Chapter Text
November 3rd, 2005
The rose bushes were overgrown. What had once been neat, curated lines of floribundas and hybrid teas and red fairies had now descended toward vicious, unkempt shrubbery; thorny vines reached out into the walkways as though to snag passersbys in their serrated grip. Above them, gnarled branches of ancient trees loomed, crisscrossing the gray winter sky like prison bars.
Was that why Draco couldn’t leave the garden?
“Mr. Malfoy. I need you to sign this please.”
Father would be furious if he could see the garden now. It had been his pride and joy, his one little indulgence that had nothing to do with subterfuge or social climbing—though the climbing roses over the trellis near the fountain certainly evoked that image, evoked the desire to reach beyond the station one had been born into. But roses hadn’t been about any of that for Lucius Malfoy. These weren’t prized for their magical properties, weren’t going to be brewed into any potions or win any awards for herbological innovation.
They were beautiful. They required patience. They were perfectly, wonderfully, stunningly ordinary.
And they had not been well-tended.
“Mr. Malfoy, I empathize with you, really, I do, but I do need this signature.”
Father had gone to Azkaban right after the war—over seven years ago now—and had never come out again. He was never coming back. Two tours in the Dark Lord’s inner circle had been too much for Order member turned Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt to overlook. Lucius Malfoy was to be an example, and while the Dementors had been removed from the famous wizard prison, Father would never leave the bowels of its cold cells, never tend his roses again.
“Mr. Malfoy, I must insist. Can you hear me?”
Mother had tended them in his absence, of course. Draco could vividly remember watching her through the window on the second floor landing, on her knees with a giant sun hat covering her fair skin as she weeded the roses by hand, just as Father had done before her. She would never allow her husband’s pride and joy to descend into disarray.
Not as long as she was able.
Not as long as she was well.
Not as long as she lived.
“Please, Mr. Malfoy, as the next of kin—”
Draco extended his hand to the Healer, reaching for the parchment.
“I’ll sign it.”
The Healer breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I am truly sorry for your loss.”
Draco signed the form—a death certificate, with the St. Mungo’s label emblazoned at the top.
“I should let you know that we offer a bereavement program at the hospital—”
“No.”
The man was clearly uncomfortable as he pulled at the collar of his robes. “Right. Well. If you should change your mind, you know where to find us. I am sorry for your loss.”
Draco gave a curt nod, indicating he was done speaking, and the man Disapparated, likely relieved to be gone from this place—gone from a disgraced Death Eater’s once-grand estate. That was how they all were. How the whole world was. The Malfoys were pariahs, lepers in a world which had once held them above all others.
They were ruined, and the manor knew it. The roses knew it. They reached for him, ready to claw his skin, ready to exact their own tiny, bloody vengeance at having been forgotten and discarded.
And yet, Draco could not leave the garden. If he left the garden, the only other place to go was inside.
And he could not go inside.
3 Hours Earlier
“Mother, please. Please.”
Draco sat at his mother’s bedside, ignoring the sickly sweet smell that emanated from her—some side effect of the many potions she had been prescribed, he thought, or else the rot inside her was seeping out through her sweat.
That was a thought he didn’t want to follow.
He held her hand in both of his, holding it up away from the sweat-soaked sheets. Her hands had always been thin—beautiful, long fingers that strummed over piano keys with all the fluidity of a winding river—but now her veins protruded, and her nails had grown yellow and brittle.
It didn’t matter. It didn’t mean anything. It didn’t have to mean anything.
“My darling,” Mother whispered, her eyes half-closed in either pain or fatigue—perhaps both. “I’m so sorry… I think… I think we both know it won’t be long now.”
“Don’t say that!” Draco jolted forward in his chair. “Don’t say that. Let me call the Healers again, they can give you more potions, or—”
“Not yet, Draco. Not yet.”
Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Mother started coughing, and he dropped her hand to help her sit up, grimacing at the tactile reminder that her back was drenched in sweat. Did he dare try to move her in order to change the sheets? Or cast some sort of drying charm on them? That might make her more comfortable, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving any remnant of sickness behind. He could normally move her to the armchair by the window in times like this, but she was in so much pain now, he didn’t dare, not even by levitation—
“Draco.”
“Yes, Mother? What is it?”
“Promise me something.”
The large lump in his throat prevented him from swallowing. “Of course. Anything.”
“Don’t keep shutting yourself away in here, after I’m gone. Don’t let them win. They don’t know your heart. They don’t—”
More coughing, with more force this time, so deep it seemed to rattle the walls. Mother clutched the front of his robes, her coughs rocking her forward, and then she spat out a small globule of bright red blood. The contrast against the white of the sheets was shocking, and Draco found that he couldn’t look away from it, couldn’t look away from the shape of the splatter as though it held some secret meaning for him.
“They don’t know you like I do,” Mother panted, using the edge of the sheet to wipe her mouth as daintily as though it were a napkin at high tea—a shadowy echo of her former life. “You’re good. You’re so good. Please don’t forget.”
“It’s alright, Mother.” Draco looked away from the splatter. “I’ll go out soon, I promise. Once you’re better, I’ll take you to tea at Madam Puddifoot’s, and we’ll make everyone look right at us, and it won’t matter that they hate us, because we’ll be together.”
Mother smiled, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course, darling,” she said as she laid back down, sounding more tired than she had before. “That sounds nice.”
“You can have that oolong tea you like. Maybe we can buy some for the manor.”
Mother did not respond, her eyes fluttering closed, and Draco picked up her hand again as she drifted off to sleep.
He sat like that for some time, ignoring the splatter of blood on the bed, his mother’s breathing a terrible, shaky rattle in the quiet of the room, and then her face suddenly twisted in pain.
“Draco!” she choked out, clutching her chest, fighting another cough. “Call the Healers!”
He jumped to his feet immediately and barreled out of the room, racing for the nearest fireplace. His body was moving so fast that his mind couldn’t keep up—his mother’s face filled his mind’s eye as his hand grabbed Floo powder and threw it onto the fire.
“I need Healers to the Malfoy residence now!” he yelled, not waiting for someone to respond. “Right now!”
The Healers, of course, had been here many times before. Narcissa Malfoy had been sick—had been deteriorating—for many months now. Draco knew they begrudged these calls, knew they wanted nothing to do with a Death Eater’s wife, but they had sworn an oath to heal the sick, and that apparently outweighed their desire for vengeance against any and everyone who had aided the Dark Lord.
Four Healers rushed through the Floo almost immediately. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know, she’s in pain, she said to call for you—”
They were already hurrying toward the bedroom, Draco right behind them, his heart racing along with his feet as they ran down the hall.
“Mother, they’re here—”
Mother was crying, her face twisted in anguish and pain—all the pain she had been holding inside, not letting Draco see, unaware that he had returned to the room. Even from across the room, he saw that her jaw was clenched tight, the muscle twitching visibly under her pallid skin.
The Healers surrounded her, and Draco tried to look over their shoulders, tried to see what they were doing, but then one of them put his hand on Draco’s shoulder.
“Mr. Malfoy, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the room.”
