Chapter TwoDraco spent the entire evening in his study that night, pulling down every leather-bound text and dusty tome that could possibly be relevant to Potter's case and burying himself in the work. There was nothing, which Draco should have expected. Most mind curses were unprecedented, especially one that simply hid someone's whole voice inside their own mind.
Timsy had to step in around one in the morning to make him go to bed, which Draco tried to do, he really did. But his thoughts were moving too fast to relax, and even his best efforts at Occlumency couldn't keep the image of Potter's angry green eyes out of his head. He'd ended up slipping out of his house for a quick fly on his Firebolt 3001, hoping the cold, late March air would clear his brain enough for sleep. The sky was a deep blue-black, the stars shining brighter under a new moon. It was beautiful, and rejuvenating, disencumbering his mind as it always did. Timsy gave him an exasperated look when he landed, but said nothing.
Draco was able to sleep after that, but it was fitful and shallow, his dreams marred with flashes of green eyes pleading from a swollen face, of a warm body against his chest and fiendfyre at his back, of blood in the water on the floor of a flooded bathroom.
By the time his alarm went off Monday morning, he was in a similar mood as the morning before. As the minutes ticked closer to nine, his doubts became louder and louder. Why on earth had he agreed to this? There was no way to maintain a professional distance with Potter—there was just too much history between them, right? Surely there was somebody else with his particular skill set that could help Potter?
Sure, but not here. Potter didn't want to leave the country, gods forbid the Golden Boy shirk his hero duties for a few weeks to heal from a curse. Draco was the only Healer Legilimens in England, and he was sure Potter was quite eager to get back to chasing Dark wizards and generally being Wizarding Britain's pride and joy.
"Master Draco is being angry at the morning again," Timsy's hoarse, quiet voice dragged him out of his thoughts. The elf was eyeing him disapprovingly as he served a fried egg on top of Draco's toast—good and runny, just how he liked it. He must have appreciated the baklava Draco brought home yesterday.
"If mornings would stop being so horrible to endure, I might be happier to see them," Draco retorted. He set down his coffee mug and started in on his breakfast.
"It is not being the sun's fault that Master Draco does not sleep when he should," Timsy replied smoothly, and Draco had to appreciate how he was finally allowing himself to be sassy in front of Draco, even when it was in his characteristic quiet reprimand.
"Too right you are, Timsy, but I'll hold the grudge as long as I can." The corners of Draco's mouth were turned up, and he could not keep the fondness out of his voice. No matter what was going on in his life, Timsy always seemed to be able to lift his mood a little.
Draco refilled his coffee cup and stood up, stretching out his long limbs and trying to breathe life and energy into himself. He'd gone for a "casual elite" look today, with dark grey muggle trousers, warm brown Oxfords and a white button-up shirt, with the top button left undone. He was in his home, after all, and he knew for a fact that Potter wouldn't be showing up in his finest, either. If he showed up at all.
He took his steaming mug and thanked Timsy for the meal. Timsy offered to welcome the impending guest and show them to his study whenever they arrived—he had probably deduced from Draco's agitated fidgeting that he was expecting someone. Draco agreed and gave the elf a smile before returning to his study to organize his thoughts.
He paused on entering, realizing the room was still in disarray from his fevered research the night before. He waved his wand in a slow arc in front of him, and the books and scrolls steadily put themselves away, leaving his study looking immaculate once more. He went to the windows and drew the curtains, letting in the bright morning sun. The walls were covered in bookshelves, holding a wide array of tomes and medical texts and curious—and relatively benign—magical artifacts. Plants stood in every corner and on the shelves that received the best sunlight.
Draco's primary thought when decorating his house was that wherever he imagined Lucius would have displayed a Dark artifact, or token of pureblood ancestry, Draco would put a plant instead. The effect was that his house seemed like a bit of a jungle, at times, and Timsy had his hands full with plant care most of the time.
The heavy wingback chairs in front of the fireplace looked inviting, but he walked over to his wide mahogany desk instead, rounding it to sit in his own cozy leather chair behind it. Draco set his coffee cup down, removed his notebook from his locked desk drawer with a complicated wand movement, and began reviewing yesterday's events.
