Draco sat on one of the chestnut leather sofas opposite Weasley, just as Timsy apparated in with a quiet pop bearing a tray of coffee with fixings, and, to Draco's horror, not his suede house slippers, but his favourite pair of slippers: some obnoxious fuzzy green monstrosities with a cartoonish face on them that Pansy had found at a muggle shop. The tag said "Oscar the Grouch", which Draco had assumed was some muggle thing. Pansy had laughed and said the character on them was "fitting" for him, because he was grouchy and reclusive and "loved trash" which Draco took as the pointed barb it was on his taste in men. Apparently, her five-year-old daughter had seen the character on the "telly" and immediately thought of her godfather. Charming girl got her viciousness from her mother, clearly.
But they were soft as hell, impossibly warm, and Timsy was sensitive, if a little devious. It was too late to hide them from Weasley, anyway, so Draco gathered the scraps of his pride and slipped them onto his feet gratefully, thanking Timsy and daring Weasley to say something. By the way his face was purpling, his lips pressed together in a line and twitching to keep down a smile, and his shoulders vibrating, it was inevitable. Draco sighed in exasperation.
"Go on, get it all out."
Weasley burst into very unmanly giggles. Draco just narrowed his eyes and waited for it to stop. This was quickly turning into one of the most frustrating days of his post-war life, and the sun had only just risen.
"My daughter loves that show," Weasley muttered between giggles. "What a day… Draco Malfoy being polite to freed house elves, wearing fuzzy slippers of a very fitting character from a muggle, American, children's television show, Merlin's pants…" His face was red enough to blend in with the rest of his freckles as his body shook with laughter.
"American?" Draco wrinkled his nose, this was news. Pansy's child was watching Americanmuggle shows? Rebelling against pureblood society was understandable, but resorting to children's entertainment from the colonies? He'd have to ask her about that. If Weasley ever got over himself enough to get to his point and free them from this awful interaction.
"That's what you're worried about? Oh Circe…" Weasley's giggles were finally slowing. Draco took the opportunity to pour himself a cup of coffee, and reluctantly, a cup for Weasley as well. Weasley wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded to him, taking the cup gratefully, but still watched Draco drink his own first before taking a sip himself. Draco was losing track of how often he'd rolled his eyes in the last ten minutes alone. As much as he wanted to kill Weasley for disturbing his sleep, it was too bloody early in the morning for poisoning.And for what? What could he possibly gain from murdering the Head fucking Auror, in his own house no less?
"Well? Care to explain why you'd stoop so low as to beg me for help, at the arse crack of dawn, on a Sunday? Surely you're not here to discuss my footwear." Draco hoped they'd get this over with fast. He wondered if he'd be able to go back to sleep after this nonsense.
Weasley sobered quickly, clearing his throat. "Right. It's Harry."
"Potter?"
"Yes, who else?"
"Well, what the hell is wrong with him?" Draco snapped.
"We don't know. We think he's been cursed. But he's been on holiday for a week, so we don't know who did it or what it was." Weasley's Auror voice was coming out, ready to debrief a crime.
"Who is 'we'? And why can't you ask him?" Draco sipped his coffee in an attempt to soothe his frayed temper. He closed his eyes to breathe in the rich aroma. Damn, Timsy made the best coffee.
"Myself, Hermione, my curse breaker brother Bill, every Healer in the Curse Damage ward at St. Mungo's, and every Auror in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement." Weasley was looking into his cup as if it held all the answers. "And we have asked him, but… he doesn't remember, and he can't speak."
"'He can't speak,'" Draco repeated flatly.
Weasley shook his head, finally looking away from his cup to meet Draco's eyes. Draco was startled by the intensity there. It felt almost threatening.
Weasley's exhausted sigh seemed to move through his whole body. "He went on holiday, his first one ever, and stayed in his house the entire time. He told us he wanted to relax and work on some home renovation. Then the day before he's supposed to return to work, he shows up at our floo frantic, and silent, pointing to his throat and flailing his hands around. We took him straight to Mungo's, he's been there for two days, seeing every Healer they have. We think he may have been Obliviated, maybe if he went out for food or something, someone might have…" He trailed off, scrubbing his hand through his hair again. He set down his coffee and pulled a thin black elastic off of his wrist, wrestling his hair into a messy bun at the back of his head. It looked good on him, accentuating his strong jawline and showing off the muscles of his neck and shoulders, which only pissed Draco off more. Weasleys were not good-looking, damn it.
Draco raised his eyebrow. "And you want me to…"
Weasley huffed and picked up his coffee again. "To do whatever it is you do. Fix him, heal him, figure out what happened to him, so we can find the bastard that did this and put him away. All the Healers we've spoken to agree that you're the best option, and the only option in England, and Harry doesn't want to leave the country without his voice."
"You do understand that my work involves Legilimency? What makes you think Potter would even be willing to be treated by me?" Draco asked, and stopped himself from absently rubbing the heel of his palm across his chest, swiftly turning it into a questioning motion with his hand.
"Well, yes, we've heard that. He probably won't be too keen on it—he had a really awful time trying to learn Occlumency from Snape back in school—but we're getting desperate. You're our only hope." Weasley's knuckles were white where they gripped his mug like a lifeline.
Draco just stared back at him in shock. Nothing here made any sense. Potter had tried to learn Occlumency from Severus? In school? While Severus was being a spy for the Dark Lord and Dumbledore? Also, 'you're our only hope'? He felt like he'd have to look at this memory in his Pensieve later to prove to himself that it actually happened.
