Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the weeks following Voldemort’s defeat, Harry was aware of very little. Everything was chaotic, unstable. It seemed like people were always moving, appearing suddenly, then being called away just as quickly. Each arrival and departure was marked by high emotion, by hugs and exclamations and tears. Harry was no exception to the chaos; he was constantly on the go, whirling from one thing to the next. The days passed in a blur of changing faces and locations. The only constant was the grief. Whether he was sitting at the Weasleys’ breakfast table trying to ignore Molly’s red-rimmed eyes and George’s deadened stare, standing casket-side saying good-bye to Colin Creevey, or perched uncomfortably on Andromeda’s sofa, a screaming baby in his arms, talking about care and custody and other things that, at seventeen, seemed completely foreign to him, the grief was everywhere, so thick it was like he waded through it.

Harry stumbled from place to place as best he could, letting himself be whisked from the Ministry to St Mungo’s to Hogsmeade. Everywhere he went, he felt ill-prepared and awkward, but he seemed to say the right things, do the right things, or at least he assumed he did because no one said anything to the contrary. At night, when he was back at the Burrow, he found it hard to remember any of it – where he’d been, who he’d spoken to, what he’d said. Everything tangled together in his mind. When he looked in the mirror, he saw someone he didn’t recognise – a face too thin, a mouth that looked as though it hadn’t smiled in years, and eyes that never quite seemed to focus. He knew he should be worried about this, upset by all the things going on around him. He should be sad, he should be grieving, he should be angry. He didn’t feel any of those things, though. In fact, he didn’t feel anything at all.

When the funerals were over and the trials began, however, things began to change. Harry was a star witness at many of the trials, called on to provide testimony again and again. Week after week, he sat before the Wizengamot in a hard wooden chair recounting what he had seen through Voldemort’s eyes and through his own. He stared down Death Eater after Death Eater, met their sneers with a steady gaze, refusing to back down. Though they were found guilty, each and every one of them, Harry gained little satisfaction from it and certainly no peace. Instead, as he sat in the courtroom and saw the accused, the witnesses, and the Wizengamot all gathered, something cut through the numbness and ignited his anger. It infuriated him that they were there at all, that it should ever have come to this, that these crimes had ever been committed in the first place. These men, their arrogance, their cruelty, their savagery, were an affront to everything Harry believed in, everything he was. That they had ever been allowed to come so close to power made him shake with rage.

Sometimes, at night, when the Weasleys were all in their beds and the stars were bright in the sky, Harry found himself out in the garden, his anger shrieking through him. He didn’t know how to curb it, how to channel it, how to do anything to lessen it at all, and so he just paced back and forth in the moonlight, the gnomes peeping at him from between the cabbages and owls winging overhead, dark shadows against the night sky. Some nights he was only outside for fifteen minutes. Others, he was still pacing when dawn broke over the horizon. He couldn’t say it helped, really, but it got him through, let him sit with the Weasleys at the breakfast table, let him sit before the Wizengamot at the trials, let him walk the halls of the Ministry, the site of so much horror and loss.

It was only a stopgap solution though, and as spring gave way to summer, his anger only grew. It spread beyond the trials and the Ministry and the Death Eaters, turned on those around him, the people he loved. At night, when he was done pacing, or sometimes before, he would lay in bed and hear the sound of sobbing, muffled through doors and floors, but always present in the Burrow. There was always someone grieving, someone breaking down in the bleak hours between midnight and dawn. Harry would toss, twisted in his blankets, his gut churning and his throat tight, and he would wish they would stop, wish they would shut up, or at least cast a silencing charm and spare the rest of them having to listen.

One night when it seemed to go on and on, first Molly, then Ginny, then Arthur, Harry couldn’t take it anymore.

“Shut up,” he hissed into the darkness. “Just shut the fuck up already.”

No one heard him. On the other side of the room, in his own bed, Ron snored steadily on, and Harry’s whisper was too quiet to travel beyond the small room. No one heard him, but the shame was still so thick it almost choked him.

His days and nights went like this, and while Harry knew he was miserable, it wasn’t until his eighteenth birthday that he began to wonder if there might actually be something wrong with him.

Because life seemed determined to be as difficult as possible, Lucius Malfoy’s trial began on Harry’s birthday. The whole family went to the Ministry, as both Ginny and Harry were slated to give testimony. Harry knew he would likely be back several times before it was over, recounting the events that occurred in the Department of Mysteries and Malfoy Manor, but for that first day there was Flourish and Blotts and the Chamber of Secrets, and as Harry stared into Lucius Malfoy’s stony face, he found it was quite enough to be getting on with. Ginny seemed to feel the same if her stiff spine and pale face were anything to go by.

When the day was over, they went back to the Burrow. Molly prepared dinner, making far too much food, as if stuffing them with roast chicken and potatoes could make them forget the horror of the Chamber. Harry and Ginny were both quiet as everyone found a place at the table. Molly, Bill, and Fleur chatted a little too brightly in an attempt to make up for the dark cloud that hung over everyone. Their voices grated on Harry and he found his shoulders pulling up higher and higher as the meal wore on. He dug his fingernails into the worn wood of the table’s edge and forced himself to sit through cake and presents because these people were his family and he loved them and he was grateful that they had accepted him into their home and their hearts. But as soon as he was able, he made his excuses, and all but ran up the stairs to his room, feeling the burn of eyes on his back with every step.