The sun fell out of the sky. Darkness descended. The only light to reach the rose petals shone down from the tiny crescent moon, a sliver of white in a pitch-black sky. The stars blinked from many millions of miles away, highlighting the vast, cold, empty nothing that stretched between them and Draco.
It was cold, cold even within the garden’s temperature enchantments—the last trace of Lucius Malfoy’s handiwork. Mother would tell him to go inside. She would call him to the fire, a cup of tea ready for him, and invite him to lay his head in her lap while she read aloud, as though he were still a child. He would spread out on the sofa, his mother’s familiar vanilla scent filling his nose, and it would be as though the outside world didn’t exist. Mother was never angry with him. She never forced him to leave the manor—she knew what awaited him outside. Knew the terror that filled his chest as soon as he stepped foot outside of the grounds, outside where people could see him.
He had once wanted nothing more than to be seen. To be chosen. To be special. That had been the true sting, hadn’t it, of Potter’s presence at school? He had dreamed for years and years of his first day at Hogwarts, of the accolades and admiration that were promised to all who held his family name.
It hadn’t been meant to be. It hadn’t been meant to be, and maybe he could have lived with that, could have lived with the resentment and the bitterness and the dull ache of loneliness he denied even to himself.
But he couldn’t live with this. With what he had done, with what people saw when they looked at him, with the way they crossed the street to avoid him, whispering behind their hands as he passed. He still vividly remembered walking into Madam Puddifoot’s with Mother maybe six months after the war had ended; all of the other patrons had walked out, unable to bear sharing air space with a Malfoy.
Everything was ruined. Everything. And Mother was…
The cold November wind whistled through the rose bushes, like a dozen tiny whispers swirling around him.
He did not want to be whispered about.
As though in a trance, he stood up and shambled toward the manor, vaguely noting how odd it looked in the dark with no lights in any of the windows. It too was a shadow of its former self, a crypt holding nearly a thousand years of Malfoy history.
He made it through the back door. Down the hall. Up the stairs. The portraits whispered too, and if he had had more presence of mind, he would have found a way to silence them all, but he couldn’t quite decide if he was in a dream or not. His body was fuzzy, or was it everything else? The edges of things were blurry—indistinct. His dreams were usually like that—like that something out of an Impressionist painting.
He walked on down the hallway, ready to find Mother sitting up in bed, reading a book.
When he opened the door and discovered her corpse instead, he collapsed against her bedside, wailing so loud that his voice scraped in his throat. He hit his shoulder against the bed frame as he fell, but he barely felt it, barely felt his knees slam into the wood floor beneath him.
Her hand was cold and stiff in his. Death had taken her hours ago.
She wasn’t ever coming back.
Notes:
Hi all! Thanks for reading. I wanted to add a few disclaimers to this fic in particular:
As some of you may be aware, I am a mental health therapist in my non-fandom life. With that in mind, this fic is not meant to serve in any way, shape, or form as therapeutic advice, or to be an inherently faithful representation of what therapy is like or should be like. This fic does draw on my personal experiences, both lived and professional, but is above all, fictional.
With that being said, if you or someone you know is struggling with depression, suicidal ideation, addiction, or any other mental health struggle, I'm here to tell you that recovery is more than possible, and that you deserve it, and I encourage you to seek support in your area! From the bottom of my heart, I wish you well <3
Chapter Text
November 5th, 2005
Nothing was ever going to be alright again.
He had promised Mother. But he couldn’t do it.
She had been the reason. The reason he had held on. Held on through the Dark Lord’s occupation of the manor, held on through the terror of the Battle of Hogwarts, held on through through the horrible, wretched, cursed Ministry trial.
And after. The looming, bleak horizon of after. How in the world did they expect him to survive after?
Maybe they didn’t.
With a grimace, Draco rose to his feet, leaving Mother’s sitting room behind, the now-dusty piano untouched. He couldn’t stay here.
He couldn’t stay anywhere.
Tilly had helped him bury Mother’s body yesterday, had held him in her tiny arms as he broke down sobbing once the earth was settled again. There had been no one to attend her funeral; everyone important in her life was either dead or in prison. Standing there alone had been almost unbearable. He had tried to give a eulogy of sorts, the roses his only audience, but all he had been able to choke out was I’m sorry, Mother.
I’m sorry.
He was sorry. Sorry that everything had somehow gotten so ruined. Sorry that he hadn’t been able to protect her, before the war or after. Sorry that she had to witness the family’s fall from grace, sorry that she had to witness her husband’s and son’s names splashed across the pages of the Daily Prophet, sorry that all of wizarding society had turned its back on her.
It wasn’t her fault. She was good. She was good, damn it, and no one saw it. They hated her just as they hated him, and she didn’t deserve it.
And now she was dead.
Anger fueled him at that thought, anger at how Narcissa Malfoy’s world had shrunk, how she had gradually lost the ability to go out for tea or to shop for a good book or just to exist, out in public. The wizarding world had done its best to kill her spirit, but she hadn’t let it. She had stayed strong, stayed strong for him—her son. Her voice echoed in his mind, airily shrugging off a disastrous trip to Diagon Alley, reminding him that it was more convenient to order things delivered to the manor anyway.
She had been lying, and they both knew it. But where Draco was weak, Mother had been strong. He was no stranger to the choking, clawing grip of panic in his chest—had known it intimately well ever since the feverish months spent working on the Vanishing Cabinet—but Mother had always been the anchor in that storm, a safe harbor in vicious waters. She had held him steady when he was collapsing, had soothed him and rocked him and held him to her chest just as she had always done, ever since he was a child. No matter what was going on outside, Draco knew he was always safe in the arms of his mother.
But she was gone now. Gone for good. Draco was alone, in a great big empty house, with only the ghost of memory for company. He was always going to be alone. Father would rot away in Azkaban, and Draco would rot away in the manor, itself a kind of prison.
Ha. At least the Ministry would be happy with that. Another Death Eater locked away to suffer, and they didn’t even have to bother paying for his food.
Anger surged through him again as he walked down the second floor corridor, away from Mother’s sanctuary. His life was ruined—utterly destroyed—and they thought it was funny. They wanted him to suffer, to languish and rot and fade away, an embarrassing stain in the annals of wizarding history. No matter what his official sentence was, Draco knew what they all thought he deserved.
And they were right. It was playing out all around him. Father gone, and now Mother gone too, far beyond where he could reach her…
He was alone. He would always be alone. Alone and in pain, with no one to comfort him.
His chest was so unbearably, agonizingly tight. Not in panic; no, this was something deeper, something bone-chilling, with claws of its own, reaching up in his chest, seizing hold of his heart.
Despair. Perhaps that was it. Mother would have known how to soothe it, how to get the claws to relinquish their hold, to settle back into old memories that he never, ever touched.
But Mother was gone, and Draco had no fucking idea where to even begin.
He paced down the halls of the manor, tugging at the collar of his robes, hating the sudden choking feeling, when the door to Father’s study caught his eye. He had avoided going in there, hated being reminded of Father’s absence, but maybe it would hold some wisdom for him today, some sense of direction… something.
