aligned.
Until they did. Until Draco toed the line, and Harry made room, at the very end of it all. And that’s where he’d been comfortable to leave it. A clean ending. A clean break. Neither side losing too much.
In Dr. Ashford’s waiting room, Draco shifted, moving to finally leave. Harry watched him go, hand already reaching for the remains of his clipboard.
At the threshold, Draco’s footsteps paused. He turned to Harry and added quite suddenly:
“I was...not so keen on getting better when Dr. Ashford and I first met. I was stubborn. And if the only thing I know for sure about you is how stubborn you are...” Draco locked eyes with Harry. “...you and the doctor might get on.”
And with the same hurried step he’d had at Hogwarts, Draco left.
“...Huh,” Harry replied.
And he went back to doing his paperwork, until the door to Dr. Ashford’s office cracked open, beckoning him inside.
--
Harry knew, instinctively, that it was part of a therapist’s job to stare. They gathered as much information from the nonverbal as the spoken, absorbing all the ticks, hesitations, and stutters a client let bleed through. And being the kind of person he was, Harry had gotten used to people staring and tearing him apart. It made him good at discerning exactly what kind of person he was speaking to--a Skeeter or a Sirius, he liked to joke to himself.
His six former therapists had been Skeeters, their glinting eyes greedy and wide with false understanding. Their smiles were pointed as they scratched notes onto their legal pads, chortling softly about what an honor it was to treat the Harry Potter. They’d been waiting for him to call; he’d been through so much; their office was a top tier partner to the Ministry’s mental health services.
And, indeed, Harry had been going down the line of Ministry-approved therapists Arthur Weasley had given him. Their offices had been beautifully crafted, open spaces with gorgeous designs, down to the cupholders in the waiting room. The doctors had golden certifications crowding the walls, and awards on their desks. They’d helped a lot of people before Harry, he was sure.
But Harry squirmed in those beautiful chairs, surrounded by gold, and could only think about how this whole thing felt a lot like helping someone else. Again. Against his will, against his better judgement, just trying to do the right thing, but feeling trapped and helpless--
And he’d get snarky. He’d lose his cool, baiting and goading the doctor. Catching them off guard, attacking, flashing that knife he liked to use, to keep people from getting close.
And the doctors would flinch.
Harry Potter was damaged. Everyone liked to say they knew it, but no one wanted to believe. And when Harry asked the six Skeeters what they were going to do about all the nasty, terrible thoughts still in his head, they offered weak replies of therapy taking time. So many different solutions to try; they had to get to know Harry better, to know what he needed. Harry was a difficult client; a tough nut to crack. Come back, week after week, and they might break ground.
Come back, give them more money.
(“Come back, let me keep whispering to my friends I’m working with the Boy Who Lived, shh don’t tell.”)
It was all Harry could do to keep his composure, and not tear Sirius’ home apart. He was in fifth year all over again, drenched in anger and agony, and no way out. Just another trophy to be won; another glorious story to be told.
Sirius and Remus would talk him down, ultimately. Ask him to try again. Just one more time--the same thing they always asked.
And Harry did. But this time, he kept the Ministry’s list tucked into his desk drawer, and turned elsewhere.
He turned his feet to a small cottage in the countryside. He went up the flowered walkway and knocked on the rough oak door, waiting patiently until it opened.
“Potter,” Minerva stated, blinking rapidly. She looked behind him, checking for more guests. “How can I help you?”
Help. Harry’s shoulders sagged. Minerva had been one of the few to ask him that question, and have Harry believe she actually wanted the full answer.
“Professor,” he said. He cleared his throat, wilting under Minerva’s hawkish stare. “Sorry, I know you’re Headmistress now. I can’t shake the habit. I, uh...” Harry rocked on his toes, back and forth. “I’ve been seeing therapists from the Ministry. But none of them are clicking. And you... You sent me a letter, recently, saying you’ve noticed your students seeing Thestrals.”
Minerva’s composure faltered some, but she quickly renewed it. “Potter,” she said crisply, standing aside. “Why don’t you come in for tea?”
Harry entered the cottage gingerly, toeing out of his shoes and looking around. Minerva kept the place cozy, but clean. A clock ticked gently, and dishes moved in the kitchen. Harry sat himself in Minerva’s living room, waiting patiently for her return.
Tea cups and a kettle floated out in front of Minerva, who followed with two thick slices of pound cake. She joined Harry, and hardly had to order him to start eating. Minerva, Hagrid, the Weasley’s, and especially Remus--they’d always made it a point for Harry to eat when they were around.
Harry didn’t want to wonder if it was because he still looked as much the skinny, malnourished waif he once was. If, after all these years, he really hadn’t changed a bit.
“Headmistress,” Harry began again, addressing her properly. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”
“Bit late for the sentiment, Potter,” Minerva replied, doling out spoonfuls of sugar. “But, appreciated. And no, you are not. The students are on holiday, and so am I. Which you knew, otherwise you wouldn’t have come.”
Minerva set her teaspoon down, silently signalling the end of smalltalk.
“Why do you ask about Thestrals?” she asked quietly.
“Your students will need someone to talk to about what they’ve seen,” Harry said, sipping his tea. “And I know you’re not overly fond of the Ministry’s choice of champions. Not since...”
The scars on the back of Harry’s hand itched, though Madam Pomfrey had smoothed out the carnage long ago. Still, the words wriggled under his skin, thrashing and burning like Hungarian Horntails.
“Since Dolores,” Minerva supplied, sensing Harry’s hesitation. “You’re right, I don’t approve of their choices.”
“I’ve tried their list,” Harry said. “I’m not fond, either.”
“And you don’t want to speak to your godfather, or anyone else?” Minerva asked.
“I do,” Harry said. “But I think I need an outsider. Someone who knows about magic, obviously, but someone who doesn’t...” Harry paused, trying to word it right. “Someone who can care about what I have to say, without actually caring about who I am. Do you understand?”
Minerva smiled a little behind her teacup. “You want someone who doesn’t mind your name, and whatever may be attached to it.”
“Uh, kind of,” Harry said, brows drawing together. “Yeah, that would be fine. The students of Hogwarts have been through a lot, and if the agencies you’re sending them to can handle the Battle of Hogwarts, then-- Then I was hoping they might be able to handle the stuff that came before it, too. And I trust your recommendation more than I do one Fudge probably approved, when he was still around as Head.”
Minerva nodded. “You and I are on exactly the same page, dear Potter.” She reached out to take Harry’s hand, squeezing tightly. “I appreciate you trusting me with this.”
“Sirius has been telling me to ask for help when I need it,” Harry replied. “You’ve always been there to give it. So thank you.”
“Thank you for letting me be your professor,” Minerva said, releasing Harry and standing. “Come, we’ll look over some portfolios. I have a person in mind, but we’ll see where your instinct leads you.”
Harry spent the hour reading beside Minerva, who only asked a couple establishing questions. (Male or female therapist? Preference for distance travelled to sessions? An office or a private residence?) She didn’t dig too deep, demanding Harry unearth all his traumas for her satisfaction. True to her word, she let him think and explore, picking up files and setting them aside as he pleased.
At the end of it, Minerva presented a final portfolio for him to view.
“Ashford is my personal choice,” Minerva said, handing it over. “But you’ve earned the right to make your own choices, Harry.”
In the end, Harry did pick Ashford. Her areas of expertise fit the topics he wanted to touch on. She was established, but nowhere near the grandeur of the therapists he’d been to. She was understated yet effective, and the small bio she supplied spoke to Harry.
He trusted his instincts.
And, upon returning to 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry called to make an appointment.