Two a.m. found him still awake and pacing again in the garden. Ginny found him, too, appearing before him in a thin cotton nightgown, her hair loose around her shoulders, her feet bare. She looked at him and the need was plain on her face, and so Harry pulled her down onto the soft summer grass and kissed her. He kissed her soft lips and the curve of her cheek. His kissed the graceful line of her throat and the freckled skin of her shoulder. He pulled off her nightgown and kissed her everywhere, trying to be gentle, trying to be good to her, but he didn’t know what he was doing. He felt awkward and stupid and he wished they could stop. They couldn’t though, and so he kept kissing her, his lips on hers as he lined up and pushed into her, hoping that he wasn’t hurting her, unsure what to make of her soft gasp and the way her hands tightened on his shoulders.

Afterward, he could feel her disappointment. Whatever it was she had come looking for, he hadn’t given it to her. As she bit her lip and avoided his eyes, resentment flared because, really, what more could she ask of him, could any of them ask of him, than what he’d already given? When was it finally going to be enough? They drifted back inside and to their beds with little said between them. Harry couldn't sleep though, and with every minute that ticked by in the stillness of Ron’s room, Harry’s mood darkened.

When the morning sun finally peeked through the window, Harry hadn’t slept at all. He stumbled downstairs, almost eager for the chance to go to the Ministry, anything to escape the Burrow and the Weasleys and Ginny’s expectations.

All too soon, the rest of the family was up and moving about, joining Harry at the table when he’d much rather have been alone. Ginny was the last to arrive and she gave Harry a shy, hesitant smile. He didn’t return it, couldn’t, because the second he’d seen her, he’d had the sudden and strong urge to hurl his plate at her head. He could see it clearly, could picture himself scooping it up, eggs and toast sliding down onto the table top, cocking it back and launching it. Bile burned at the back of his throat.

He staggered to his feet.

"Harry?" Ron was watching him with a questioning look on his face. "You all right, mate?"

Harry didn't reply. He lurched away from the table. He could feel them all looking at him.

"Harry, dear, what's wrong?" Molly asked.

The concern in her voice was plain and Harry knew it was genuine but for some reason hearing it set his teeth on edge. He imagined turning and telling her the truth, telling how he'd fucked her daughter in the garden only hours ago and now wanted nothing more than to throw china at her head. He imagined telling her how clearly he could see it, the way the plate would break against Ginny's head, the jagged edges tearing at her skin, blood running down her cheek and dripping onto her neck.

He lunged toward the stairs and took them at a run.

He ignored the concerned voices that called after him, ignored the knocks on the bedroom door that followed moments later. He huddled under his blankets and tried to block it all out. Eventually the door opened. Someone crossed the room, footsteps soft and careful, and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Harry, what happened?” It was Charlie and for some reason, that made Harry feel worse. Not Ginny, not Ron, not Molly, but Charlie.

“Harry, talk to me. What can we do to help?”

But Harry ignored him, too. He couldn’t talk to Charlie, couldn’t listen to him, couldn’t even think clearly, because in that moment when he pictured himself throwing his plate at Ginny, a thought had come into his head, a doubt, insidious and terrifying, and it left no room for anything else.

“And how are you today, Mr Potter?”

Harry smiled wearily at the young mediwitch, Lisa. He’d asked her to call him Harry more times than he could count, but each time she blushed and shook her head. She couldn’t be more than five years older than him and it seemed idiotic to him to be so formal, but he didn’t have the energy to keep arguing with her about it, and so he’d stopped saying anything.

“It’s a beautiful day outside,” she said as she flipped through his chart. “Hints of autumn in the air. My favourite time of year. Though somehow, it always feels strange not to be on the Hogwarts Express on September first.”

She pulled out her wand and passed it over his body. Harry watched as colours flared over him, now red, now green, now blue. He knew they represented something about organ functioning, blood cell count, and the presence or absence of infection, but in the month he’d been in St Mungo’s he had yet to figure it out. He was sure it wasn’t all the complicated; he just couldn’t be bothered.

Lisa made several notations in a chart and then took Harry’s wrist in her hand. She cast a Tempus charm, counting off heartbeats as the second ticked by. “Well, whatever has you, Mr Potter, it hasn’t got your heart. Sixty beats per minute. Just where it should be.”

After he’d calmed down enough to crawl out from under his blankets that day at the Burrow, he’d asked Charlie take him to St Mungo’s. Everyone had wanted to come, of course, and had had a million questions, but he’d put them off and gone with only Charlie. And he’d even said good-bye to Charlie once he’d checked in with the Welcome Witch in reception. They’d all been in since, though, with worried expressions and questions they couldn’t quite help asking. Except for Ginny. She had been noticeably quiet. Her face had told him everything he needed to know, though. As she’d sat at his bedside, hands clenching a pillow in her lap, the struggle between concern, confusion, and anger was plain to see. Part of him had wanted to reassure her. A much larger part had just wanted her to go away.

It had been hard to know what to do. He hadn’t wanted them there – he didn’t want anyone he cared about around him until he figured out what was going on. But he also hadn’t been able to explain without telling them everything. So he’d dodged their questions as best he could and they’d all pretended there wasn’t any tension between them. He’d just been glad Hermione was still in Australia with her parents – he was quite sure he couldn’t have put her off no matter how hard he tried. Even without her there, he’d known it was only a matter of time before things reached the point where they couldn’t pretend anymore.