Please let there be something.
He turned the handle, the metal cold against the palm of his hand, and stepped inside.
The room was just as he remembered it. Dark wood paneling ran along the bottom half of the walls, with deep forest green wallpaper up above, covered in curling vines and exotic leaves. Bookshelves were stuffed full to bursting with tomes dating back centuries, the scent of old parchment and crisp leather mixing together in the still, dead air of the room. Father’s desk sat in the center, large and imposing and solid—everything Draco had imagined Father to be from the time he was a very little boy.
But Father was gone. He would never sit at this desk again. A book sat near the edge, a bookmark neatly protruding from its pages—a journey halted prematurely, a journey that would never, ever be finished.
Everywhere Draco went, he was alone. And being alone with his thoughts, alone with the clawing in his chest, was absolutely unbearable.
In a sudden fit of movement, he picked up the crystal ball that sat on the small side table next to the door and nearly threw it. He seized it in his hand, his face twisting in a snarl of impotent rage, and pulled his arm back, intending to throw it against the wall.
But he didn’t. He stood there, arm aloft, panting, and stared at the wall for a long moment before letting his arm drop to his side, the crystal ball slowly slipping from his fingers and tumbling harmlessly onto the plush carpet beneath him.
He couldn’t break Father’s things. Even the thought of it brought him right back to being six years old, standing in this very room, being chastised for breaking a vase that was apparently a family heirloom. Father had always been strict—had held Draco to the highest standards, even though he had never missed an opportunity to spoil him. Father wouldn’t see Draco break the crystal ball, sending glass shards every which way across the room. But Draco would know, and that was worse.
His stomach twisted, and he clenched his jaw. Guilt. If despair was claws coming up out of his stomach, guilt was the razor sharp nails affixed to them, tearing into him bit by agonizing bit. Guilt over small things, of course, but over other things too, things that had to stay buried deep, deep down, because otherwise—
He grabbed onto his arm, digging his nails in sharp enough to draw blood, and hissed in pain even as relief filled him, relief at the feeling of something other than guilt and despair.
It was never going to be over. It was never going to stop.
He needed it to stop.
Almost without thinking about it, he walked deeper into the room, his eyes traveling past Father’s desk and toward the glass curio cabinet against the far wall, a cabinet which was filled with expensive liquor.
Father rarely drank. Grandfather had drank far too much, and Draco had always thought that Father secretly worried the lure of Firewhisky would consume him too if he gave it half a chance.
Being consumed sounded damn good right now.
November 5th, 2005
He was drunk. Drunker than he had ever been in his young life. He had stopped counting how many glasses he had filled, hadn’t noticed when he’d stopped reaching for the glass and went right to the bottle instead. Wasn't sure how many bottles there had been to start, and was too drunk to count the remainder now.
The Firewhisky hadn’t consumed him. Not the way he had wanted it to. The claws were growing larger, filling his chest and making it impossible to breathe, making him choke as he tried and failed to drown them out.
Guilt. Horrible, terrible guilt. Katie Bell, floating high up in the air on the way back from Hogsmeade, her mouth twisted open in an inhuman scream. Overheard conversations from Slughorn, conversations about a special bottle of wine that had never made it to its destination, and had nearly killed Ron Weasley. Albus Dumbledore tumbling off the Astronomy Tower, his wasted promise to protect the Malfoy family if only Draco would accept it hanging heavy in the night air. Returning to Hogwarts as a pariah, hating himself as he listened to the cacophonous screams of children under the Cruciatus Curse, as he cast it himself, again and again and again, as he cast it so many times that he was sure Rowle and Dolohov could never survive it—
He choked out a sob, hatred rising up from deep in his belly, and he slammed his fist into the curio door, shattering the glass.
Father would be furious if he could see. But Father wouldn’t see, not ever again. Draco was alone, alone, alone—
Alone with hands covered in blood.
That was kind of funny, for some reason. Fitting, that the glass had cut his hand so badly—making real again the horrors that lived on in his mind. Blood streamed down his knuckles in tiny scarlet rivulets, like little rivers racing for the ocean. He had blood on his hands. Albus Dumbledore died because of him, and because Dumbledore died, so many others did too. It all traced back to Draco. The Dark Lord had made him do it, it was true, but the Dark Lord was dead and gone now, and Draco lived on to bear all of his sins.
It wasn't fair. Why did he have to suffer so much? Why did he have to keep on living, keep on existing, when everything good had gone from his world?
Unbidden, his mind drifted back to Hogsmeade, the memory of cursing Madam Rosmerta mixing with memories of more recent, painful trips with Mother. Ha. What would she say if she could see him now, if she could see what state he had descended to?
Serves him right, I’d say, Madam Rosmerta’s voice echoed in his mind. Can you believe he’d show his face here, after what he did?
It’s an absolute disgrace, chimed in another voice that he distantly recognized as Professor McGonagall’s. The number of students harmed because of him… dozens and dozens! Doesn't he know what people think of him?
I know what I think o’ him, Hagrid’s voice added. Good riddance. The Malfoys are nothin’ but trouble, always have been. The world'll be a better place when they die out.
The group laughed, and Draco, dizzy with the sound, leaned his head against the side of Father’s desk, somewhat surprised to find that he had sat down on the floor at some point.
That’ll be the day, Rosmerta was saying. Free Butterbeers all around!
He gritted his teeth, unable to escape the sound of them, unable to escape the horrible wicked truth of their words even as anger boiled hot and acidic in his stomach.
“That’ll be the day,” he slurred, meaning to raise a bottle in toast but finding it empty. “Good riddance.”
It was never going to get any better. They hated him, all of them, all of them, they wanted him dead, wanted to watch him suffer—
Maybe he should give them their wish.
Such thoughts had crossed his mind before, but never with such a surge of urgency, such a surge of purpose. He knew exactly how he would do it. Right outside the Three Broomsticks, so Madam Rosmerta could see justice done at last. He would let the blood flow freely over his hands, let it stain his fingers for real, so everyone could see. They would all see him collapse, all watch the life drain from his body, and be glad to see the dynasty of the Malfoys come to an end at last.
He couldn’t Apparate there in this state—he knew that without a doubt. But the Floo would work.
November 5th, 2005
He had managed to get the Floo Powder. Managed to mumble, “Hogsmeade,” before tossing it in, hoping he ended up at his destination, beyond caring if he somehow ended up somewhere different. Draco Malfoy, lost up a chimney… good riddance, they'd say. He was headed for flames either way, if talk about hell was real.
Hell couldn’t be worse than here.
He stumbled out of the fireplace and was immediately assaulted by the brightness of the pub lights, by the din of dozens of laughing voices enjoying their night, by the cheerful and absolutely thunderous band that was playing in the corner. His skull practically reverberated with the sound, a great pulsing echo rattling his brain. Unsteady and suddenly terribly nauseous, he gripped the wall next to the fireplace, trying to get his bearings. He could barely even see in here, the lights were so bright.