But Draco was a Healer, albeit an unconventional and very niche one, and he had an obligation to help when he was needed. Yes, it felt great having Weasley beg for his help. He wished he'd done it at a more reasonable time of day, but still, you can't choose your beggars… or whatever that muggle saying is. Draco had known as soon as he let Weasley inside that he would help. The fact that Harry Potter depended on his expertise only made him that much more eager. He never could ignore a challenge, especially not one from Potter—but Weasley didn't have to know that. Draco could keep him on his toes a little while longer.
Weasley was shifting uneasily under Draco's stare, awkwardly sipping at his coffee, obviously uncomfortable with his admission. Draco felt a bit petty, but he was enjoying watching the Head Auror squirm.
"Alright."
"Really?" Weasley's eyes lit up in shock and he leaned forward, reminding Draco suddenly of a labrador retriever.
"Yes, I'll take the case. But is there some sort of deadline on this? Do I need to start right now, or can I get a few more hours of precious sleep?" Draco's mind was working way too fast to even contemplate going back to bed, but it wouldn't do to seem too excited.
Weasley at least had the decency to look embarrassed. He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Erm… no, I suppose you can start in the afternoon, if that works. I just had to get to you early, the Healers said you were in very high demand, and probably booked, and this is obviously urgent…" He trailed off again, and Draco decided to put him out of his misery. It was true, he was booked, but that was irrelevant. He stood up, setting down his coffee cup and adjusting the belt of his dressing gown.
"Right. He's still at St. Mungo's, you said? I'll drop in later today. Is there anything else…?"
Weasley set down his cup and stood up as well. "Yeah, he's in the Curse Damage ward. Erm, nothing else, but…" he wrung his hands in front of him and raised nervous blue eyes to Draco's.
"Yes?" Draco's patience was hanging by a thread. Bumbling, brutish, stupidly fit, too-tall Weasleys…
"You'll keep this quiet, yeah?" Weasley looked for a moment scared, as if Draco was going to laugh in his face and run to the Prophet with this juicy tidbit. Which, while annoying and insulting at the moment, was kind of understandable. That had been Draco's M.O. back in Hogwarts. At least, before the Dark Lord became a permanent house guest in his childhood home. That kickstarted a bit of a personality shift—not one that most of Wizarding Britain was able to grasp, unfortunately, considering his background and his family and his, him.
"I'm a Healer," Draco replied, in lieu of an explanation. All Healers took patient confidentiality vows, as well as hippocratic oaths. It was unethical for a ministry-licensed Healer to divulge patient information to anyone other than associated Healers and mediwix without the patient's expressed consent. The Ministry, charming folk that they were, would only give Draco his license if his vows were magically binding, regardless of his skill or accomplishments or recommendations from his time on the Continent. He wasn't sure why they thought he'd try to become a Healer if he was just going to go back to his "nasty Death Eater ways", even after questioning him under Veritaserum—but he had never claimed the Ministry of Magic was good or logical. They'd practically rolled out the red carpet for the Dark Lord, after all.
Nevertheless, he was magically bound to keep patient confidentiality, to do no intentional harm, and to maintain 'ethical working relationships' with anyone under his care, which was difficult in his line of work, but not impossible. He wouldn't die if he broke any of these vows, probably—but he hadn't tried. The one time one of his patients had developed an inconvenient crush on him, and tried to act on it, the pain had been excruciating.
Weasley looked relieved, as if he had just remembered this fact. Draco wondered if he knew about Draco's bonds, working for the Ministry—the licenses were public records. "Right. Well, thank you. We'll see you later today then, Healer Malfoy." He stuck out his right hand: a peace offering, even though his face twisted a little in what looked like pain.
Draco looked at the outstretched hand in barely concealed wonder. Oh, what his twelve-year-old self would say if he saw this. He grasped it firmly and gave it a quick shake, then gestured for Weasley to lead the way out. He was still in his pyjamas, after all.
After Weasley had donned his cloak and given him a farewell nod, with a not-so-subtle glance to his slippers, Draco made his way to the kitchen to ask Timsy for some breakfast and try to make sense of the swirling thoughts in his head.
So, Potter was cursed and Obliviated, and then left alone. Weasley didn't mention anything about nightmares or pain or hallucinations, but then again, Potter couldn't speak, so it was unlikely he'd be able to communicate those symptoms anyway. Was he unable to write, too? How was he communicating without a voice? He must be frantic, the Saviour of the Wizarding World was scheduled for speeches and appearances months in advance, and it must be impossible to be the cherished star Auror he was without a voice. What would the world think of a mute Boy Who Lived?
Draco would never know, under vows of confidentiality as he was. He could imagine the headlines, though. The Boy Whose Lips Are Sealed: How Can Our Saviour Save Us in Silence? He tittered to himself.
It just seemed so different from curses he'd worked on before. Curses usually caused pain, destruction, misfortune, grief, et cetera—hence the name. He still had scars on his chest from Potter's curse on him in sixth year. A curse of silence would cause major inconvenience, and a significant life change, but people lived with disabilities like that every day. He would never say so to Potter, or his entourage, but this seemed… almost benign, compared to the curses he was used to, and probably compared to the curses Potter was used to, as well. He wasn't in pain or being mentally tortured, as far as Draco knew, and his memory was mostly intact. But for an icon like Potter to lose his ability to speak… that could affect more than just Potter.
Draco sat at his kitchen table, eating Timsy's perfectly cooked bacon and eggs and buttered toast, his mind practically vibrating with eagerness to get started on this particular puzzle.