Fortunately, a week into his stay, the universe seemed to intervene on his behalf. Another patient had started stalking him, sneaking into his room at all hours, taking photos of him when he wasn’t looking, even watching him sleep. St Mungo’s had assigned him a guard and restricted access to his room. A week after that, there had been two incidents of people tampering with his food – one time it was a love potion in his mashed potatoes, another time it was a poison in his pumpkin juice. After that, they’d moved him to a private room at the end of a secluded hallway and swapped the guard at his door for an Auror. When they’d recommended to Harry he not have visitors until they figured out who, exactly, was after him (for whatever reason), Harry had agreed readily, glad to have an excuse not to have to see anyone.

A limited number of staff had been cleared to work with him. Harry’s case was managed by two Healers – Greenley and Rottman – and a team of four mediwitches and wizards. Kingsley had screened them all personally, along with the Aurors who worked guard duty on the door. The Ministry was in shambles in the wake of the war. There were few competent people who could be trusted and Kingsley was taking no chances where Harry was concerned. There were still many Death Eaters at large, not to mention unscrupulous reporters and overzealous fans who’d take any chance to get close to Harry. Lisa was the youngest of his care team and the most prone to being impressed by his name. Despite this, she was his favourite; there was something about her that made him think of his early days at Hogwarts, before life became so complicated. Though he suspected, were he feeling a bit more himself, Gil, the blond mediwizard with the broad shoulders and full lips, might take top spot as his favourite, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Harry sighed inwardly. His lack of libido was just one more thing on the long list of things that were wrong with him. One more step removed from a normal eighteen year old male. His stomach twisted. In truth, sex was about the furthest thing from his mind these days. Or at least positive thoughts about sex. He often thought about that night with Ginny and the day that followed, and every time he felt that same sickening rush of anger and resentment, followed quickly by guilt and shame. It wasn’t Ginny’s fault. He knew it wasn’t. She was perfect. He was the problem. He was the one with this thing inside him, making him into a monster.

“Healer Greenley will be in later today to see you,” Lisa continued, oblivious to Harry’s descent into self-loathing. “He’s arranged to have a specialist come from Edinburgh to examine you. Meredyth Merriweather. Apparently, she’s top notch, at the very cutting edge of some impressive investigative techniques. I’m sure she’ll be able to get to the bottom of things quick enough.”

Harry doubted that very much. No one was going to find anything because there was nothing to find. He knew what his problem was. He shut his eyes, trying to push the thought away.

“Tired, Mr Potter?” Lisa asked, apparently misinterpreting his closed eyes. “Still not sleeping well?”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, unwilling to let the opportunity pass. “Dreamless Sleep would help.”

She frowned. “You know you’re at the limit already.”

It was a conversation they’d had many times before. Since coming to the hospital, Harry was frequently plagued by nightmares. It had reached the point that he’d been unable to sleep, his anxiety increasing as night came on, keeping him tossing restlessly all night long. Healer Rottman had given him Dreamless Sleep to help him catch up on his rest. Since then, Harry requested it every night, but the hospital had a firm limit of no more than three doses a week. Apparently, blocking dreams over the long-term interfered with the body’s restorative functions. Frankly, Harry thought nightmares that woke him, screaming, interfered more.

“I know. It just helps...”

Lisa sighed and shook her head. “I’ll talk to the Healer and see what he says, okay? It’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks, Lisa.”

“You know,” she said, giving him a pointed look. “It might do you some good to get out of this room once in a while. I’m sure the Auror on duty would be only too happy to escort you. Probably be glad for the change in scenery. A bit of fresh air and exercise will likely do you more good than any potion.”

“Who’s on the door today?”

“Abrams,” Lisa said, and smiled. “I just love him. Such a sweetheart. He’s always got a smile for me when I come in in the morning. He’s trading off with Mills at four, though.” She crinkled her nose – apparently she didn’t hold the same good opinion of Mills.

Harry didn’t say anything. Since the Aurors were stationed outside his door, he never really saw them. He kept the door closed and never left the room if he could help it. This was a sore point with his entire team, but Harry didn’t care. He had no desire to leave the room and, moreover, it was safer for everyone if he just stayed away from people as much as possible.

“All right,” Lisa said, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “I’ll be in to check on you later. And I’m serious, think about getting out today. Even just to walk up and down the halls. You’ll drive yourself crazy sitting here staring at the walls all day.”

“I’ve got books, magazines, the wireless.”

But Lisa just shook her head. “What are we going to do with you?” she said, not unkindly.

Then she was out the door, waving good-bye as it closed behind her. But Harry was stuck with her question. He had no idea what they were going to do with him, what they could do with him. In fact, he was beginning to think he’d made a mistake in coming to St Mungo’s. More and more, he was starting to think there was only one solution to his problem.

Meredyth Merriweather didn’t have any answers. Harry had expected as much. It was the fourth such person that had been to see Harry during his time at St Mungo’s. It was always the same.

She stood at the end of Harry’s bed, a file in her hand and a practised smile on her face. “Healer Rottman tells me that you’re concerned that you were negatively impacted by your encounter with You-Know-Who in May?’

“That’s right.” It was as close to the truth as Harry was willing to come.

Merriweather nodded, looking thoughtful. “Certainly there was some complex magic at play. To survive not one but two Killing Curses, along with the ancient protective magics, the numerous curses and injuries...”

She rattled on, reciting everything she’d read in Harry’s file to him as if he wasn’t the one who’d reported it all in the first place. When Harry had first arrived, he had detailed everything that had happened during the final battle, all the spells he’d been exposed to, the magical elements involved in the situation. Everything except the part about the Elder Wand and the Horcruxes. He didn’t provide that information then and he didn’t provide it now. He knew he was making it harder for the Healers to find the answers he was looking for, but he had no intention of revealing those secrets to anyone. Ever. It was just too dangerous, no matter what the reason.