At that moment, a large table not far from him broke out into peals of hideous, bellowing laughter. Draco clutched his head. He couldn’t even see straight in here. He had to get away from the noise…
Squinting, his eyes alighted on a side door that distant muscle memory told him let out into a side alley. He stumbled forward, doing his best not to collapse onto any of the tables he passed, and finally, mercifully, stepped outside.
The cold night air hit him like a slap, shocking him back to more full awareness. It wasn’t snowing now, but it must have been snowing earlier today, for the narrow alley had a thin, fresh coating of powder all across it. His feet crunched as he crossed to the other side and leaned against the opposite building, realizing that he had forgotten his winter cloak.
The absurdity of that thought hit him as he stared at the door of the Three Broomsticks, and he started laughing as he sunk down to the ground, his legs unsteady. He was here to kill himself, and yet some silly part of him wanted to make sure he wasn’t too cold while he did it.
Oh well. Best get on with it. He didn’t trust himself with magic in his inebriated state—no Transfiguration for him. Aunt Bellatrix’s knife would be enough.
He was just thinking about how his blood would look splashed across the snow when the side door opened again. Draco closed his eyes against the light, waiting for the laughter to start. Maybe Madam Rosmerta wanted to watch…
“Malfoy? Is that you? Are you okay? What are you doing out here?”
That wasn’t Madam Rosmerta. Draco opened his eyes a crack, trying to place the voice, but the person’s body was backlit by the pub, casting them fully into shadow.
“Come to see the show?” he mumbled. His hand reached toward his pocket, dimly aware that the knife was in there somewhere, but Merlin it was hard to maneuver things like this…
“What? What are you talking about?” The figure moved closer, hurrying forward before kneeling down next to him, and a shock of red hair filled his vision as he came face to face with Ginny Weasley.
Huh. Not someone on the top of his list of people who would want to watch him die, but what did he know? Maybe Weasley wanted revenge for her brothers…
“Go away.”
“You’re absolutely hammered,” Weasley said, horror and pity in her voice. “Were you coming here to drink more? You can’t even stand up.”
“Cheers,” he slurred, lifting his hand in a pretend toast, making Weasley gasp.
“Merlin, what happened to your hand?”
“‘S got blood on it.”
“Yeah, I can see that… what happened?”
“You know what happened.”
Weasley frowned. “Listen, why don’t you let me help you get back home? You can’t drink any more tonight.”
She reached toward him, and Draco yanked away, the world spinning.
“No. Got to do it here.”
“Do what here?”
Draco leaned his head back, resting it on the building behind him, wishing things would stop spinning.
“Draco, do what here?”
“They’ll all laugh about it. Ha ha ha. Good riddance.”
He could feel Weasley looking at him, though his vision was too blurry to make out her expression.
“I think I understand,” she said softly. “You didn’t come here to buy a drink, did you?”
“Can’t buy a drink. Won’t sell to me. I’m a Death Eater. Ha ha…” There was some joke in there, something about death and it eating him instead, but he couldn’t quite figure out how to make it into words.
“Why’d you come outside?”
“Too loud in there. Had to make it stop. Have to make everything stop…”
Weasley was distracting him. He reached for his pocket again and finally pulled out the knife.
“What if I told you there was a different way to make it stop?” Weasley said in a rush.
“There’s not.”
“There is. I promise. Believe me, I know exactly what it’s like to want—”
“My mother died.”
Weasley stopped talking for a moment, then whispered, “I’m so sorry.”
Sorry. She said she was sorry. She was lying.
“No you’re not…”
“Draco, listen… give me the knife, and I promise you I’ll take you somewhere that can help. What you're feeling right now… it needs treatment. But it can get better.”
Draco frowned. Was she saying he was sick? Like Mother had been sick?
“Like a potion?”
“Maybe something like that, yes.”
“I’ll take the potion, and then I’ll get better.”
Weasley seemed to hesitate and then said, “In the simplest terms, yes. Let them treat you, and you can get better.”
“Mother didn’t get better.”
“I’m so sorry, Draco.”
“Don’t wanna go to St. Mungo’s.”
“It’s not at St. Mungo’s. It’s somewhere else.”
Her hand gently reached over his and pried the knife out of his loose grip.
“Draco, I promise… they can help. Let me help you.”
Her hair fell forward into his face just then, and he caught the strong scent of wildflowers mixed with vanilla.
Mother smelled like vanilla. The sense memory hit him so strongly that he started crying.
“Did she send you to help me?”
“Maybe. I want to help you. Will you go with me?”
“I can’t stand up.”
“Here.”
With more strength than he ever would have guessed her tiny body to possess, Ginny Weasley slung his arm around her shoulders and lifted him up, letting him lean on her.
“You have to hold on tight for me to Apparate us both, okay? Don’t let go.”
“Okay…”
He held on, his nose full of the scent of vanilla, and followed Ginny Weasley into the terrible twisting darkness of Apparition.
Soon enough, the compression stopped, and the two of them were standing outside a two story building. A sign over top of the double front doors read St. Bartholomew’s Institute.
Draco frowned, not recognizing the name. “Never been here before.”
“That doesn't surprise me,” Weasley muttered before seeming to remember he could hear her. “This is a specialty hospital. They help with things like what you’re feeling.”
“How do you know about this place? Do you work here?”
“No. Come on—let's go inside, it’s cold.”
“Yeah. I forgot to bring my cloak.”
“Come on, Draco.”
Together, they walked up the front steps and into the warmly lit lobby of the building. It was much quieter here than at the Three Broomsticks, and the woman behind the front desk smiled warmly as they entered.
She looks nice…
“Hello. How can I help you?”
“Hi, yes, I wanted to see about an evaluation…” Weasley was saying, though Draco was finding it difficult to concentrate on her words. She really did smell like vanilla. What were the odds of that?
“Okay, we can certainly help with that. Mr. Malfoy, why don’t you come back with me?”
“I don’t think he can walk by himself…”
“Oh!” The woman stood up. “Here, I can help…”
“Are you not going with me?” he asked, looking up at her.
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“You're gonna help me.”
Her expression softened. “Okay. Then yeah, I’ll go with you. Is that allowed?”
“As long as Mr. Malfoy is alright with it, that’s perfectly fine with us,” the woman said with a smile. “Please, follow me—I’ll take you to an exam room.”
Weasley followed her, Draco shuffling along at her side, and eventually they arrived in a room. They had Draco sit on an exam table, which he thought was a little funny, and began taking all manner of measurements. A quill was writing rapidly on a parchment in the corner as another woman waved her wand over his head. It felt like nothing to Draco, but it apparently meant something to her as she nodded and went to check the parchment.
“Thank you for coming in to see us. Can you tell me, in a few words, what’s going on tonight?”
“She’s going to help me,” he said, nodding at Weasley.
“Sorry,” Weasley said. “He’s pretty drunk. He showed up at the Three Broomsticks, but he was super out of it and looked sick, so I followed him outside. Draco, do you want to tell them what you told me?”
Draco frowned, trying to remember anything in particular he had said.
“That your mother passed away recently, and you needed to make everything stop? That that was why your hand was all bloody, and why you had a knife?”