***
Draco walked purposefully through the corridors of St. Mungo's towards the Curse Damage ward. At first, no one met his eyes—the staff glared at his feet, a combination of enmity towards him because of who he was, and deep suspicion because of what he did for a living. Most magical folk knew that Legilimency required eye contact. Why they thought Draco would bother reading boring thoughts that were so clearly hostile towards him, for no reason, he had no idea.
The closer he got to his destination, the friendlier—or at least less hateful—the staff became. The Curse Damage and Dark Arts Reversal wards were the most familiar with him, and had seen for themselves the extent of his skill. It was a breath of fresh air, being around people who at least trusted him not to hurt them. He hoped that wouldn't change once he reached Potter's room.
He was dressed impeccably, as per usual (the exception being this morning). He'd decided on his muggle charcoal three piece suit, because it was neutral, he'd thought, even though it didn't look nearly as striking as the cobalt blue suit or the forest green robes, and he wore a pale blue shirt underneath his waistcoat. He couldn't wear black, of course, that would seem ominous, and camel was far too relaxed, obviously, and the burgundy would seem deferential in a room full of Gryffindors, and so what if he'd spent most of his time this morning overthinking his sartorial choices? Draco had to look his best, had to show the world (his former enemies) that he was a confident, competent, (devastatingly handsome) Healer, before he even spoke. His sleek hair was swept artfully away from his face, not slicked rigidly back like it was in school, and certainly not the rat's nest it was this morning.
He sent an apologetic thought to Timsy, who'd have to clean up the mess of expensive clothes strewn around his room. Draco planned to stop at their favourite bakery on the way home for the baklava Timsy loved, to make up for it.
He stopped outside the door to Potter's room, gathering himself, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles out of his jacket and straightening the glowing Healer's Emblem pin on his lapel—the crossed wand and bone shimmered with its authority charm. If he weren't in public, he would shake the tension out of his limbs vigorously, but he settled for deep breathing. He could feel a bit of sweat under his arms and on his lower back, which was annoying. It wouldn't be seen, of course, the jacket was practically drowning in his own well-crafted impervious and temperature regulating charms, but he cast a freshening spell on himself anyway, just as he caught the sight of bushy brown hair rounding the corner.
Too late to back out now, he thought grimly.
He turned to greet Granger, who had grown into her features as much as her husband, without the height and muscle. He'd seen her photo in the Prophet plenty of times, but the effect in-person was something else entirely. He couldn't exactly pinpoint what was different—just that she was most definitely a woman now, a mother, an influential activist, though Draco was sure she was just as much of a know-it-all as ever. She was clearly a force to be reckoned with: she stood with more confidence, walked with more grace. The staff swerved out of her path in the corridor, recognizing her both as a war hero and the vehicle of strength behind the Ministry's many reforms. Her right hook might have more power behind it, now, he mused warily.
Draco wondered absently if these old classmates had similar thoughts when they saw him. He guessed the phenomenon of getting older would never—well, get old.
Draco nodded at her as she stepped up next to him, eyeing him with sharp, calculating dark eyes. "Granger."
"Malfoy," she replied coolly. Then, apparently mustering the strength for something, "Thank you for coming."
Draco nodded again in acknowledgement. It was a small comfort knowing he wouldn't get any awkward conversation from Potter today. Two-thirds of the Golden Trio thanking him was quite enough for one day.
"Shall we?" Draco motioned towards the door. Granger seemed to shake herself out of staring at Draco as if he were a complicated Arithmancy problem, and made towards the door, gently pushing it open.
"Harry? The specialist has arrived," she said gently, and Draco had to keep from rolling his eyes at her careful tone and vague wording as he followed her into the room.
Upon closing the door, he turned and cast the usual privacy and soundproofing wards at it lazily. This is just another patient, he reminded himself. Just another puzzle I can solve, another person I can help. He turned around to face the room.
The first thing he noticed was Weasley, eyeing him cautiously from where he sat on a chair next to the hospital bed, his hand held over a floating wizard's chess board where he'd been interrupted from making a move. He narrowed his eyes at Draco. "Did you just lock us in or something?"
Draco was very proud of himself for avoiding another eye roll. Gods, he was so professional. "Those were hospital standard privacy and soundproofing spells. You probably saw every Healer who came through here perform them on the door. I wouldn't trust anyone who didn't," he explained, keeping his face carefully blank as he moved his eyes to the man in the bed. "Especially with you, Potter."
Potter had grown, but not much in height. His chest and shoulders had much more muscle on them than when Draco had last seen him in person, which was when he was malnourished from a year on the run and saving the bloody world, so that wasn't much of a comparison. He could appreciate, however, the curve of his biceps where they held the top half of his body up from the bed, propped on one elbow to better see the chess game. This stretched his plain, grey t-shirt over his apparently toned chest, making Draco divert his eyes quickly back to Harry's face. His deep black hair was as ridiculous as ever—Draco thought privately there must be magic keeping those wide, wild curls from being remotely tamed. They fell haphazardly over his forehead, around his ears and the nape of his neck, sticking up at random intervals as if they couldn't decide whether or not gravity mattered. Draco could see the trademark scar peeking through the fringe in a jagged, pale line that barely cut through his right eyebrow, just over his glasses, which Draco noticed were a slightly larger, more modern version of the round frames he had worn throughout school.
Draco could feel Potter's magic as soon as he'd walked in the room, and by now thankfully his goosebumps were going down. It was stupid how powerful Potter was. He probably wasn't even aware of it. His magic hung in the air around him, still but vibrating with potential, charged like the damp air before a storm. If Draco closed his eyes, he knew he would smell faint hints of wet earth and ozone, but he didn't dare, locking away that area of perception deep in his brain. Not for the first time, he wished his extensive training hadn't made him so sensitive to magical auras. It would be so much easier to work with Potter without this unconscious power play happening.