Besides which, he couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud.

“Primary symptoms are sleeplessness, stomach pain, stomach upset, neck and back pain, heavy fatigue, difficulty concentrating, perceptual abnormalities, intermittent tremors, anxiety, and panic attacks, emotional volatility...”

She continued on, the list long and exhaustive. Harry’s face burned and he had to look away until the Healer was done speaking. When he looked back, he found she was watching him with sharp eyes.

“Healer Rottman says you feel like you ‘came back wrong’.” She paused, waited for Harry’s nod of acknowledgement. “Can you tell me what you mean by that?”

“When Voldemort cursed me, something happened. I don’t know how to put it into words but I just know. I survived that curse but it changed me. I’m not...right.”

Her face softened and Harry knew she was going to explain to him about trauma and its effects and how it was expected that he should have these sorts of difficulties given what he went through. He’d heard this before, too - many times - and it was tempting to believe it. He’d much rather simply be suffering a case of post-traumatic stress than what he suspected was the true problem.

Merriweather stayed for five days. She found nothing but assured Harry she would keep looking.

“We’ll find the answers, young man,” she said at her last visit. “Have no fear.”

But he did have fear, and Merriweather’s assurances did nothing to calm it.

The night Merriweather left, Harry dreamt he was back at King’s Cross Station.

Harry sits in an old, wrought-iron chair, looking out over the empty tracks. Dumbledore sits beside him, eyes twinkling.

“Hello, Harry. We meet here again.”

Harry wonders if Dumbledore is laughing at him and thinks how he never really knew the man at all.

“Why are we here?” he asks.

“My dear boy, I have no idea. This is, as they say, your party.”

Harry doesn’t respond to this. He doesn’t want to be here, doesn’t want to talk to Dumbledore, but the Headmaster is looking at him expectantly, a smile playing on his lips.

Before either of them says anything, though, Harry hears a small mewing sound, and turns. The flayed child is still there, under the bench.

“What is that?” he asks

“Something that is beyond either of our help,” says Dumbledore.

But this time Harry doesn't listen. This time he goes over to the bench, crouches down, and reaches out to the wet, whimpering thing hidden there. It hisses when Harry touches it, but allows itself to be retrieved, to be cradled in Harry’s arms, though it remains curled in on itself like a foetus. It cries, a terrible bleating sound.

“Shhh. Hush. Everything is going to be okay,” Harry whispers.

The child’s head snaps up at the sound of Harry’s voice but it’s not a child’s face Harry sees. It's a monster with red slitted eyes and sharp, cruel teeth. It rears up, opens its mouth opens wide, and bites Harry’s cheek, its teeth tearing through Harry’s flesh. Harry drops the creature in shock, and clamps a hand to his face. There is a warm wetness against his hand; blood is spilling down his wrist. He turns towards Dumbledore for help but Dumbledore just sits there, looking calmly at Harry, eyes still twinkling.

Harry conjures a mirror, inspects the wound. The flesh of his cheek hangs in strips and when Harry touches it, it seems to lift away. He can’t resist the urge to pull it and his skin peels back, separates from the bone beneath and tears away. He keeps pulling, peeling the flesh from his cheeks, his chin, his forehead until there is nothing but a gleaming skull staring back at him in the mirror. He recoils in horror, a scream racing up his throat. But when he opens his mouth, it is a snake that comes out, fat and black and hissing.

Harry was lying in bed, drifting somewhere between sleep and waking, when he heard voices coming from the hall, low and formal sounding. He heard the door open and turned to see Kingsley standing there, his expression grim.

Harry bolted to sitting, heart hammering against his ribcage, breath caught and burning in his throat. “What’s happened?”

Kingsley shook his head, his hands coming up in a gesture of placation. “Nothing like what you’re thinking. I’m sorry to have alarmed you, Harry.”

Harry sagged in relief. He took a shaky breath and then another. His body didn’t seem to want to calm down. He could feel the adrenalin coursing through him, pushing him to action. He rode it out, willing himself to relax, to look normal in front of Kingsley. Kingsley waited, his gaze watchful and too knowing for Harry’s comfort. Harry looked away. He wished Kingsley would leave.

“Something has happened,” Kinglsey said. “I need to ask a favour of you. There is someone currently in the care of the Ministry who needs to receive expert medical attention in a highly secure setting. Given the state of things right now, we don’t have the time or resources to develop a separate area to house him. This is one of the few spaces where we know this man can get the care he needs and be kept safe.”

Harry nodded. “It’s fine, Kingsley.”

Although it wasn’t, not really. What Harry wanted more than anything was to be alone. He didn’t want anyone in the room with him. Not Kingsley, not the Weasleys, not the Healers, not the hospital staff. He wanted to be alone, completely alone, until he knew it was safe. He couldn’t very well explain himself to Kingsley, though, and he wasn’t about to throw a strop about having to share his room. So he nodded again and hoped that, whoever his new roommate was, it wasn’t someone chatty.

“The patient is Draco Malfoy,” Kingsley said.

Harry gaze snapped back to Kingsley.

“He was attacked recently,” Kingsley continued. “We don’t have a lot to go on, but it seems likely it was a Death Eater attack. At this point, we’re surmising the attack was in response to the information coming out of the trials about the help he and his mother provided you, though there might have been another motivation altogether. We don’t really know. His condition is critical and given the current situation, we feel that he would not be safe in the main ward, and that it wouldn’t be in the best interests of the other patients for him to be there. Many of them were injured during the war. Some might not recover. It would be best if he could be kept separate. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but we don’t have many options.”