Draco nodded. “It’s like claws in my chest.” He mimed choking himself, distantly wondering if the woman would think he was mad but not having the words to otherwise explain the feeling. “Is there a potion for that?”
“I see,” the woman said softly, her kind smile never leaving her face. “That sounds incredibly painful—I’m glad you’re here to get help, Mr. Malfoy. I just have to ask you a few questions, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Are you currently having thoughts of harming yourself?”
He looked at Weasley, who nodded encouragingly.
“Yes.”
“How long have you been having those thoughts?”
He started laughing, and when the woman didn’t seem to take that as an answer, he said, “Years. Years and years.”
“I understand,” the woman said, nodding as she made a note. “Sometimes it’s hard to talk about these things, or to try to get help. Now, tell me—did you have a plan to harm yourself tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. What was that plan?”
He pointed at Weasley. “She took it.”
“I took the knife,” Weasley confirmed. “His hand was already really bloody.”
“My hands are always bloody.”
“Mr. Malfoy, did you intend to act on your plan to harm yourself tonight?”
He frowned. “Yes. Obviously. I went there but it was too loud, so I went outside.”
Another note. “Okay, I see. And do you still want to follow through on that plan?”
“I want you to give me a potion.”
“A potion?”
“To make it stop.”
“I understand. Okay, I think that’s all the information I need. We can help you, Mr. Malfoy, but in order for us to do that we need to admit you to the hospital, okay?”
Draco frowned. “What?”
“For treatment,” Weasley said before the woman could speak.
“You said they were going to give me a potion.”
“They probably will, but Draco, sometimes things are more complicated to treat than with just a potion. They need to admit you so they can help.”
“It’s for your own safety, Mr. Malfoy.”
“I want to go home.”
“I’m afraid you have to stay here for now.”
“You're going to make me stay?” Draco said, the truth dawning on him. “I can’t leave?”
“Not just yet. Sometimes patients are released in only a few days—”
Suddenly furious, he turned toward Weasley. “You said you would help me! You said they were going to make it stop!”
“Draco, they will help you—”
“You fucking liar! You just wanted to lock me up, didn’t you? Ha ha ha, good riddance, Draco Malfoy… bet you thought that was real funny, didn’t you?”
Weasley had the gall to look hurt by his words, which only fueled his anger. He stood up off the exam table and started to lunge for her, but fell forward instead, his coordination entirely gone.
“Miss Weasley, I think it’s best if you leave now…”
“You fucking liar! I hate you! I hate you!”
The woman muttered a spell that he didn’t recognize, and as his vision started to turn black, he realized he was about to pass out. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was Ginny Weasley’s red hair as she walked out the door, leaving him behind.
Chapter Text
November 6th, 2005
Draco would never say it out loud, but for being a glorified prison, this place wasn’t so bad.
He had woken up in a soft, unfamiliar bed, with rays of early morning sunlight streaming through the gauzy curtains hanging over the window. They had put him in a private room with a twin-sized bed, a small wooden nightstand with a couple of books and a gas lamp, and a comfy-looking armchair in the opposite corner. Plush carpeting covered the floor, a very pale mint green that complemented the darker hue on the walls. Pleasant but bland nature paintings hung on the walls—a family of rabbits nestled up in the grass, birds taking flight, a majestic snow-capped mountain.
Weasley had brought him to prison, but at least she hadn’t taken him to Azkaban.
And it was a prison, regardless of what the perfectly polite receptionist told him. He wasn’t allowed to leave. They had programming they expected their “patients” to participate in, and while nature walks and free time for art sounded… fine… they also expected him to talk to a Healer, both by himself and in a group. The very thought of having to sit around a bunch of strangers and talk about… well, anything, made him shudder.
He had insisted to the receptionist earlier this morning that he had been drunk last night, hadn’t meant a word he had said, and that clearly he should be released back to the manor immediately, but she hadn’t budged. She had calmly but firmly repeated that he would need to speak to the Healer this morning, who would be able to make more concrete decisions regarding the scope of his treatment, and after that had sent him off to breakfast.
Breakfast had been… fine. Far beyond what he could have expected from Azkaban. It had been in a communal setting, like a miniature Great Hall. Draco had kept to himself, but he couldn’t help but notice that some of the other patients—prisoners?—seemed friendly with each other. They chatted amicably amongst themselves as they ate, with small bouts of laughter breaking out every once in a while.
Certainly different—and arguably better—than Azkaban.
Still though. He had been brought here under false pretenses—tricked into getting locked away. He needed to get out of here, and then find Ginny Weasley to give her a piece of his mind.
But in order to do that, he had to talk to the Healer who had been assigned to his case. So, begrudgingly, he walked down the hall, eyes skimming over the name plaques affixed to each oak door, before landing on where he was supposed to be.
Healer Justine Heller, CPsychol, MSc.
Unsure of what to do, he knocked on the door.
“Come in.”
She sounded… fine. Normal. Hopefully she would see reason.
Draco opened the door, revealing a very cozy-looking room. The far wall was made entirely of windows, and looked out on a courtyard which housed a burbling fountain surrounded by lush trees, making him feel as though he had walked into a forest. A brown leather sofa sat against the wall to his right, a cream throw blanket draped over its edge. Across from the sofa and slightly at an angle, there was a deep green armchair, which looked comfortable and well-worn, and atop that armchair sat a surprisingly young woman, drinking a cup of tea.
“Ah, Mr. Malfoy! You’re right on time.” She smiled at him. “Please, come in and shut the door. Would you like some tea? I’ve just brewed some.”
“Er. No. Thanks.” He awkwardly moved into the room, shutting the door behind him, and, after a moment, went to sit down on the sofa.
“I’m Healer Heller. Nice to meet you.” She reached forward to shake his hand.
“Likewise,” he said as he shook hands with her, though he didn’t mean it. Healer Heller, now that he was looking at her more closely, was probably ten years older than him, with dark brown hair swept up into a twist atop her head, large cat-eye glasses that somehow made her look both quirky and serious at the same time, and Muggle clothing rather than Healer’s robes. She had a clipboard balanced on her lap, though the parchment appeared to be blank.
“Why don’t we go ahead and get started, then? How I usually handle first sessions is I go over policy things right at the beginning—I know it can be a little boring, but it won’t take even five minutes, I promise—and then we can discuss a little bit about why you’re here. Does that sound alright?”
Draco shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to blurt out that going over policy things wouldn’t be necessary, but if Healer Heller was the key to him getting out of here, he needed to stay in her good graces.
“Sure.”
“Okay, wonderful. So the first thing I want to go over is our confidentiality policy. Anything you talk about with me here in this room stays in this room—I will not speak of anything you share to anyone else, except in the case where I deem that you are an imminent danger to yourself or someone else and disclosure becomes necessary in order to ensure everyone’s safety. Outside of those very specific cases, you can trust that anything you share here is safe with me. As Healers of the mind, this is our highest oath, and I think frankly necessary in order for anyone to heal. Do you have any questions about that?”
“I’m not an imminent danger to myself.”
She smiled at him. “I’m glad to hear that. We can talk more about that in just a minute. Any questions about the policy itself?”
“No.”