Potter's bottle green eyes practically glowed against his coppery skin, and Draco had to take a subtle deep breath to maintain his composure on meeting them. Their intensity made his heart race. Yes, he was a beautiful man, objectively, but currently, said man looked positively irate, which was a very familiar expression to Draco. He felt almost nostalgic looking at a furious Potter. It was nice knowing not everything had changed.
Weasley and Granger looked nervous, eyes darting from Potter to Draco and back, as if they expected a shouting match to break out any second, which was absurd, because Potter couldn't speak. Draco resigned himself to working with thickheaded Gryffindors for the foreseeable future.
Draco eyed Weasley as he moved further into the room. "I'm guessing you didn't tell him, and that's why he's looking at me like he could dismember me with sheer force of will?" Which, honestly, he probably could, if he really wanted to. Draco had seen what he was capable of as a teenager, and he was very much a grown man, now.
Weasley's face turned apologetic, which only infuriated Potter more. He may not be able to speak, but Draco could practically hear the choice words Potter had for his friends right about now, and for Draco himself. Weasley turned back to Potter, with his hands held up in what might have been an appeasing gesture. "I'm sorry, mate. It's true, he is the best at what he does. All the Healers on this floor recommended him. He's in high demand, and we're lucky he's got the time to take on this case at all."
Draco didn't bother to mention that he'd already recommended all of his much less urgent patients to other Healers in order to free up said time. There was no way he was missing this.
Potter's face fell as it turned back to Draco, his gaze moving from his blond head to his expensive leather shoes and back, assessing. Draco's skin crawled under the scrutiny. Potter couldn't keep the suspiciousness out of his eyes, but Draco felt a little calmer now that he looked less like shattering the windows with raging accidental magic. Potter's eyes moved to Granger, entreating, nearly begging, and he thrust a hand in Draco's direction. Draco could read that one: but it's Malfoy! She only pursed her lips at him.
"Ron's right, Harry, and so are the other Healers. I've been researching all of his public cases and published works, and he really is our best option," Granger explained, causing Draco to look at her with raised eyebrows.
"You've read my articles?"
Granger looked back at him, eyes taking on a new light with excitement only new knowledge could provide. "Yes, of course! I was particularly intrigued by your work on the Unstoppable Nightmare Curse, how you were able to guide the patient through the nightmares to find the personalized counter curse pieces in each one, utterly fascinating, and the False Tongue Curse, with that witch who could only speak to people in languages they didn't understand, were you really able to—"
"Okay, point is, Healer Malfoy is our best bet," Weasley interrupted, "since there's nothing wrong with you physically, the Healers agree this is a problem for the specialist in Mind Curses and Afflictions, and he's agreed to help regardless of your history, and Harry, you're just going to have to trust us on this," he implored, as Potter began to deflate more and more onto the bed in defeat.
"And me," Draco had to supply. "You're going to have to trust me. The Legilimency will be an utter nightmare without a basic semblance of trust."
Potter shot up in his bed at the mention of Legilimency, looking from Weasley to Granger and back with wild, betrayed eyes. He couldn't speak, but Draco could read that, too: You're letting him into my head?!
Weasley's hands quickly rose again in that surrendering gesture. "Mate, it's not like that. He won't be assaulting your mind and asking you to defend it with no real instruction. He's a Healer, he's a professional. People wouldn't be raving about his work if it was torture, alright?"
Draco's eyebrows furrowed. "Is that what Severus did? That's practically barbaric," he muttered. It was what his dear psychotic Aunt Bellatrix did to teach him Occlumency, indirectly—she'd only wanted to see him suffer, for fun, but he'd eventually learned how to keep her out. He'd never thought his godfather would do something like that—Severus certainly hadn't been nice by any means, but he was calm and logical and precise, not torture-happy like Bella. Draco had also had much more incentive to learn Occlumency quickly. He'd had a lot to hide in that Manor, among such… company. He wasn't surprised it didn't take for Potter the same way.
All eyes turned to him in surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there for a moment. Potter still looked angry, but the fire in his eyes was dimming as he assessed Draco again, as if Draco's merely agreeing that Snape was a bully was unexpected enough for him to spare a thought before storming out of the room.
Potter scrubbed his hand through his hair, causing it to curl back from his forehead in what should not be an attractive way. How could anyone look that good with such illogical, untameable hair? His hand came down to rub over his jaw as he turned his calculating gaze to his friends. They were quiet, recognizing that he was in the process of making a decision. The room was silent but for the soft sound of Potter's calloused fingers absently rubbing over his stubble.
Finally, he let out a huff, and closed his eyes as he nodded his assent to the room. The other occupants let out a collective breath, and Draco moved forward to grab Potter's chart from the foot of the bed. He sat in the chair on the other side of the bed, crossed one long leg over the other, and pulled his tortoiseshell reading glasses from his jacket pocket, putting them carefully on his face. He started to read over the file, familiarizing himself with its contents, until he realized the silence of the room was heavy with something he hadn't expected.
Draco glanced up from the file to find all three members of the Golden Trio staring at him in utter shock. This time, he could not suppress his eye roll as he clicked his tongue, annoyed. "What now?"
They continued staring for a moment, until Potter slowly raised his hand to point at the wire-framed glasses on his own face, his lips twitching in barely concealed amusement.