His heart sped up unnecessarily as he felt the telltale wobble in the wards, but he kept his face blank and smooth. He heard the low rasp of Timsy's voice welcoming someone, and barely had time to straighten his hair out one last time before the door to the study opened and Potter walked in.
"Potter," Draco greeted, standing from his comfy chair and shutting the notebook. Potter looked at him, meeting his eyes for a moment and giving him a quick nod, before his gaze continued its wandering journey, taking in the details of Draco's study. Draco bristled at the scrutiny, feeling protective of his home, but he tried to rein it in. He recognized what Potter was doing, other than familiarizing himself with Draco's study—walking to the window and looking outside before looking back, and hurriedly inspecting every corner of the room with his eyes. He was taking inventory of exits and escape routes, vulnerabilities for potential threats. He was putting his back against the wall so he could see everything, and every way in or out. Draco did the same thing in unfamiliar places. He still did it at the Manor. He never felt truly safe unless he was behind his own painstakingly-crafted wards, in his very own home.
Plus, Potter was technically in "enemy territory." Never mind Draco was a former enemy. Potter had no real reason to believe that yet.
"Have you had breakfast yet?" Draco asked. Potter nodded once. He was wearing a long sleeved black t-shirt and a pair of snug, well-worn muggle jeans with his Auror-standard dragonhide boots. It suited him, which made Draco frown. It was annoying how good Potter looked, especially in something so casual. He probably didn't even think before pulling on those clothes this morning.
Draco looked away, retrieving a blank notebook and another muggle ball-point pen from his desk, gathering up his own notebook and making his way towards the comfortable wingback chairs that faced each other in front of the fire. He gestured for Potter to join him, doing him a favour and taking the seat with his back to the door. Potter eyed him thoughtfully as he sat down across from Draco, his calloused fingers rubbing the rich leather of the armrests. His shoulders were tense, and he kept his feet firmly planted on the floor, instead of leaning back or crossing his legs like Draco. Cornered animal, Draco thought, again.
"Would you like anything to drink? Make a 'C' with your hand, for coffee—" Draco demonstrated the gesture, "—a 'T' for tea, or a 'W' for water." Potter tilted his head, and made a 'C' with his hand.
"Timsy," Draco said quietly. Timsy appeared with a small pop.
"Could you please bring us some coffee, perhaps some biscuits as well? And a bar of chocolate, just in case," Draco added, remembering the day before.
"Yes, Master Draco," Timsy replied, before looking up at Draco with wide, innocent eyes, which immediately made Draco suspicious. "Is Master Draco requiring his slippers as well?"
Draco narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched, belying his reluctant amusement. "No, thank you, Timsy."
Timsy's eyes sparkled as he bowed and apparated away with another small pop. Draco shook his head with barely contained fondness, and returned his attention to Potter, who looked like he was thinking very hard about something.
"If you have to use the loo, do this with your hand." He stuck his thumb between his middle and index finger, palm facing out, and rocked his hand from side to side. He remembered that from his False-Tongue Curse patient—Draco spoke a few languages, so his patient had used American Sign Language with him for a while, until Draco picked it up, at which point they switched to Yiddish. "Fair enough?"
Potter nodded again, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Draco set his own notebook and pen on the side table, and handed the blank one over to Potter.
"For when you have something to say that can't be communicated with hand gestures," Draco explained. Potter examined the notebook, opening it and touching the blank pages, rolling the blue pen between his fingers.
Timsy reappeared with a tray laden with coffee, fixings, biscuits, and chocolate, and laid it on the side table between them. It looked heavenly, even though Draco had just eaten and had already had two cups of Timsy's delectable coffee. He restrained himself to a glass of water, knowing if he had more coffee now his hands would start to shake.
Potter poured himself a coffee, after Timsy had left. They were seated abnormally close, but that was necessary for Draco's work. No matter how often he did it, it was always a bit awkward to sit like this with someone for the first time, knees only centimetres apart. His hand twitched with the urge to start casting and get it over with, to avoid acknowledging this proximity, but good Healers didn't work like that, Draco had learned. Legilimency in healing was ineffective without trust, and conversation was imperative to building trust. It had been a truly disquieting lesson to learn, for a Slytherin and especially for a Malfoy, raised to take advantage of others' weaknesses and trust no one with their own.