“Okay. While you’re with us, I know you’ll be doing groups as well, and the clinicians in charge of those may shift around depending on the topic of the group, but for individual sessions it will always be with me, alright? If you have any concerns about our work together, please feel free to bring them to my attention so we can discuss them—my goal is to help you get better, and I can’t do that if I don’t know what’s working well for you and what isn’t.”
He nodded along, trying to get her to speed up.
“Sessions will be about an hour, twice a week to start, but if you find yourself struggling, you are welcome to reach out for additional support. Okay, I think that’s all my policy things covered. Now—you said a moment ago that you’re not an imminent danger to yourself. I’m certainly glad to hear that, but then I’m curious about what’s changed so radically from last night to this morning.”
“I was drunk,” Draco said flatly. “I wasn’t… myself. It’s fine now. I want to go home.”
Healer Heller made a quick note on her clipboard. “I understand. Alcohol can really affect someone’s mental state pretty severely, don’t you think?”
Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes. Don’t know what I was thinking, getting so drunk.”
Can I go now?
“Sometimes I think it can make people act very out of character, and then sometimes I think it does the opposite—makes us drop our inhibitions, our social filters. We might say something aloud that maybe we really are feeling or thinking, but wouldn’t say under ordinary circumstances.”
Draco flushed. “I don’t… I’m not an imminent danger to myself.”
He had started to say I don’t want to hurt myself, but there was something about the way Healer Heller was looking at him that made it surprisingly difficult to lie to her.
“What was going on for you last night?”
“I told you. I got drunk. It was stupid.”
“Tell me more—do you usually drink alcohol?”
“No, never. My…” He cleared his throat. “My grandfather drank too much, and I grew up hearing stories about him flying into a rage when my father was a child. We have alcohol in the house for guests, but I don’t drink.”
Ha. Guests. What guests?
“I’m curious what was different about last night, then. What made you decide to drink?”
Draco fidgeted uncomfortably. How had they gotten so off-track from him being released from this bloody place?
“Did something happen recently?” Healer Heller asked when he didn’t respond. “Something that made you want to drink when you normally don’t?”
“My…” His throat grew tight. “There was… a death. In the family.”
“I see,” Healer Heller said in a sympathetic voice. Another note on the clipboard. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
Draco bristled. “No, you aren’t.”
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
Healer Heller was frustratingly calm in the face of his ire.
“I know what you think of me. What they all think of me. Of my family.”
“Tell me more.”
Angry now, Draco yanked up his robe sleeve, revealing the faded ugly scar of the Dark Mark. “This is what they think of when they think of my family. Even though my mother never…”
He swallowed.
Healer Heller waited patiently, and finally the lump in his throat went down enough that he could speak.
“I’m not an imminent danger to myself, but if you expect me to think that everyone wouldn’t be happier if I died, you’re mad.”
“And how does that feel for you, to feel like everyone wishes you were dead?”
“How the fuck do you think it makes me feel?”
“Angry, based on your tone of voice, but I’m curious what specifically is coming up for you. Is it anger at these other people, or is it something else?”
Draco was breathing hard. His legs were tense underneath him, and he had the absurd urge to run right out of the room. They would stop him, of course, but Healer Heller was poking at something, poking at old wounds, at—
“It makes me wish I had died during the final battle,” he blurted out before he could think better of it. Fuck. Stupid. “But… but that doesn’t mean anything about now. I didn’t die then, so… lucky me, I guess.”
He sat back against the sofa, irritated at himself for losing control as Healer Heller made another note.
“You tell me if this is right, but it sounds like you don’t feel like that was very lucky.”
Draco glowered at her. Why wouldn’t she just take the bait and leave him alone?
“If I thought everyone wished I was dead, and then someone close to me died… well, I think it would only be natural that I would start thinking more about my own death.”
“What’s your point?”
Healer Heller took a sip of her tea. “That, if you were truly feeling suicidal last night, and it wasn’t the alcohol, I could understand how your circumstances would bring those thoughts up to the surface.”
She let her words linger, and Draco said nothing for a long moment. Then, when she did not speak further, he said, “I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“Anything on your mind.” She shrugged. “Or nothing in particular, if you don’t want to.”
“You’re telling me I could just sit here in silence for the next hour?”
“I’m not going to make you talk, no. That’s your decision.”
“But you won’t let me out of here if I just ignore you.”
“Probably not, no.”
Draco scowled.
“It’s definitely frustrating, I agree.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“I took an oath.”
Draco blinked. “What?”
She nodded up at a couple of framed pieces of parchment on the wall behind her. “When I studied Healing, and when I studied psychology out in the Muggle world. My duty is to do no harm, and to help people who are struggling mentally.”
“Oh yeah, locking people up like prisoners sure is doing no harm.”
“We only place involuntary holds when absolutely necessary—to preserve the patient’s safety.”
“Even if the patient doesn’t want that for themselves?”
“Especially when the patient doesn’t want that for themselves.”
Draco huffed, irritated that he may have once again revealed more than he intended to. “Fine. What do I have to do to get out of here?”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s as straightforward as do X and now you’re cured. That would be lovely, but not really how the mind works, unfortunately.”
“Then what good are you for?” Draco exclaimed, throwing his arms out to his sides.
“I didn’t say I can’t help. Just that it’s not as straightforward as me giving you a list of instructions.”
Draco put his head in his hands. “Okay,” he said through gritted teeth. “What first, then?”
“Tell me what a good outcome for all of this looks like for you.”
He dropped his hands. “What?”
“A good outcome from our time together—from your treatment here.”
“That I get released, obviously.”
“And after that?”
“Well, I guess I… I guess I go back home.”
“Where is home?”
“Malfoy Manor. In Wiltshire. You probably knew that though.”
She shrugged again. “I didn’t want to make assumptions. Okay, so you go back to Malfoy Manor. What does life look like there?”
Draco’s chest clenched. What does life look like there?
Mother’s face flashed in his mind, smiling and laughing in the garden. She was gone. Never coming back. All of the life in Malfoy Manor had gone away…
“I see some emotion coming up for you. What are you noticing?”
Shocked to have attention called to it so directly, Draco grimaced and, on instinct, gripped his upper arm with his right hand, the nails digging lightly into his skin.
“Nothing.”
“Draco, I know out in the world it’s not acceptable to talk about how you’re feeling, but I hope that, maybe over time, you can see that this place is different. Anything you say here won’t leave this room—I promise.”
“Nothing,” he repeated, speaking in a rush before he could stop himself. “Life looks like nothing.”
“Ah. I see. Is that what you want it to look like?”
He scoffed. “Of course not.”
“Okay—what would you want it to look like instead?”
“I don’t… I don’t know.”
“Maybe something good for us to reflect on, then.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not going to change,” he snapped. “This is all consequences from things that happened years ago. I can’t change it now.”
Somehow, Healer Heller was still looking at him kindly. “I understand. A lot happened in the past—and I’m guessing you’ve never really gotten an opportunity to talk about any of it.”
“Talking about it won’t change anything.”