Draco knit his brows. "Reading glasses, yes. What about them?" He took them off and inspected them, in case there was an embarrassing smudge or something, but they were pristine.
"I think, erm… well, it's just that…" Weasley started, his lips twitching as well, and Draco turned a very unimpressed look on him as he traded amused glances with Potter. "You used to tease Harry relentlessly about his glasses…" Ah, there it is.
Draco huffed. "Yes, yes, I was a prick, karma's a bitch, and now I have to wear reading glasses at age twenty-five. Anything else we need to get out of the way before I can start working?" he asked, exasperated.
This apparently released some sort of tension in the room as the three Gryffindors broke into quiet giggles and looked at each other meaningfully. Draco shook his head and tried to keep the small smile off his face as he put his glasses back on and returned his attention to the file. The satisfaction of finally making these people laugh, even at his own expense, caused a warm feeling in his chest. Which was pathetic, he soon realized, and rearranged his face back to indifferent aristocrat post haste.
There was nothing in the file he hadn't already expected. He was pleased to note that Potter was still shorter than him by a few inches. He was apparently healthy, physically. Despite the loss of his voice, his larynx was perfectly fine. There was no curse residue, nor any trace of Dark Magic, and the statistics of his memory showed potential for a minor Obliviation, but nothing major. Whatever was going on was happening entirely in his mind. Truly, Draco was the best person for the job. This is what he lived for.
Draco looked up at Potter, who had picked up the wizard's chess game with Weasley as if nothing of note had happened. He carefully removed his reading glasses and held on to them as he braced himself to burst their bubble again.
"Alright, Potter, I'll give you an overview on how this is going to work."
All three faces turned to look at him expectantly.
Draco hesitated. He knew, in his bones, that Weasley and Granger were practically Potter's family, and have been hearing anything the other Healers had to say about his case, but he didn't want to test his bonds right now.
"As a Healer, I have to make sure you consent to Weasley and Granger hearing this as well."
Potter frowned, a little confused, but nodded his head in consent. He sat up, crossing his legs under himself on the bed, all of his attention reluctantly turned to Draco. It was a heady feeling. How many times had Draco vied for that attention in school? In the worst possible ways, of course. He blinked his way back to the present, where Potter was watching him and waiting for his expertise as a skilled Healer.
"Very well. As I'm sure you're aware, you're in perfect health, physically. Your larynx is intact, nothing is inflamed, there's no curse residue, there's not even a hint of Dark Magic on you, your magical core looks fine. This means that whatever's wrong with you is entirely in your mind, which is why Weasley was about to kick down my door at five thirty in the morning. Just because it's happening inside your head, doesn't mean it's not real."
Potter, who had been listening intently, jerked back at these last words. His face was shocked, then frightened, then enraged, so quickly Draco had trouble keeping up. He couldn't for the life of him figure out what he'd done wrong already.
Potter looked to Weasley, then seemed to realize he couldn't tear him a new one with just his face, so he scrambled his hands on the bedside table, desperately grabbing the blank parchment and quill that sat there. He started frantically writing something, then shoved the parchment in Draco's face.
GET OUT OF MY HEAD
Draco furrowed his brows again, bewildered. Had he accidentally done Legilimency? No, his wand was still tucked in his blazer. Looking up from the parchment, he searched Potter's face for answers. Upon meeting his eyes, Potter hastily looked away. Evidently, he really thought Draco was in his head right now. Perhaps Draco had said something that triggered a memory?
"Potter, I'm not in your head. Yet. I assure you I'm much more professional than that. Our sessions will be strictly regimented, and I never go in without the patient's consent. I've already told you there has to be a semblance of trust between us, or else it will feel like a brawl the whole time. What would I have to gain by breaking that trust now, before we've even started?"
Potter looked back at him, his face guarded, still carefully not making eye contact. This was definitely going to be a job for the fucking books.
"If I may continue?" Draco tried for exasperated, but it only came out a bit wary. Everything seemed so fragile at the moment.
Potter nodded, still not meeting his eyes. Draco missed the attention, pathetically. He nodded back.
"Anyway. It's in your head, probably hidden somewhere in your mind or your memories, which is where I come in. The numbers here show a small potential that you've been Obliviated, but certainly nothing major or dangerous to recover. As you know, I use Legilimency, to find curses or diseases that may be hidden in someone's mind, or to guide someone through countering a mind curse on their own, or in the most dire circumstances, helping someone learn to cope with afflictions or curses of the mind that do not yet have a cure."
The trio nodded along, Weasley and Granger kept their eyes on him, drinking in every word. Draco had to keep himself from preening.
"This looks to me like it might be a mind curse," Draco continued, "but we won't know for sure until we get in there. I've certainly never seen anything like it—most silence curses simply remove one's voicebox, physically. But curses inside the mind tend to leave clues, or marks, like… like breadcrumbs.'' He furrowed his brows, recalling a muggle fairy tale about siblings that dropped a trail of breadcrumbs to prevent themselves from getting lost. The words were barely out of his mouth, however, when he realized how utterly ridiculous that sounds to anyone who didn't know the tale, like it had to him a few years ago when a curse breaker used that analogy in a lecture.
But Potter and Granger both nodded in understanding. Weasley looked confused, and turned to Granger, as he probably did every time he didn't understand something, since their first year at Hogwarts. Granger felt his gaze, but kept hers on Draco as she muttered, "Reference to a muggle fairy tale. Two kids are abandoned in the woods, and drop a trail of breadcrumbs behind them so they can find their way back. It sounds like the best way to describe what he's saying, I can't think of anything similar magically."