Draco leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his lap, forcing himself to slow down and watch Potter for a moment. Potter had noticed that Draco wasn't drinking coffee with him, which had apparently made him suspicious. He took out his wand and proceeded to check his coffee for poisons. Draco tried not to sigh.
"I've already had two cups this morning," Draco offered. Conversation had to start somewhere, he figured, even if it was doomed to be one-sided, what with Potter being mute. "As much as I want to—Timsy's coffee is incredible—having any more than that would make me a very twitchy, ineffective Healer."
Potter's mouth quirked, probably picturing a twitchy, ungraceful Draco Malfoy. He finally deemed his coffee safe to drink, and closed his eyes at the first sip, sighing in satisfaction. Draco smirked, but refrained from saying 'I told you so.'
"Alright, well," Draco started, "I think we ought to begin with that memory of the incident. I don't have to go back in your head for it, if you'd rather pull it out for the Pensieve, we can watch it again together. We might be able to make out more details that way, without the nausea. It'll still be hazy, but we'll only be watching." He'd rather not endure the full experience again if he didn't have to.
Potter thought for a moment, then conjured a small glass vial with his wand. He raised the tip of his wand to his temple, squeezed his eyes shut, and pulled the silvery strand of memory out. Even outside of his head, it looked odd. It didn't look like tampered memories he'd seen before, just—odd. Tainted. Not a normal memory.
"Do all your memories look like that?" Draco asked, as Potter carefully slipped the strand into the glass vial and handed it to Draco. Potter furrowed his brows again as he shook his head. He clearly didn't know what was wrong with it, either.
Draco stood up and walked over to one of his bookshelves, finding the purple spine of the charmed book and pulling until it stopped, halfway out. Magic shimmered in a large rectangular shape around the book, revealing a cabinet, which swung open slowly. He didn't have a real need to hide his Pensieve, but he'd never seen one that wasn't carefully protected, so it couldn't hurt. There were small shelves full of memories around it—some were gifts, but most were his own. Mostly dull things, lectures that would be useful to recall fully later, his observations of other Healer Legilimens at work, when he was permitted. Others were simpler, and more personal: three of them were of Lucius, showing him and his mother genuine affection, when Draco was very young. The only three times he could recall. There were several of his goddaughter, that always made him laugh. One was of Potter's testimony, of him silently handing back Draco's hawthorn wand at the end of the trial.
He carefully lifted the Pensieve from its plinth and sent it floating back towards Potter. Potter stood as Draco returned, and continued watching him warily.
Draco poured the odd strand into the placid part-liquid-part-gas of the Pensieve and looked at Potter for confirmation. Potter tilted his chin down—Draco was getting very familiar with these barely-there gestures—and they both dipped their faces into the Pensieve.
As they fell into the memory, the stability of being an outsider that Draco had hoped for was washed away. The floor they landed on moved and swayed beneath their feet, causing Draco to reach out instinctively and grab Potter's upper arm to keep his balance. Potter met his eyes, his knees bent slightly to stabilize himself, and Draco sighed. "I guess we're not escaping the nausea after all," he commented dryly.
Looking around, he spotted Potter's hunched figure at the end of the bar, closest to the wall, his head in his hands. The mysterious individual was there, as well, a couple seats down, talking softly. Draco still couldn't decipher any singular feature, and could only discern that this was somebody.The Potter next to him was staring hard at them, bewildered and frustrated. Draco wondered if he'd have more luck recognizing them like this.
Draco looked around. There was still no one else to be seen at this pub—no staff, no patrons. Just Potter and someone. But it was definitely a muggle pub; the bottles behind the bar held muggle alcohol, and nothing shimmered or sparked or smoked, and the pictures on the wall looked to be of famous football players, perpetually frozen and still.
He tuned back into the words, listening intently while watching the Potter next to him for his reactions. Potter's eyes were strained, as if the words hurt to hear, but his top lip was curling subtly in… disgust? Disdain? His fists were clenching and unclenching at his sides, his body was tense as he watched the scene unfold.