Kingsley kept talking. Harry caught phrases like “guarantee your safety” and “no threat” but he wasn’t really listening. He wasn’t concerned about his own safety. He knew Malfoy now, had seen him stripped bare. He knew Malfoy wouldn’t hurt him. He was less sure that Malfoy wouldn’t see him, though, see the truth about what kept him there, hidden away in his private, secure room. And that did concern him. That terrified him.

Malfoy arrived only hours after Kingsley left. Harry was on edge waiting for him, breath shallow, muscles tense. He tried to tell himself that he had nothing to worry about. It was just Malfoy. Harry tried not to think about the fact that Malfoy had lived with Voldemort, had spent months watching him, learning him, if only to try to stay alive. Malfoy would probably recognise Voldemort better than almost anyone left alive...

But Harry needn’t have worried. Malfoy arrived asleep, sedated probably, or perhaps unconscious. He was levitated in by two mediwizards and lowered carefully to the bed. They tucked him into the crisp, scratchy hospital sheets, cast a few spells, and turned to go. One of them shot Harry a rueful smile on the way out, presumably in acknowledgment of the strangeness of the situation – the Boy Who Lived rooming with a Death Eater – but Harry ignored him, his eyes on Malfoy. The room was large enough that Harry needed to actually cross it to get a good look, but even from his bed, he could see how pale Malfoy was, and how thin.

Malfoy lay perfectly still on the bed, so still that Harry wondered if he was under some kind of paralysing spell. Harry had seen those before, back when he was still staying on the main ward. It seemed to be a sort of variation of the Body Bind Curse. It kept the patient’s body still but allowed them to move their eyes and facial muscles, and they were able to speak. He supposed it was better than a full Body Bind, but Harry still found it frankly horrifying. Seeing Malfoy like that now, unnaturally still, was more than a bit unsettling; he looked like a statue or the stone carving on top of a sarcophagus.

Until he started screaming.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, wide and rolling until only the whites showed, and a jagged wail came from his wide-stretched mouth. Harry froze for one second of stunned confusion and then flew from his bed. He ran across the room, nearly crashing into Auror Mills, who had burst through the door, wand drawn.

“What’s going on in here?” Mills demanded. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, his voice strong, even though panic was clawing its way up his throat. “It’s Malfoy. We need a Healer in here!”

He’d no sooner said the words than a team of green-robed witches and wizards came streaming into the room. Harry found himself buffeted back as they surrounded Malfoy. Malfoy was still making that terrible noise, like an animal caught in a trap.

One of the Healers started swearing and another started incanting, and suddenly everything went quiet. The silence came so abruptly that for a moment it seemed to ring as loudly as Malfoy’s screams had seconds before. Whether Malfoy has been sedated or merely silenced, Harry didn’t know, but the loss of his voice felt ominous.

“Thank you,” someone said in exasperated tones.

Then the Healers began talking again, their voices so low that Harry couldn’t hear what they were saying. They were crowded around Malfoy’s bed, blocking Harry’s view, but every now and then Harry caught a glimpse of what was happening. Mostly, he saw blood. A lot of blood.

Harry wasn’t sure how long they worked, but it seemed like a long time. His body remained on high alert the whole time. He sat in the chair beside his own bed, fingers twitching against the armrests. He wanted to shove his way to the front of the group, to demand answers, but he knew he had no grounds. Malfoy was a patient, after all, like any other, and had a right to what little privacy the circumstances afforded him. So Harry just waited, watching, his heart racing for reasons he didn’t fully understand.

Eventually, the Healers started to leave the room, drifting away one by one, their lime green robes splattered with blood. As the group thinned, Harry was able to catch snippets of conversation.

“We’ll just have to see how that holds.”

“It’s a nasty piece of cursework.”

“Apparently, the mother’s got a specialist coming in from Spain.”

“I’ll be glad of the help. Frankly, I’m running out of ideas.”

They filtered out of the room until the only person left was a middle-aged mediwitch with a harried manner. Her robe was also stained with blood, dark, wet splotches that looked almost purple. She fussed around for a bit, Vanishing wads of blood-soaked bandages, casting cleaning and sterilising spells. Then she spelled a fresh set of robes on Malfoy and turned to go. She caught sight of Harry sitting in his chair and looked momentarily startled, as if she’d forgotten he was there.

“Mr Potter,” she said with a nod.

Harry didn’t reply, only watched silently as she turned and went out the door.

Once she’d gone, the pull from Malfoy was so strong it felt almost tidal. He padded across the floor on bare feet to stand at Malfoy’s bedside.

If possible, Malfoy seemed even paler than before, though given the amount of blood on the Healers’ robes, Harry supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. He was surprised, though, by how gaunt Malfoy was. He had lost weight even since that day at the Manor. His cheeks were sunken, his cheekbones stark and sharp. His whole face seemed little more than angles and planes; even sleep gave it no softness. His skin was ashen, almost grey, completely colourless except for the hints of red where his lips had cracked and the dark circles under his eyes, so purple they looked like bruises.

Despite his haggard appearance, though, the thing that struck Harry most was how young Malfoy looked. Lying there in his ill-fitting hospital robe, his hair dishevelled and in need of a cut, he looked almost like a child.