Weasley's eyebrows raised once again—probably digesting the fact that Draco Malfoy referenced a muggle fairy tale—then shot back down. "How come I've never heard of it? Rose loves fairy tales. We must have read every single one."
Granger hesitated, darting glances around the room, before she gathered herself again, clearing her throat. "It's not a very nice story. They sort of fall prey to a cannibalistic old witch with a house made of sweets, who fattens them up like pigs for slaughter. They end up murdering her with her own oven, and barely escaping with their lives." She shuddered. "Gave me nightmares as a child. Not a good bedtime story." She thought for a moment. "Also a terrible portrayal of magical people, but not entirely atypical for the muggle world, especially at the time it was written, in the middle ages."
Draco nodded, as Weasley stared, open-mouthed, at his muggleborn wife. It was a creepy story, and unrealistic—that witch must have been truly senile to be overpowered and outwitted by two muggle children, but she was obviously barmy if she was trying to eat them anyway. Good riddance, Draco thought.
"Agreed, Granger, not a fun story. But the breadcrumbs are the best analogy here. Sometimes, I have to find all of the breadcrumbs and connect the dots, which together make a countercurse," Draco explained. "Sometimes the patient has been thrown into their unconscious mind, and has to be guided along a trail to find their way back." He suppressed a shudder. He hated venturing into an unconscious. They were bloody huge and nonsensical and near impossible to navigate.
"So, I'll be seeing you twice weekly for the next six weeks—Mondays and Thursdays, and full eight hour appointments. It's not Legilimency the entire time—" Draco added, seeing Potter's comically wide eyes, "—it's a session in the morning, followed by rest and mapping out the progress, then another session in the afternoon. It's irresponsible to do anything more frequent than that."
Potter's eyes were still wide and fearful as he exchanged glances with Weasley and Granger. They all looked back at him, having successfully communicated something wordlessly.
"Six weeks?" Weasley asked, clearly affronted.
Draco shot him another unimpressed look. "Yes, six weeks, and that's on the shorter end of the timeline. The mind is absolutely gargantuan, and we have to pay attention to every detail. If we're keeping the analogy, we're literally scouring the forest floor for breadcrumbs. You can't rush through it, as missing a crumb or taking a wrong turn could set us back even farther. Plus, we have to recover any lost memories first."
Weasley looked chastised, Granger looked intrigued, and Potter looked… still cagey. It made Draco feel like he was cornering a wild animal, treading carefully, desperate not to spook or anger it.
"If you're amenable, Potter, we can start with memory recovery right now. I'd have to look at the general structure of your mind to find any holes, and from there it's a simple matter of tugging the memory back from your unconscious. You don't feel like you're missing anything substantial, correct? You don't feel disconcerted, disorientated, or confused?" Draco asked.
Potter shook his head slowly.
"Then it shouldn't take very long at all, and you'll be out of here in time for supper." Draco slowly raised his hand towards his chest, but didn't grab his wand yet. He felt Potter might bolt if he drew his wand without warning. Draco raised his eyebrows. "If I may?"
Potter took a deep breath, steeling himself. Draco wondered if it was the same kind of breath he took before facing an enemy in battle. Potter's eyes opened and met Draco's head on, and he gave a quick nod, his lips pressed together in a thin line.
He's expecting pain, Draco realized. Snape must have been a real arse to him—Legilimency only hurt if the caster wanted to cause the pain.
Draco gently removed his wand from his jacket, and held it up in a loose, easy grip, pointing it at Potter's forehead. He flinched minutely, but Draco caught the movement.
"Relax," he said in a low voice he used with his more skittish patients. "I won't hurt you."
Potter's eyes met his again, emerald green on sterling silver, with a glaring intensity that made Draco sigh and lower his wand. He hadn't cast anything, but Draco could read his expression: You've hurt me plenty before.
Draco kept the eye contact for a moment, softening his face. It was true, Harry Potter had no reason to trust Draco Malfoy—but he needed to get through this moment if they were going to cure Potter at all. Even if it had to happen in the presence of the entire Golden Trio.
"Harry," he tried. It rolled too easily off his tongue—it felt nice. Potter's eyes widened, but he maintained his glare. "I know you have no reason to trust me. But I won't ply you with empty words, I won't grovel at your feet. The only way you'll know I'm not the same boy I was is if you see it for yourself, but I won't waste my time if you won't bother giving me a chance." Which was true; Draco didn't need to be Potter's Healer. Draco could give him a long list of recommendations, there were quite a few other Healer Legilimens around the world, whom Draco had learned from. He wanted to take this case—but he wouldn't beg for it.
Draco could feel the hint of sweat returning on the back of his neck. He wished he knew what his face looked like right now; it was probably impossible to achieve the "cold and superior and warm and open" combination he was going for.
His fingers were fidgeting where they held his silver lime wood wand in his lap, but his voice didn't waver, and held the conviction he had hoped for. He never thought he'd have the chance to say these words to Potter. He'd had to say them a few times before, but he had formulated them with Potter in mind, first.
Potter kept his intense gaze on Draco for a long moment, and Draco held it, refusing to look away.
Eventually, Potter gave one look each to Granger and Weasley, as if to say, if anything happens to me, it's your fault, but they were too busy staring at Draco in shock to register it. He guessed it must have been as much of an emotional whirlwind of a day for them as it had been for him—although in very different ways.
Reluctantly, Potter turned back to Draco, and continued turning his whole body until he was facing Draco entirely. He let his legs dangle off the bed, socked feet barely grazing the floor, and gripped the edge of the bed with both of his hands. Their knees were only inches apart. He took another deep breath, then another, and met Draco's gaze again, giving another short nod.