Healer Heller took a sip of her tea. “Let’s just imagine something for a moment. I hear what you’re saying—you can’t go back and change the past, and our pasts of course impact our present. But let’s just say, if it were possible to make it so that you had something to look forward to other than nothing once you get out of here, is that something you would want?”
Draco was silent for a long moment, wanting to argue, wanting to tell her off, wanting to curl up and hide away under the blanket, but instead he whispered, “Yes.”
Healer Heller smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. With that in mind, I’m curious if you can tell me…”
Notes:
We can't just totally breach Draco's confidentiality here ;)
As a heads up, Ginny will be coming back next chapter (wanted to make sure this was clear since this is partially for Ginny Fest! Her role is far from over).
Chapter Text
November 15th, 2005
Draco sat in the courtyard, letting the breeze wash over him and ruffle his hair. Despite the winter season, this place was free from snow—enchanted by the facility to remain in a perpetual early autumn. The air was cool and pleasant, and the leaves of the trees were still a vibrant green, with subtle hints of red and orange promising change on the horizon.
Perhaps they had intended it to be a metaphor.
Draco closed his eyes, letting himself listen to the sound of the breeze through the trees' leaves, the burbling of the centerpiece fountain a quiet, melodious backdrop to the whistling wind. He allowed himself a dry chuckle. While he outwardly maintained that this place was an utter waste of his time, the last group he had attended hadn’t been so bad. They had discussed some Eastern philosophy that the Healer called mindfulness. They had been instructed to center their focus on the present moment—not anything in the past or the future—and to really notice what the present moment was like, sensorily. He hadn’t told the Healer, but it did actually seem to be helping. Draco wanted nothing to do with his past or his future, and being given permission, even invited, to ignore them in favor of the sound of the wind in the trees was downright blissful.
He wished Healer Heller would get that memo. She wanted to do nothing but talk about the past and the future. She never forced him, but Draco knew where she wanted the conversation to go, and he was absolutely not interested. He met with her twice a week, and he left feeling shaken up more often than not. She had this uncanny knack for getting him to reveal more than he intended, and while she never mocked him or took advantage of anything he shared, he resented her ability to make him lose his composure for even a moment. They hadn’t talked about anything particularly serious in the handful of sessions he had had, but even sharing positive memories from his childhood put him on edge—even happy memories were a reminder that Mother was gone.
He opened his eyes, his heart aching. Mother would have liked this place if she had had a chance to visit it. It was lush with greenery, and quiet, and clean. It felt secluded in a warm, cozy sort of way—truly like a refuge from the outside world. Draco had had the thought more than once that he had somehow been lucky enough to land in the best prison in the world.
He sighed, the reality of his situation coming back to him. He could not remain in this courtyard for the rest of the day, no matter how much he wished to. He was supposed to go to a group today, in… He glanced at his watch.
“Fuck.”
Now. The group should be starting now.
His peace interrupted, he jumped to his feet, brushed off his robes, and stalked toward the glass door that led back into the Institute, annoyed both with having to attend this stupid meeting and with himself for losing track of time. The staff had, so far at least, been perfectly pleasant to him, and he had never seen any signs of other patients being treated poorly, but he had too much life experience to trust that completely. He was, for all intents and purposes, at their mercy—they could, realistically, turn on him at any moment.
He hurried down the hall, the thick carpeting quieting his footfalls, and quickly nodded his head at another patient named Martin who was heading in the opposite direction. Draco had by and large kept to himself over the last two weeks here, but Martin had been friendly with him in several past groups while having the good sense not to pry into Draco’s affairs, which Draco appreciated immensely. It seemed Martin wouldn’t be in this group though.
Surprised to find himself a little disappointed, he shook his head and picked up his pace, hoping that he would be arriving right on time.
Soon enough, he arrived at a set of double doors labeled Sycamore, paused for a moment to straighten his robes and take a deep breath, and then opened the door.
“You!” he blurted, unable to stop himself as his eyes landed on a very familiar flash of red hair.
What the bloody hell was Ginny Weasley doing here?
The entire group—fifteen or so people, some familiar, some not—turned to look at him.
“Hello,” Weasley said, having the good sense to look nervous at his arrival.
“What are you—”
“Mr. Malfoy, please sit down.” A man in perhaps his mid-forties with salt-and-pepper hair, a plaid shirt, and a name badge labeled Byron spoke, waving him toward an empty seat. “You’re late—please don’t add to it by causing a disturbance.”
“What is she doing here?” he demanded. “She isn’t a patient here.”
The man sighed. “Please sit down and close the door so we may begin today’s group, which, as you know, starts with introductions.”
Draco glowered at him, the instinct to run out of the room screaming like a Mandrake in his head, but if he didn’t attend group today, he knew that would only extend his stay here… and who was to say Weasley wasn’t going to start showing up everywhere he went? He needed to find out why she was here—why she was continuing to torment him even after she had gotten her wish of seeing him locked away.
“Fine.” He stalked toward the empty chair—mercifully far from Weasley—and sat down, arms crossed over his chest.
“Thank you,” the Healer—Byron—said with a nod. “Now, as Mr. Malfoy just pointed out, we have a mixed group today, which is new for a number of you. Twice a month, the Institute holds what we call Open Circle. This group is for both our current residential patients as well as graduates of our programming.”
Graduates of our programming? Did that mean that Weasley—
His eyes whipped to her, but she wasn’t looking at him, and Byron was still speaking.
“We find that these groups can be helpful for patients to see progress amongst peers—to see what they can expect once they’re ready to go back out into the world. Each session, one of our graduates will speak to us about a topic of their choosing—something that they think will be motivating to those of you who are still early on in your recovery journey. Now, before we begin, let’s do proper introductions. For those who don’t know me, my name is Byron Mellings, and I am one of the Healers here at the Institute. Mackenzie, why don’t you go next?”
“Hi. I’m Mackenzie Albright. I graduated from the Institute six months ago, and I’m a reporter for Witch Weekly…”
The group went around giving introductions—with perhaps a quarter of the attendees being graduates—but Draco barely listened until it finally got to Weasley’s turn.
“I’m Ginny Weasley. I graduated from the Institute three years ago, and I’m a professional Quidditch player.”
Three years ago. He wracked his brain, trying to remember if there had been any mention of Weasley in the Daily Prophet at that time, or… well, he supposed the Prophet would have been his only source of information, even back then. It wasn’t like he had friends.
“Alright, thank you everyone. Now, Ginny, I know it was supposed to be your turn to present today, but—”
“It’s fine,” Weasley interrupted. “I can present.”
Oh fucking hell.
Healer Mellings nodded at her. “Alright. I know you’ve spent a lot of time preparing for today, and we’re all looking forward to you sharing your wisdom with us. Everyone, please give Ginny your full attention.”
Draco tried and failed to wrap his brain around Weasley’s presence here as she reached into her bag and pulled out a sheet of parchment; he could see even from here that it was covered in notes. Ever since he had been told he would not be allowed to leave, he had seen this place as a prison. A comfortable prison, but a prison nonetheless. The Institute was a prison, and Ginny Weasley was his primary jailer—the reason he was here at all. And yet… unless this was all some elaborate mindfuck, he was supposed to believe that she had been a prisoner here herself. Did that mean that she…?