Which, in a way, he was. Malfoy was little more than a child, barely eighteen. Both of them were. It was a strange thought; Harry felt far too old to be little more than a year into adulthood. But then, he’d never really had a childhood. He went from being an unwanted burden to a soldier, with only a few months of childhood in between. A few shining months in his first year at Hogwarts when he’d discovered friendship and magic and wonder but hadn’t yet faced Voldemort. Hadn’t yet begun the fight that would take so many of the people he loved away from him. Hadn’t yet had the moment of accepting his own death.

Hadn’t yet known what had lived inside him for all those years...

Harry heard the rattling of the windows in the panes, saw the flicker of the light by Malfoy’s bed, and only then noticed his hands had clenched into fists. His face felt hot, and his skin felt too tight. His throat was tight, too, strained from the unconscious effort of keeping his anger in. Now that he was focused on it, though, he felt it churning through him, stirring up every sad, ugly, and furious thought he was always trying so bloody hard not to think, until they were all he could think of, until his head was filled with screaming and blood and death.

Malfoy whimpered, a small sound. Frightened. Helpless.

Harry snapped back to the present. Right. He had to get a grip. He took a slow, deep breath, and then another. He counted backwards from five hundred by sevens, a trick Hermione had taught him back in fourth year when he’d been panicking about the Triwizard Tournament. Eventually, he felt the anger drain from him. His breathing slowed. His throat relaxed and he swallowed a few times, trying to soften it further. The windows settled into silence. The lights stilled.

Though both Harry and the room had calmed, Malfoy continued to make soft, distressed sounds, clearly agitated despite the stillness of his body. Harry shuddered. He hated the Body Bind Curse. That feeling of being trapped, completely powerless...

Even with the memory in his head of Malfoy’s foot descending towards his face, Harry couldn’t help reaching out to him. He took Malfoy’s stiff hand in his own, brushed his thumb across Malfoy’s palm. At his touch, Malfoy’s whimpers ceased. Even as Harry watched, something seemed to quiet in Malfoy, and he relaxed back into sleep. Harry kept hold of Malfoy’s hand, amazed at the change. He didn’t know what exactly had happened to Malfoy, but it had obviously been horrible. If Harry holding his hand brought him some comfort, then that’s what he would do. He knew what it was to be on the edge of death, alone and afraid. He wouldn’t wish that on Malfoy, no matter what he’d done in the past.

Harry looked down at Malfoy’s hand in his own, his rough calloused fingers cradling Malfoy’s long, pale ones, and tried to remember if he’d ever held hands with another man before. He’d grabbed men’s hands, sure. He’d held on to Ron for dear life as he’d dangled out of the Ford Anglia. He’d been pulled along by Dumbledore more times than he could count. And Sirius had clasped his hand many times. He’d even held Malfoy’s hand in his before, back in the Room of Requirement as he’d hauled him onto his broom. But none of those were really hand-holding. Those were just hands joining to serve a purpose, to complete a task. This was different. This was holding hands for no reason other than comfort. Simply. Quietly.

In some ways, it wasn’t that different from holding a girl’s hand. Malfoy’s skin was warm and every bit as soft as Ginny’s or Cho’s or Hermione’s. In other ways, though, it was completely different. Malfoy’s palm was big and broad. His fingers were bony with knobbly knuckles and short, blunt fingernails. He had the same calluses Harry had, earned through years of Quidditch, of wrestling with the broom and hard flying. Despite his current state of relaxation, Harry could feel the strength in Malfoy’s hand, could easily imagine the iron of his grip. And of course, it was completely different because it wasn’t Ginny or Cho or Hermione. Or Ron or Dumbledore or Sirius. It was Malfoy.

It was Malfoy’s hand, pale and so white that the blue of his veins was easily visible, a fine mesh of lines at his wrist that spread up into his palm and along his fingers. There was something vulnerable about his veins, something human and fragile about the way they were so close to the surface, so susceptible to harm. But there was strength there, too, lifeblood that kept flowing despite all he had endured. An image of Malfoy, seen through Voldemort’s eyes, pale-faced and afraid, floated through Harry’s mind. He shut it down, instead focusing on Malfoy’s hand in his and the delicate branching veins.

Almost unconsciously, Harry traced their path with his fingertips, brushing along Malfoy’s wrist, over his palm, along each knuckle, up to his fingertips, and then sweeping back down again. He let his fingers trail across the bones of Malfoy’s wrist, prominent and sharp, and across the bare skin of his arm, stopping just before he reached the black tail of the Dark Mark.

Harry had seen it before, of course, much more than he’d ever wanted to. But he’d never seen it up close like this, with time to look his fill and no one to watch him do so, no one to speculate about his motivations or his sanity.

He studied the brand on Malfoy’s flesh. It was a simple enough thing, a rough black picture of a skull and snake, but something about it seemed uneasy. Harry had seen tattoos many times, both Muggle and magical. He knew how they looked, like they were a part of the person’s skin, their colour the only difference. The Dark Mark didn’t look like that. It looked foreign, alien somehow, as if it hadn’t just been branded into Malfoy’s flesh but had actually burnt out a piece of Malfoy and inserted itself. As if Malfoy had a piece of someone else embedded in his skin. Which was probably the truth, Harry supposed.

