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When Harry Potter walked into his dormitory that afternoon after an outing in Hogsmeade, the first and only thing he noticed was that Draco Malfoy was standing next to Harry’s bed. He knew that sharing a dormitory with that git would be a terrible idea. What business Malfoy had at Harry’s bed, Harry had no idea, but he wasn’t going to stand around and wait for Malfoy to tell him.
He stormed forward and pulled on Malfoy’s arm to turn him around.
“What the hell are you doing, Malfoy?”
Malfoy’s eyes were as wide as saucers and his mouth was moving like a goldfish’s.
Harry fought the urge to shake Malfoy into answering him. “Well?”
Malfoy visibly pulled himself together, his spine straightening to his full height. Malfoy was only about 3 inches taller than Harry, but Malfoy loved to lord those 3 inches over him.
“I should like to ask you the same question, Potter. What’s all this about?” Malfoy used his free arm to gesture to the spot on the bed he’d just been in front of.
“All what ab–” Harry turned his head towards the bed and took in the mess of pages and pages of drawings scattered across his bedsheets.
Each one was more beautiful and intricate than the last. Some were of landscapes; Harry recognised the Great Lake, and the tree he usually sits under near the quidditch pitch, and the Shrieking Shack. Some were of interiors; one showed the floating candles in the Great Hall, while another showed Sir Cadogan and the Fat Lady in a portrait by the Grand Staircase. Many of them were of Harry’s friends; Luna was wearing her Gryffindor hat while it was mid-roar, Hermione was by the fire in the Eighth-Year common room with her nose in a book, Ron was mid-flight on Harry’s Firebolt. There were even various drawings of people Harry didn’t recognise. A few of them were in full colour, others were in black and white gradients, and still others were doodled line drawings. Several of them had been hit with a spell to make their contents come alive.
But what was most concerning was that more than half of them were of Draco Malfoy.
Malfoy, asleep on Parkinson’s shoulder on a couch in the Eighth-Year common room. Malfoy, mid-conversation with Zabini at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall. Malfoy, soaring through the air in the middle of a quidditch match. Malfoy, seemingly being told off by Madam Rosmerta at the Three Broomsticks. Malfoy, working alone at a desk in the library. Malfoy, half asleep in History of Magic. Malfoy, reading in his bed in this very dorm room. Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy.
Harry felt that his face was likely a perfect mirror of what Malfoy’s had looked like moments ago. Eyes wide open and mouth not sure if it needed to be open or closed.
Bewildered, Harry said lowly, “What is all this?”
“You tell me, Potter. What is it doing on your bed?” Malfoy demanded.
“I don’t know! I didn’t put it there!”
“Well, those are your very used art supplies, aren’t they? Are you telling me someone planted all of this?”
And there. Harry loathed to admit it, but Malfoy was right. Harry’s engraved box of coloured pencils was sitting open at the foot of his bed. He could identify them as belonging to him even though he didn’t remember them being that severely used. He was pretty sure he hadn’t used them since the week after he had received the birthday gift from Ginny.
And yet. Here was the evidence that they had indeed been used.
“Malfoy, I didn’t draw these. I’m not obsessed–” He cut himself off because he wasn’t sure whether what would come out next would be a lie. “I have no idea who–” He cut himself off again because. Did he have no idea who drew them?
He fell silent.
A few weeks before coming back to Hogwarts for his Eighth Year, Harry decided it was time to see a muggle psychologist. He knew he couldn’t tell them everything, for Statute of Secrecy reasons, but he didn’t want anyone in the wizarding world to know that he’d been losing time and forgetting things for as long as he could remember. He was their great Boy Who Lived Twice and it seemed nobody could shut up about him enough to leave well enough alone and keep secrets secret.
After opening up to Ron and Hermione about it though, Hermione was adamant he did something about it. It took some convincing on her part, but she eventually got him to agree, citing that then was as good a time as any since the war was over and the trials were complete. And that’s where he got the diagnosis.