Draco released the breath he had been holding, and hoped his gratitude showed in his eyes, because he'd given up too much of his pride in one day to say 'Thank you' out loud to Harry Potter, after that. He raised his wand again, slowly.
"Liceat mihi ingressum*," Draco whispered, a not-quite-Legilimency spell to enter the mind. Draco could see Potter's mind now as more of an apparatus, or an organism. He wasn't intruding, not yet. Just looking. It looked like a glowing, writhing, living, web—always a bit disconcerting, but always breathtakingly beautiful. It reminded Draco of a fully transformed Veela, without the allure, all light and magic and near-violent energy. Potter's mind glowed gold, red, and green, twisting and whirring and sparkling with his magic. Draco admired it for a moment, breathing in the indulgent scent of treacle and a garden after rain, before setting to work.
Normal memory holes made a mind look like a malfunctioning clock, as if a gear or a cog was removed somewhere. There was nothing like that here. Everything moved smoothly together, and looked intact. But soon enough, Draco spotted something odd. It was small, almost miniscule, but a little black dot moved silently among the glowing strands. It was dark, a clear absence where light should be, and faintly ringed in a silver glow, almost like an eclipse. Draco watched it move slowly, nearly blending in with its surroundings. It was so innocuous, yet so obvious. As if its purpose was to hide, but only in order to be found.
Draco concentrated his magic, and gave it a gentle tug.
He was immediately dragged forward into a memory. He suppressed a twitch of panic; that was not supposed to happen. He'd have to see it through, though, to figure out why it had happened. Taking in his surroundings, he guessed this was a muggle pub. He felt drunk, distantly, and knew he was experiencing the memory as… as Potter. This hidden memory was of Potter, drunk, at a cozy looking muggle pub.
Draco concentrated more. Tired, stressed—a feeling of dull dread, and resignation. Exhaustion. Potter was seated at the bar, a number of empty lowball glasses in front of him. The pub was nearly empty, it must have been very late. The bartender was nowhere in sight.
A figure sat a couple seats down from him, and was speaking to him, but in this intoxicated state, it was almost impossible to make out any words. He couldn't even tell the gender of the speaker, could not discern anything about their looks at all. It must have been some sort of Notice-Me-Not, but not one Draco had ever seen. He concentrated harder on the words.
"Are you tired of being Him all the time?"
"Mmm." Potter hummed, eyes half closed.
"Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived." The figure's tone was part disdainful, part coddling. Draco didn't trust it at all. "The hero,"they added, like prodding a dying fire.
"'M not," Potter slurred, shaking his head slowly, regretting it as he squeezed his eyes shut against a wave of nausea. Draco felt it too, and felt himself sway and sweat in his own body. That was odd—normally he was able to remain an outsider in someone's memories. He was able to discern emotions and feelings, but as a separate entity. Why was he Harry, right now?
"No one truly knows who Harry Potter is, do they?"the figure asked, probably rhetorically, and where was the fucking bartender? Was no one else picking up on this bizarre conversation? How will Potter get home like this? "They see who they want to see, the icon whom they want to idolize, the pedestal on which to place their burdens and their blame. Their hero, responsible for saving them, again and again."
Draco tried to get another look at the figure from Harry's peripheral, but his vision was swimming, and their image was constantly shifting. There was definitely some sort of charm there. Harry continued to shake his head, apparently trying to not hear what they were saying. Meanwhile, the indecipherable figure moved closer.
"Not for much longer, Mr. Potter. I have seen it, and you will be known." Okay, that was definitely a wand coming closer. He felt Harry's stomach jump with the instinct to move, and outside, Draco was shaking with secondhand adrenaline. But Harry's muscles were too sluggish, and felt weighed down by lead, disconnected from him. There may have been something extra in those drinks.
"But in order to be known as the man," the figure continued, "you will have to stop being their hero."
"Can't," Harry muttered. His breathing had sped up. "Have to."
"You do not want to be known, as yourself?" the figure probed, and Draco honestly could not figure out what their aim was. To understand Harry? To get him out of the way? To belittle him? "Irrelevant. You will be known, whether you are ready for it or not. And until then…"
"Hide your Voice." The figure spoke with conviction, and Draco felt a soft breeze pass through Harry. Through the haze of alcohol, Draco tried to figure out how this was possibly an incantation, but the figure continued on. "Speak only for yourself."
The breeze ended, and Harry and Draco both swayed. He felt a disconnect now, something had changed. Harry's mouth opened to say something, but no noise came forth. Harry's panic was rising. The figure continued to gaze at Harry with their ever-changing features, and Draco had never seen someone so inconceivable. Were they even human?
"I am sorry to leave you like this, Mr. Potter," and Draco doubted this very much, "and I am sorry to make you misplace this memory, as well. But do not worry," they said, and was that excitement in their voice? "He will find it."
Their wand was raised again, and Draco fell backwards into his mind-viewing. He quickly gathered his wits and exited Harry's mind.
He gasped for breath as he returned fully to his body, quickly taking inventory of himself as he did after every session. Fingers, flexed, that's his own hair, brushing his face, those are his legs, yes. That was too intense for a mind-viewing. He was only supposed to return the memory to Potter's conscious mind, why did it suck him in like that? He slowed his breathing, wiped his forehead with his silk handkerchief, and absently handed it to Potter. If he was feeling anything like Draco was, he'd need it, but Draco couldn't look at him now. He quickly pulled a small notebook and biro from his jacket pocket, thank Merlin for those extension charms, and started frantically writing down everything he could before he could forget. The room was silent for a few moments, except for the sounds of their breathing and the scratch of the pen.