Harry’s fingers trembled against Malfoy’s skin. What would it feel like? Would it feel like Malfoy’s skin, soft and smooth and warm, or would it feel like something else, something cold and hard and unnatural? He knew he shouldn’t touch it. If Malfoy was awake, he’d be furious. He’d probably be furious that Harry was holding his hand, even, but this, this was inexcusable, a gross invasion and Harry knew it. But his fingers seemed to be moving of their own accord, drifting closer to that blackened patch of skin. Harry watched, completely mesmerised, as his fingertips skittered forward to the snake’s tail and traced its sinewy body up to the yawning mouth of the skull.

A thrill shot through Harry as he followed the shape of the Mark with his fingers, and felt something leap inside him. His heart thudded in his chest and heat pooled low in his belly, insistent and unmistakeable.

Harry snatched his hand away, sickened. What was wrong with him?

He stumbled away from Malfoy and back to his own bed. He climbed beneath the covers and turned on the wireless. With shaking hands, he fiddled with the reception until he found a Quidditch match. The sound was scratchy and faded in and out but Harry was glad for the poor reception because it meant he had to focus, had to concentrate to follow what was being said. Which in turn meant that he couldn’t think about Malfoy and his Mark and what it was inside him that responded to it like that.

Over the next two days, the scene repeated itself three times – Malfoy suddenly screaming, Healers running into the room with their wands out. Harry still had no idea what was wrong with Malfoy, but the Healers’ blood-splattered robes and grim faces suggested it wasn’t good. Each time, after everyone had left and the room was silent again, Harry would climb out from beneath his blankets, sit in the chair next to Malfoy’s bed, and hold his hand. He didn’t touch Malfoy’s Dark Mark again.

The specialist from Spain arrived the third day, an entourage of Healers and mediwitches and wizards following in his wake. Harry watched openly as they all bustled into the room and crowded around Malfoy’s bed. As always, Harry could barely see anything for all the bodies, but as one of the mediwizard spelled away Malfoy’s hospital robes, Harry caught sight of the thick white bandages that encased Malfoy’s torso and the strange blue shimmer that hovered around them.

“Would you like me to remove the stasis spell, Healer Alvarez?”

That was Healer Johnson, one of the team that responded to Malfoy’s screams.

“Not yet,” the specialist replied, his accent adding a pleasant musicality to his words. “I’d like to complete an initial examination first.”

There were rustling sounds and the onlookers jostled about to create more room around Malfoy’s bed. Harry saw long pieces of blood-stained bandages being thrown into a nearby bowl and then Vanished by one of the attending mediwitches. Once all the bandages were removed, the crowd shifted about again, everyone jockeying for a view. Harry caught glimpses here and there – a gash of torn red flesh, a patch of skin so pale it looked almost grey. He felt bile rise at the back of his throat, and he swallowed convulsively.

Despite the rapt attention of the audience, very little was happening that Harry could see. It seemed to drag on and on. In fact, Harry was on the verge of drowsing off when Healer Alvarez spoke.

“That is all for today. Thank you, everyone, for your hard work.”

There was a murmur of replies and then team started to drift toward the door, Healer Alvarez in the lead, Healer Johnson beside him. One mediwizard remained behind to tidy up. He spelled a new hospital robe onto Malfoy, Vanished the last of the bandages and cotton, and checked on Malfoy’s vital signs. Once finished, he turned to go but Harry caught his eye.

“Did they fix him?” Harry asked.

“Things are still in the preliminary stages.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

The mediwizard didn’t say anything; he just gave Harry a small, sad smile and left.

Two weeks later, however, Harry got his answer.

He was sitting in bed, a Quidditch magazine open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading it. He hadn’t been reading it for over an hour. He’d simply been staring at the wall, trying very hard not to think about Malfoy’s Dark Mark, trying to ignore the urge to go over to his bed and look at it. Touch it. He was still so fully absorbed in not thinking about that urge and what it might mean that when the door to the room pushed open, he actually gave a shout of surprise. The two mediwitches who had entered started and looked at him. Harry recognised one of them, Victoria, and she smiled at him. The other was new to him. She offered a tight, somewhat grim smile, and then continued to Malfoy’s bedside.

The two mediwitches seemed to be setting up for some sort of procedure, assembling supplies and undressing Malfoy. It was the first time Harry had been able to actually see Malfoy clearly, rather than only catching glimpses through the crowds of bodies. The skin of Malfoy’s body was even paler than his face, unnaturally so, and he looked very thin. Most of his torso was wrapped in thick bandages, but where it wasn’t, Harry could easily see the outline of his bones under the stretched taut skin. The mediwitches began removing the bandages, working slowly and carefully. As they peeled away each layer, Harry saw Malfoy’s ashen skin begin to take on a yellow tone, then a bright, angry red. Then he saw something that he was sure wasn’t skin at all, something bluish purple and wet and bloody and he had to look away, had to squeeze his eyes tight shut against the image, but still it persisted, painted itself against the backs of his eyelids and refused to budge. For the first time since he’d arrived at St Mungo’s, Harry seriously contemplated leaving his room.

Before he could decide, though, a group of people came striding through the door. Harry recognised Healers Alvarez and Johnson but he’d never seen the people who accompanied them. Three wizards and one witch, all in dark blue robes. They settled in place around Malfoy’s bed, blocking him from view completely. For once, Harry didn’t mind.