Dissociative Identity Disorder.
He wasn’t the only one in his brain.
He wasn’t proud of the meltdown he’d had after hearing the news. He’d just gotten rid of one arsehole living in his head, but it turns out Voldemort wasn’t alone? And the others weren’t going anywhere? Of course he was pissed.
But after calming down a bit, and talking about coping mechanisms with his therapist, he spent the next few weeks slowly starting to interact with some of his alters. And he could begrudgingly admit, most of them weren’t half bad. It wasn’t turning out to be anything like having Voldemort in his head because the ones he’d met actively wanted to help him, in whatever (oftentimes misguided) way they could.
So. He was dealing.
That didn’t mean it didn’t still throw him off whenever he remembered that his alters could live full lives in his body without him knowing.
And that was the only logical explanation for these drawings in front of him. Foley had mentioned to Harry when they were first introduced that he liked art, but the topic hadn’t come up since then.
Until now.
It looked like Foley had been quite busy.
“Foley!” Harry called into his head.
“Potter?” Malfoy said.
Right. He first had to deal with an angry Malfoy. What would be the best way to get him to drop this?
“Fine. You’re right, Malfoy.” That should do the trick. “I did draw these.” Merlin, the things he had to do for these people in his brain.
Speaking of, he felt someone’s presence enter the headspace.
“You– What?” Malfoy sputtered. And then he seemed to compose himself. “Well, of course I’m right.”
“Harry? What’s going on?” Foley enquired.
“Why are you drawing pictures of me, Potter? And why are there so many?” Malfoy probed.
“Er…” Harry stalled.
“Why are we drawing so many pictures of Malfoy, Foley?” he asked.
Foley seemed to take in what was going on, and his shocked and distinctly guilty reply was, “Oh! Um. So you found those.”
“Yes, I found them. And more urgently, Malfoy found them,” Harry replied imploringly.
“Potter, are you still obsessed with me?” Malfoy said before Foley could come up with a response.
That is not the conclusion he wanted Malfoy to jump to. But, wait, ‘still’? “‘Still’? What do you mean ‘still’?”
“Which part of the ‘still’ are you confused by? The past obsession or the current obsession?”
“The– the all of it! I am not and have never been obsessed with you, Malfoy,” Harry said through gritted teeth.
“Really? Then what’s your explanation for all the staring and following around that you did most of Sixth-Year?”
“That wasn’t–” He couldn’t get the word ‘me’ out. Because, okay, a lot of it had been him. Malfoy was being genuinely suspicious in that year. But he’d also recently figured out that a lot of the Malfoy trailing and ogling over the years had actually been the fault of some of his other alters. “That– Whatever, Malfoy. It doesn’t matter.”
He turned back to the bed and started picking up the drawings and piling them up, with a drawing of Hermione at the top, like hiding away the topic of this conversation would end the conversation entirely.
“I’m sorry I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’ll stop drawing you, alright?” he said out loud.
“Right, Foley?” he said in his head.
“Ugh, fine, whatever,” Foley huffed, put upon.
Harry rolled his eyes. Foley was such a teenager. Never mind that Harry had also said ‘whatever’ not even a minute ago. When Foley said it, it really showed that he was only fifteen.
“You– You haven’t made me uncomfortable, Potter.” Malfoy said it like Harry had forced him into it. “It would take a lot more than some measly drawings to make me uncomfortable. I haven’t even seen you do these. I’m more confused that you’d managed to catch me unawares in so many places than uncomfortable that you did it in the first place.”
“Right. Well.” Harry didn’t know where to go from here. He occupied himself with tapping the bottom of the pages to the uneven surface of the bed in an attempt to straighten out the pile.
“How have you been managing to watch me so covertly?” Malfoy seemed genuinely perplexed.
Harry didn’t know how to answer that question. Had Foley been using the Cloak? He placed the drawings down and busied himself with cleaning up the pencils.