"Not for much longer, Mr. Potter. I have seen it, and you will be known." Was this person a Seer? Were they trying to fulfill a prophecy? Or—and this was a large possibility—were they just crazy? Draco had seen a lot of harm done under the guise of 'the greater good.' Some people genuinely believed they were doing the right thing, while doing the worst possible things.
"Hide your Voice," the wand was pointed at his head, and the drunk Potter's eyes widened as he tried and failed to move around, away. "Speak only for yourself."
Potter watched his incapacitated self struggle, opening and closing his mouth when no sound came out, with barely concealed fear and disgust. Draco would feel the same if he had to watch himself laid low like this, caught unawares, when he normally wouldn't have taken his guard down for even a second. Draco frowned as this gave him a thought.
Then the someone apologized, half-heartedly, and Obliviated Potter, and they were thrown out of the memory and back onto their feet in Draco's study.
Draco checked Potter over, subtly, making sure he didn't go into shock again, before making his way back to their chairs.
"If you'd like, you can have a few minutes to write down your thoughts or questions, and we'll discuss it," Draco suggested. Potter sat down and started writing, a frown of concentration on his face, and Draco added to his notes.
Potter sipped his coffee as he worked, kept warm by Timsy's temperature regulating charms on the mugs. He raised his eyebrow at Draco, apparently surprised that the coffee was still perfect. Draco only murmured, "That would be Timsy's doing."
Soon enough, Potter put his pen down, and after a great hesitation, handed his notebook to Draco. It only had a couple sentences on it.
Couldn't recognize person—reminds me of Unspeakables
Draco raised his eyebrows. He hadn't thought of that.
"That could well have been an Unspeakable, but I wouldn't know. I've never actually seen one, that I know of." Draco thought for a moment. "There's a Hall of Prophecies down in the Department of Mysteries, isn't there?"
Potter's eyes widened. His lips pressed together, his face turned grave. He nodded his head yes. Draco vaguely recalled something about the Hall of Prophecy being mentioned at the end of his fifth year, when his father was arrested, after apparently battling Potter and his friends in the Department of Mysteries. Draco shuddered at the thought of Lucius and Bellatrix, grown adult wizard and witch, side by side, pointing their wands at children for the favour of a bloodthirsty megalomaniac.
"I figured. This person sounds a bit prophetic, don't they? 'I have seen it, and you will be known.' Maybe they work down there. Or, they could be a Seer—do you know any, other than Trelawney?" Draco rolled his eyes, everyone knew Trelawney was an old fraud, but he didn't want to waste time with Potter writing down her name. Potter shook his head in reply.
"Alright." Draco got up and walked to the wall opposite the Pensieve cabinet. He waved both of his hands in a vague gesture, and the wall of bookshelves transformed in a flurry of spinning tiles, into a clean, black chalkboard. Using his wand, he wrote Who? in the top left corner, underlined it, and added Unspeakable? Seer? underneath. He returned to the chair, and lay his wand on the side table, next to his glass of water.
Draco picked up Potter's notebook again, reading the next question, which was simple enough.
Incantation?
"Ah, yes. 'Hide your Voice,' a command, and…" Draco frowned and looked at his own notes. "'Speak only for yourself', a condition." He looked up and sent the incantations to be written on the chalkboard. "I don't exactly know how they were able to just say it, in plain English, but it makes sense in the context of their rambling."
Potter looked uncomfortable. Draco decided to come back to that later, but first, he needed to know something.
"Potter, was that a bar you frequent regularly?" Potter nodded slowly. "Why?" Draco added, handing Potter back his notebook. He looked reluctant, but started writing anyway, soon handing it back to Draco.
No one knows me there.
Draco tilted his head down in response. "Understandable," he said, "I wear glamours or transfigure my face when I have to go out shopping or dining in Wizarding districts." He paused, remembering the spit on his face the one time he tried to restock his potions ingredients in person, as himself—and the violence and jeers of the approaching mob as he walked down Diagon Alley toward Gringotts, at nineteen. He had fled in disapparition before he ever arrived. "Pansy doesn't allow it, says I have to 'face them head on,' or something, but she's scary enough that people don't bother us when we're together."