“Draco Malfoy, age eighteen.” Healer Alvarez spoke quietly but clearly, and his voice reached Harry easily. “He’s been here at St Mungo’s for approximately three weeks, after being attacked in his home while sleeping. He was immobilised and then hit with a complex series of curses and administered a poison. The curses are a series of time-sequenced Entrail-Expelling Curses, as well as a set of Obfuscating and Protective spells that have made them difficult and dangerous to remove. The poison inhibits healing and the regrowth of flesh, making it impossible for us to heal him properly after each expulsion. The poison seems to be designed to be long-acting; our Potions expert tells us it may be as long as four months before it completely clears Mr Malfoy’s system. As far as we can tell, the point was to inflict Mr Malfoy with a drawn-out and extremely painful death. We’ve been containing each attack and holding his organs in place with a series of stasis spells. Our job today is to remove the curses and the spells that support them.”

Entrail Expelling Curses. The image of that bluish purple something flashed again before Harry’s eyes, and on the heels of it, another image, another time Malfoy had been cursed in anger, his abdomen slashed open, his life seeping away. Harry clenched his fists, fingernails digging into his palms until the memory went away.

“Is everyone clear on what his job is?” Healer Alvarez asked. There were murmurs of assent and nodding heads. “Then let’s begin.”

The Curse Breakers worked for hours. Harry had no idea what they were actually doing, but it seemed like they were successful – when they finished, they had tired smiles on their faces and Healer Alvarez shook each of their hands before they left. He stayed and examined Malfoy a few minutes more, but then he left, too.

Once he’d gone, Harry crossed to Malfoy’s bed. Malfoy looked the same as before, wan and ill. Harry watched him for a long time, but he didn’t wake and eventually Harry drifted back to his own bed.

Though Harry waited anxiously, impatience and dread warring within him, Malfoy didn’t wake up that afternoon. He didn’t wake up that evening while Harry watched carefully from his own side of the room, and he didn’t wake up that night when Harry sat in the chair beside Malfoy’s bed and held his hand. He didn’t wake up the next day or the next day or the day after that. He stayed still, unmoving, the rise and fall of his chest the only sign he was still alive, until Harry began to think that maybe there had just been too much damage done. Maybe Malfoy was never going to wake up.

Which, of course, was precisely when he did wake up, grey eyes fluttering open.

Malfoy’s gaze was dull, muddled, his eyes still half-lidded as he slowly took in his surroundings. His gaze moved across the stark ceiling, the institutional windows, the bland walls, before finding Harry. Seeing him, Malfoy paused. He blinked slowly and then again, and Harry could almost see him straining to focus. Malfoy opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a dry, rasping wheeze.

Harry jumped off his bed at the sound, ran over to Malfoy. “God, Malfoy. Hold on, I’ll get a Healer.”

He turned to call for a mediwizard when Malfoy made another sound, small but urgent. Harry looked back to see Malfoy’s eyes were wide and panicked. His mouth worked, trying to make words, but he produced only more distressed sounds.

Without thinking, Harry took his hand. Putting on what he hoped was a calm expression, he met Malfoy’s frightened gaze. “You’re okay. I promise you’re okay. You’re in St Mungo’s. You were badly hurt, but you’re going to be fine.”

“Ca-” Malfoy gasped, then he coughed and drew in a ragged breath. “Can’t...move...” His eyes seemed to beg Harry for help.

“You’re under some kind of Body Bind spell. The Healers did it to help you recover. It’s only a spell. I’m sure they’ll remove it once they know you’re awake. I’m just going over to my bed. I have a charm to call them. I’ll be right back.”

“Pot’r...”

“I’ll be right back.”

He squeezed Malfoy’s hand and then crossed the room to search for the call charm, a small bell they’d given to him when he first arrived. He’d never used it during his stay, and it took him some time to locate it. Malfoy watched him the whole time, his mute distress increasing Harry’s anxiety. He tore through his belongings, tossing things aside frenetically. When at last he found the bell, his heart was pounding as though he’d just run a mile.

He rang it immediately. It was very quiet, little more than a tinkling chime in the still of the room. It seemed to work, though; a minute later, Gil stuck his head through the door.

“Did you need something, Mr Potter?” he asked.

“It’s Malfoy. He’s awake. Could you tell Healer Johnson?”

Gil’s gazed flicked over to where Malfoy lay, and he frowned. “Of course. Though Healer Johnson likely already knows. Mr Malfoy would have a monitoring charm on him. The Healers are probably on their way now.”

“Could you make sure?”

“Of course,” Gil repeated and disappeared back through the door.

No more than a minute later, Healers Johnson and Alvarez hustled into the room. Harry started to back away as they approached Malfoy’s bed, trying to give them some space, but a sound from Malfoy stopped him.

“Pot’r...” Malfoy’s eyes locked on his, the terror plain.

Harry stepped back in close to Malfoy’s bed. The Healers gave him a cursory glance before turning their full attention back to Malfoy.

“Mr Malfoy, I’m Healer Johnson. This is Healer Alvarez.”

Harry listened with half an ear as they explained the situation to Malfoy, how he’d come to be at St Mungo’s, the work they’d done. They explained the Body Bind Curse – or, Medical Immobilisation Spell, as they referred to it – and told Malfoy they’d remove it as soon as they’d had a chance to examine him. Mostly, Harry watched Malfoy. As the Healers spoke, Malfoy seemed to get paler and paler and his eyes grew wider and wilder, his gaze darting from Johnson to Alvarez to Harry. By the time the Healers had finished examining him, Malfoy’s anxiety had reached the point that they gave him a sedative.

Once he was asleep, Harry had no real reason to stay there at his bedside, but he didn’t leave. He stood beside Malfoy while the Healers finished up and he remained there after they left. He sat in the chair beside Malfoy’s bed, watching him sleep, and eventually fell asleep himself, Malfoy’s hand gently clasped in his.