“I do them mostly from memory,” Foley gave Harry the answer he needed.
“Er– I do them mostly from memory,” Harry dutifully repeated.
“What?” Malfoy stepped up beside him and picked up the pile of drawings, paging through them, presumably to find the ones of himself. “Now I know you’re bullshitting, Potter. You are not this observant. Let alone the fact that you would remember this much detail. Look, you were even accurate with the scar under my ear in this one.”
Harry snatched the drawings right out of Malfoy’s hands while he felt Foley’s delight go through him in waves.
“I thought they were ‘measly drawings’, Malfoy?” Harry mimicked.
“Well–” That seemed to stop him short. “Well, the ones with me in them are tolerable, for obvious reasons.”
“Right. Thanks for the glowing commendation, Malfoy,” Harry said with no inflection in his voice. “If you could just leave me and my drawings alone now, that would be fantastic. I promise you don’t have to worry about me making any more of you.” He started towards his trunk with his haul of drawings and the pencil box.
He could feel Foley’s contempt in waves of the same amplitude that his joy had been.
“You don’t have to stop drawing me.” Harry whirled around and caught Malfoy’s expression clearly showing that he was as surprised as Harry was that Malfoy had said that.
“I don’t?” Harry said.
“I don’t?” Foley parroted.
Malfoy collected himself and raised his nose in the air. “You don’t. Far be it from me to have any say in what you do with your pathetic life, Potter. If what you want to do in your free time is preoccupy yourself with my appearance, have at it. I know it can be quite irresistible. In fact.” Malfoy seemed to perk up as an idea struck him. Harry hated where this might lead. “Why don’t we see what you can do when your muse is right in front of you. When you return from dinner tonight, I will sit still so that you can draw me properly.”
Harry was stunned.
Foley was ecstatic.
“Malfoy, you just called me pathetic and now you want me to draw you. I think I’ll pass, thanks.”
Foley was swiftly teetering towards furious. “What are you doing, Harry!”
“No, Potter. Why am I not surprised you weren’t paying attention.” Malfoy shook his head in disappointment. “I didn’t call you pathetic. I called your life pathetic. Which is where I come in to turn it all around.” He made a sweeping gesture at himself.
“Please say yes, Harry, please just say yes,” Foley begged. “You have literally nothing to lose. You won’t even be there. I will. Please just let me draw him.”
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
“Fine.” How was Harry agreeing to this. Merlin, the things he did for his alters.
“You had better not dip out, Foley.” They were getting better as a system with managing who should front and when but there were still some hiccups.
“You think I’d want to miss this?”
“Excellent. I’ll see you back here later then, Potter.” Malfoy turned towards the door with a flourish.
“Right. See you then, Malfoy.” Harry tried to keep the grumble out of his voice.
He heard the door shut behind him as he stared down at the drawing of Malfoy at the top of the pile that he still hadn’t put into his trunk yet.
It really was a beautiful drawing. This one was a still of Malfoy alone, sitting in front of the fire in the common room. Foley had indeed picked up on details that Harry himself hadn’t consciously been aware were a part of Malfoy. The light scar beneath his right ear, the minuscule mole just above his collar. Foley had even managed to get the wisps of blond hair to reflect the firelight flawlessly. And the grey of Malfoy’s eyes had intermingled with the moving flames to end up with a collage of silvers and reds and oranges.
“This is really incredible, Foley,” Harry whispered into the silent room.
“He is, right?” Foley answered.
It was only after a few moments had passed where Harry stared into Drawing-Malfoy’s eyes that he realised what Foley had said.
Harry was about to correct him, when he discovered that he didn’t really know what he’d refute that with.
He put the drawings and pencils away, and took off his outer robe – the almost forgotten reason he’d come to his dormitory in the first place. Then he made his way out of the room, heading to the Great Hall for dinner, all the while dreading what he knew would come after.
What was he getting himself into?