Potter's mouth was pressed in a thin line. He motioned for his notebook again, scribbling something with agitation before flipping it around to face Draco again.
Muggle places too low for a Malfoy?
Draco sighed and closed his eyes. They were on the precipice, here, of that fragile trust that Draco needed to work, which could only be formed through open, honest conversation. This was always the hardest part, but supposedly, it would be worth it in the end.
"Too low for Lucius, probably, even in Azkaban," Draco began, trying not to hesitate so much, "but for me, no, I'm just…" he huffed. This was so much work. "I'm honestly quite afraid I'll just muck it up," he admitted.
"I've had encounters with maybe a handful of muggles throughout my life," he explained, "and every time I got so nervous that I was going to reveal something and break the law or that they were going to hurt me—I was raised to believe they were inherently dangerous, and needed to be subjugated, so when I was young, I was terribly afraid of them. I know they're not any more dangerous than wizards, but I still clam up around them. I don't know how to handle the different money, or the customs, I don't know what food or drinks to order, or what to say, or how to act. I never learned."
Potter watched him fumble to explain himself, and Draco felt uneasy under his interrogating gaze.
"I do visit muggle places, sometimes, but usually with Pansy, who's much more comfortable around them," Draco added. His fingers were tapping on his knee in agitation. Admitting a weakness never got any easier, no matter how often he did it.
Draco tried to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. "Anyway, I asked if you frequent that pub because you seemed very… comfortable there, even if you were uncomfortable at the time."
Potter's eyes flashed, probably getting defensive about having so obviously let his guard down for an attacker.
"Was it common for people to make conversation with you, there? Were you friends with any of the regulars or staff? Could this person have been chatting you up for a while, maybe under a disguise, until they were close enough to be able to slip potions into your drinks with you unawares?"
Draco regretted the onslaught of questions, one at a time was obviously easier for someone who couldn't speak, but they also kept getting sidetracked with each question, and there was so much Draco needed to know. Potter had diligently started writing his answers, and eventually flipped the notebook towards Draco again.
Yes.
Yes—saw none there.
Yes, possible. Have no reason to distrust muggles.
"Alright, then there's two paths we could take today." Draco sat up, ready to work. "Option one: we go through your memories of that pub, to try to learn more about your attacker. I'd use Legilimency first, to sort through all of them quickly, then pick out any relevant ones for us to look at in a Pensieve. I'd probably go back three months, at least."
Potter looked thoughtful, but his eyes flashed again, with something like excitement. Draco assumed Auror Potter would probably be raring to go, eager to investigate and finally catch the bad guy. But he waited for Draco to continue.
"Option two: we start looking for the curse, and how to reverse it. We'd begin the same as the rest of my patients, with me basically introducing myself to your head, getting you accustomed to my presence, and looking around for clues—looking, not digging or rooting around carelessly, don't look at me like that. I'm not Severus or Bellatrix or Voldemort. I'm a Healer."
Potter's face was pure shock, once he got past the angry narrowing of his eyes at the thought of Legilimency. Draco couldn't identify which part of his last sentences had caused him to be so appalled. Maybe the use of Voldemort's name?
Eventually Potter got over himself, blinking and returning to his notebook. He wrote quickly and aggressively, scratching out and rewriting, and handed it over when he was finished, his gaze back to assessing Draco.
Option 1: get those memories out, but send to Ron
Option 2: ok
You said Bellatrix?
Draco sighed again, and decided to tackle these one at a time.
"Good idea, you and Weasley can handle that part of the investigation yourselves. Gives us more time to focus on healing you. I'll get the important memories for you, though—we can do that before you leave today." Draco looked at the next item on the list. "We'll start on the curse today then, although I'm not entirely sure it can be classified as a curse, but that's a discussion for another time." Potter narrowed his eyes at him, again, but he had to go on.
"Yes, Bellatrix could perform Legilimency. But she used it as an attack, as torture. She thought it was fun, the pain she could cause like that. I was her favourite mind to dig through, and she lived in my house for over two years." Draco met Potter's eyes, clenching his hands on the notebook to keep them from shaking. They always shook when he had to talk about the War. But he had to.