Finally, Draco looked back up at Potter. Potter was watching him, wide-eyed, lips barely parted. He was breathing quickly, and his eyes were shiny. His skin looked paler, hints of sweat still on his forehead—Draco's handkerchief was clutched tightly in his fist. Did he even use it?
"Are you alright?" Draco asked. Potter didn't answer, just continued watching him.
"Did you see what I saw? At the pub?" Draco tried again. Potter hesitated, then nodded slowly.
Draco scribbled some more notes in his notebook. Finally, unable to help herself, Granger spoke up.
"Did you find something? Was he Obliviated?" she asked.
"Yes, he was Obliviated, but…" Draco furrowed his brows. This was the weird part. "He wasn't Obliviated very hard." He wasn't sure that made sense, but it was true. "It wasn't hidden, just sort of… tucked away…" He mumbled, making more notes. "It wanted to be found. It knew it would be."
"Who was it? Why'd they bother Obliviating him at all?" Weasley piped up.
"Erm…" Draco looked at Potter for help. "Do you have any idea who—or what—that was?"
Potter shook his head, and Draco's Healer instincts kicked in at his glazed eyes, recognizing the symptoms of shock, maybe even panic. Draco quickly conjured a glass, and filled it with his special aguamenti with lemon. He set it on the nightstand with his left hand, and conjured his Patronus with his right. The nightingale burst from his wand in a small puff of silvery light and turned to him, hovering expectantly. "Please tell the nearest mediwix we need chocolate in 306," Draco said, and the small bird turned and sailed out of the room.
Draco looked back at Potter, who seemed to be having trouble keeping up with his surroundings. He was still breathing too quickly, too shallow. "Potter, lie back down. Are you dizzy?" Potter just obeyed absently, his eyes still glassy, fixated on Draco. Draco adjusted the bed with a gentle flick of his wand, so that he wasn't completely horizontal, and his feet were raised slightly. The mediwitch finally knocked twice, and came in holding a bar of Honeyduke's Finest.
Draco reached out for it, muttering a quick "Thank you, Nanette." She gave a quick smile and a "You're welcome, Healer Malfoy," and left the room. He was grateful it was Nanette, whom he'd worked with plenty before. He trusted her discretion. Draco reset the privacy charms before turning back to the bed and unwrapping the chocolate, breaking off a large piece and handing it to Potter.
"Eat," he commanded gently, "You'll feel better."
Potter watched him thoughtfully, but thankfully did as he was told. After a few bites, he was steadily improving. He was blinking normally, though still watching Draco carefully, and according to the monitor charm above his bed, his heart rate was evening out. His breathing slowed, and Draco released the tension in his own shoulders.
"Yes, someone cursed him, but it was quite bizarre, I was unable to figure out a motive… Might have been a fan that lost the plot. The person was… indecipherable. I could not make out a single defining feature at all, it was charm work like I've never seen." Draco paused, unsure how much of this memory Potter was willing to share with his friends. He decided to skip the morose parts for now.
"I shouldn't have been able to see that memory, from where I stood on the edge of his mind. That spell only lets me look at the mind as a whole, so I can see where there might be missing parts or pieces not connecting. But when I found the empty spot, and tried to tug it to his conscious mind, it dragged me in." Draco took a deep breath. "It made me experience it, and I believe that was intentional on the part of the caster. It wanted to be found, and I have no idea why they bothered hiding it at all."
The three Gryffindors were quiet, taking in the information. Potter still looked a little spooked, so Draco decided to let him recover. His own mind was buzzing with theories, none of them helpful at the moment. Today's work was done.
"Right. Well, Potter, we'll discuss that curse first thing tomorrow morning, say, nine o' clock? I can provide meals. We can meet here, or at your home, or at mine—which would you prefer?" Draco was curious for a glimpse of Potter's home, but he had to offer options.
Potter looked at Weasley with a question in his eyes. Weasley understood it easily. "No, he doesn't mean the Manor. He has a place of his own," he answered Potter, with a meaningful glance at Granger. Draco suppressed another shudder at the memory of her screams under Bellatrix's wand at the Manor, and looked away from Granger as she absently rubbed her right arm, where Draco knew the word "mudblood" was carved on the skin under her jumper. He recognized the gesture as a nervous one; he was constantly having to stop himself from rubbing the faded, ugly Dark Mark on his left arm when he was nervous, or the scars on his chest when he thought about Potter. He clasped his hands together in front of him to keep himself from doing it now.
"Thank Merlin for that," Draco muttered.
Potter watched Draco for a moment, appraisingly, before pointing at him with a gentle movement.
"Mine, then?" Draco clarified, and Potter nodded. Draco reached into his jacket pocket again and pulled out a card with his apparition coordinates, handing it over.
"Alright," Draco said, standing from his chair and smoothing down his jacket again. "I'll expect you tomorrow morning at nine. Send an owl if you have questions in the meantime." He straightened his spine, and sent a small glare at Weasley. "If you have any trouble finding the house, I'm sure the Head Auror can get you there in record time."
Weasley seemed amused by his jab, but his ears were a little red. "Thank you for your help, Healer Malfoy," he nodded at Draco.
Draco nodded politely at each person in turn, his eyes lingering on Potter a bit longer than normal, before turning and striding out of the room. Granger and Weasley broke out in quiet conversation as he closed the door behind him, and walked briskly towards the apparition point in the hospital.
It wasn't until he was safe behind his own wards that he realized Potter still had his handkerchief. Oh, well.