Surely not. While some patients were here involuntarily, a larger percentage had checked themselves in, “to get help.” Weasley had to have been one of the latter.
“I’m glad to be here today,” she started, and Draco could see by the slight shake of her hands as she gripped the parchment that she was nervous. “I know being here as a patient can feel… overwhelming. Maybe some of you are here by choice, and maybe some of you aren’t.” She glanced at Draco for the briefest of seconds before looking back at her paper. “Maybe some of you are happy to be here, or maybe you feel sad to be pulled away from your regular life. Maybe some of you are even angry—you feel it’s unfair, that you shouldn’t have to be here at all, that it isn’t anyone else’s business how you’re feeling or what you choose to do about it.” She took another quick glance at Draco before taking a deep breath. “I know I felt all of those things—maybe even all at the same time—when I was brought to the Institute. I felt angry, and sad, and—even though I wouldn’t have said it at the time—relieved that everything could just stop for a while.”
Weasley was getting uncomfortably close to describing how he felt. Were she and Healer Heller sharing notes?
“But more than anything, what I really felt deep down was… powerless.” She took another deep breath. “That’s what I want to talk about today. You don’t have to answer me, but just think to yourself—is powerlessness a familiar feeling to you too? Did feeling powerless contribute to you finding yourself here? What was going on in your life that made you feel powerless? Was it maybe something with family? With friends? With work? With something bigger?”
Draco clenched his jaw. He was powerless right goddamn now—powerless to walk out of this room, out of this building, forever, and never see Ginny Weasley’s face again.
“For me, it was all of those things,” Weasley continued. “After the war was over, I had… a hard time adjusting.”
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit here and listen to Ginny Weasley, Order hero, beloved of the Boy Who Lived, talk about how hard the war had been. How hard after had been.
“I was anxious all the time, and I couldn’t understand why it seemed like nobody was struggling the same way I was, or at least if they were, why they were better at hiding it than me. Being anxious made me… erratic, to say the least. Impulsive. But I tried to ignore it—tried to stay in control. On paper, after all, I had everything—a loving boyfriend turned fiancé, a large group of friends, and a dream job offer to play for the Holyhead Harpies, the team I had dreamed of since I was old enough to swing my leg up over a broom. But I wasn’t happy. I couldn’t stand to be alone with myself, alone with my thoughts, so I constantly made sure I was around big groups of people—the louder and stranger, the better. Whenever powerlessness tried to creep up on me, I would remember something my brother Fred used to tell me: anything’s possible if you’ve got enough nerve. He died during the Battle of Hogwarts, but every time I would start to get overwhelmed I would hear his voice—”
Oh here we fucking go.
“Is that why you felt powerless, then?” Draco interrupted, unable to stop himself. “Because your brother died?”
“Mr. Malfoy! Please do not interrupt—”
“It’s fine,” Weasley said, her expression carefully neutral. “That was part of it.”
“He died a hero’s death,” Draco whispered, aware that all eyes were on him but unable to stop himself from speaking, his mind full of the isolation that had sapped Mother’s life away. “Fighting a heroic battle. Surrounded by family and friends. There’s a goddamn memorial plaque for him on the school grounds.”
“He did,” Weasley agreed. “He was fighting to protect the innocent, and death took him anyway—we were all powerless to stop it. Cruel, isn’t it?”
“You don’t know a damn thing about being powerless.”
Finally, a spark of anger crossed Weasley’s face.
“Mr. Malfoy! If you cannot be respectful within group, I will have to ask that you excuse yourself for the day.”
“Everywhere you go, people look at you and see a hero. People want to be your friend. People want to help you. You can’t be powerless if you have the whole bloody world rooting for you.”
He expected Weasley to blow up at him, memories from their Hogwarts days echoing in his mind, but she instead spoke with a chilling intensity.
“I don’t know what gave you the idea that you have a monopoly on suffering, because you don’t. You don’t have a monopoly on pain, or on making poor decisions, or on carrying around the weight of feeling like a bad person. Your pain is real but it isn’t special—and, if you had let me continue talking, you would have eventually heard me say that we’re all powerless in the face of suffering happening to us, but we’re not powerless in how we choose to respond to the fact that we’re in pain. I had to learn that the hard way, and apparently you do too.”
“What’s the hard way?” he sneered, disgusted with her and with himself. “Checking yourself in here for a little extended holiday?”
Healer Mellings was rising to his feet, but now it seemed like it was Weasley who could not stop talking.
“I used a rope,” she said. “You used a knife, but I used a rope.”
Draco stopped, his mind going blank for a moment.
“You used a…”
“Mr. Malfoy, please excuse yourself. Your behavior from start to finish today was completely unacceptable and inappropriate. Take this time to reflect on what went wrong today—I’ll be following up with you later.”
Too shocked to protest, Draco stood up and walked out of the room, the distant murmur of Healer Mellings apologizing to Weasley echoing in his ears. He closed the door behind him, walked back down the hall, and out into the courtyard that had quickly become his sanctuary.
He sat down on the stone edge of the fountain, flashes of memory filling his vision.
Malfoy? Is that you? Are you okay? What are you doing out here?
I don’t know what gave you the idea that you have a monopoly on suffering, because you don’t.
You didn’t come here to buy a drink, did you?
Your pain is real but it isn’t special.
Believe me, I know exactly what it’s like to want—
You used a knife, but I used a rope.
Did she send you to help me?
Maybe. I want to help you. Will you go with me?
I had to learn that the hard way, and apparently you do too.
Draco could not have said how much time passed as he sat in the courtyard, letting the breeze rustle his robes, but when a flash of red caught his eye, he jumped to his feet.
“Weasley, wait!”
“Not now, Malfoy. I think we’ve both said enough already.”
She turned to leave the courtyard, having been apparently unaware that he was in it, but he raced after her, grabbing her arm as she started to go back inside.
“What are you doing? Stop!”
“Why didn’t you say anything? Before. When you brought me here.”
Weasley looked at him, then down at his hand on her forearm, then back at him again. Her honey-brown eyes were sharp, and he found his gaze lingering on the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
“You were sloshed out of your mind,” she said coolly. “I’m amazed you remember anything I said at all. And it didn’t matter at the time anyway. Me helping you wasn’t about me.”
“Because you’re such a good person,” Draco said, unsure if he meant it to be sarcastic or not.
Anger flared in her eyes once again, and she yanked her arm out of his grasp. “Do you think you were uniquely victimized by Voldemort or something? You think you’re the only person alive who knows what it was like to be manipulated by him, to be controlled by him? To do something heinously evil, and live to regret it?”
“The only person outside of Azkaban, yes.”
Weasley shook her head. “You’re wrong.”
“What are you—”
“Save it. I’m done talking for the day. I practiced today’s topic for over a month, just so you know—thanks for doing your best to try to ruin it.”
“Weasley—”
“Goodbye, Malfoy.”
She turned away and walked inside, leaving him with his hand outstretched, reaching for her, the scent of vanilla lingering in his nose as he tried and failed to think of something to say.