"Legilimency only hurts if the caster wants to cause the pain. It's a horrific headache, but the worst part is feeling defenseless, invaded, and helpless—again, Bellatrix's favourite effect. She liked that it wasn't as messy as other forms of torture, and more interesting than a Cruciatus." And now, Draco couldn't suppress his shudders. His memories of his Aunt's twisted, gleeful face as she pointed her wand at him time and again were at the forefront of his mind—she'd enjoyed using the Unforgivables on him as well. He knew he'd be panicking if he didn't even out his breathing soon.
"She also loved having people's secrets, throwing their vulnerability in their faces. She outed me to my parents, when she thought I was taking too long to fulfill Voldemort's… task. It took me six months of rigorous training, on my own, to learn enough Occlumency to keep her out. Thank Merlin I was at school most of the time."
Potter sat back and listened, fingers rubbing the armrests again, his face intent, but Draco thankfully could see neither contempt nor pity. He just listened, and accepted. He'd probably experienced Bellatrix's wrath first hand as well.
"I hate doing this," he admitted. It was somehow easier to admit it to Potter. "But it's an integral part of my work. You're undoubtedly going to feel extremely vulnerable. I'm going to enter your mind, four times a week, and I have to see everything, Potter. I don't know if you ever learned Occlumency after Severus tried to teach you—" Potter snorted at this, "—but you can't hide anything from me, while I'm in your head. I'll see embarrassing things, personal things, grief and joy and pain and all the rest. Someone forced you to hide your own voice away inside your mind, which means we'll have to look for it, and leave no stone unturned."
Draco paused for a moment, letting a dangerous looking Potter digest his words.
"So," he started again, "Healer Legilimens have to make themselves vulnerable, as well. You probably knew Bellatrix and my hangups about muggles were not something I particularly wanted to discuss." He held up his still shaking hand in emphasis. "But you are vulnerable to me, in here, so I allow myself to be vulnerable with you, in here, too. Any question you ask of me will be answered honestly, and without judgement. I am taking a risk, as well, you understand—you will learn things about me that I'd rather keep to myself, and if you wanted to, you could run to the Daily Prophet and tell them everything. You could even make something up and as long as it came from you, Potter, it would ruin me. But I'm trusting that you won't." He made sure to hold eye contact with Potter. This was too important. And utterly terrifying.
"This room, my study, is a sanctuary. There is no judgement, or hatred, or violence in here. Nothing that happens in here leaves this room, not even for your friends, without both of our consent. My wards here are stronger than the centuries-old blood wards at the Manor. My floo is normally locked to everyone except my mother, Pansy, and the Minister, but while you are here, it is locked and warded completely. While you are here, this space is only for you, me, and sometimes Timsy—who is the most loyal being I've ever known, and I consider him family." Draco put his arms on the armrests, forcing himself out of his defensive posture. "You are safe, here."
Potter was silent—of course he was. His face was tense, concentrating, like Draco was a difficult puzzle to solve. Which was alright, because Draco thought of Potter like a puzzle, too, albeit from more of a Healer's perspective. The fire crackled quietly in the grate.
Potter's eyes moved over Draco's face for a while, just watching him, and Draco sat still and calm, as much as he was squirming internally under Potter's intense perusal. His skin felt hot, and tight, and he knew he would feel betrayed if Potter walked away now, after Draco had opened up to him like this, even though it was only day one. But it was a lot to ask: for Harry Potter, to let his guard down alone in a room with Draco Malfoy, who would make himself vulnerable in return? The universe was clearly laughing at them, getting themselves into this situation. But Draco had done it, and the choice of whether his sanctuary and trust would be accepted was in Potter's hands.
Eventually, Potter's eyes moved back to the notebook in his lap, and Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief for the respite. The notebook was quickly turned to face him again, a simple request at the end of the previous scribbles.
Call me Harry, then
Draco gave a small, relieved smile. That was simple enough, easy, even though it felt like the earth was shifting under his feet.
"Alright," he said, reaching out his hand, fending off memories of eleven-year-olds on the Hogwarts Express. "Harry."
Pot—Harry returned Draco's smile, and it made Draco feel like his chest was glowing. He grasped Draco's hand firmly, shaking it gently. "When you're able," Draco smirked, "please call me Draco."
Harry rolled his eyes and let go of Draco's hand.
They basked in the heretofore inconceivable moment, until Harry looked at Draco expectantly and put his hands up, palms facing the ceiling, in a slight shrug. Draco read it as, what now?
Draco checked his watch—they had about an hour until lunch. "The time between our sessions is supposed to be used for rest and recuperation. We've got some time before lunch… do you still enjoy flying?"
Harry's eyes lit up. Draco had seen Harry on a broom enough in his youth to know he absolutely loved flying.
"Well, let's go for a fly then, I'll introduce you to the property."
They both stood up, and Draco ushered Harry out of the room. He began by giving him a tour of the house, starting with the sitting room, then the kitchen, where Timsy was making steak and kidney pie for lunch. Harry moved through each room, running his fingers along walls, shelves, countertops, even the plants, acquainting himself with the house. Draco showed him the guest bedroom, the bathroom, the master suite, and the domed sunroom, bright and humid and filled with more plants than he knew what to do with, both magical and not, but nothing dangerous. He'd had enough of that in the greenhouses at Hogwarts.
They made their way out to the garden, which was small and not perfectly tended, per Draco's request. He liked gardens best when the earth could grow what it wished, and he especially loved the magnolia tree, which was sprouting the smallest of buds, making Draco excited for their full, graceful blooms in a few weeks' time, and the gentle shower of large, pale pink petals that fell around the grass when they were finished. An old, wrought iron bistro set sat underneath it, where he liked to sit and read and have tea with Timsy, or alone. He loved that his garden was nearly a complete opposite of the Manor's gardens. His own little corner of the earth.
Draco walked with Harry across the lawn, towards the shed, talking at him about the magnolia tree and the garden and Timsy's horticultural quirks. Harry just listened intently, nodding sometimes, tilting his head to the side when he questioned something, pointing out things he wanted Draco to talk about. Surprisingly, it felt like a conversation, even though Harry wasn't able to fully contribute. Draco found himself wishing he was able to. He wanted to know what Harry liked about the place, what his own home looked like, when the last time he went flying was, what he had for breakfast. Draco was content with their dynamic, for now, but couldn't wait for them to finally free Harry's voice, so he could actually speak to Draco, like Draco was speaking to him now.
If he still wants to speak to you after you heal him, his traitorous brain supplied. Why would Harry Potter want to speak with you, when he doesn't need your expertise anymore?
Draco hesitated at the door to the shed, trying to preserve his good mood, but it was no use. He'd be in the air soon, anyway. He pulled open the door.
The smell of broom polish and wood drifted over them, and Draco breathed it in indulgently. His brooms were hung neatly in a line along one wall, and all of Timsy's outdoor tools adorned the other, above a short wooden counter filled with pots of soil and plant cuttings. Draco had held on to every broom he'd ever had, even as they got old and couldn't fly like they used to, or lost too many twigs to keep a straight line. There were five in total, starting with his first real broom, a Cleansweep Lucius had bought him for his tenth birthday, at the protest of his mother. Then there was the Nimbus 2001, part of the set Lucius had bought for the Slytherin team, followed by a top of the line Comet Aurora he had bought anonymously after the war, when he was stuck within the bounds of the Manor on probation. After that was the Turkish Göktaşı he'd bought while apprenticing in Istanbul, and finally, his Firebolt 3001.
Harry looked over each one, running his fingers along the polished wood. He was so tactile. He turned to Draco after his inspection and brought his index and thumb together on one hand, separating them by about an inch, before making a quick grabbing motion with the same hand.
"I don't have a Snitch at the moment," Draco replied, and it was truly bizarre how he could just understand what Harry was trying to say, without actually reading his thoughts. "The last one I had, erm… got away from me." He chuckled to himself. "But that's what I get for playing a solo Seeker's game in the middle of the night. We can just fly for today."
Draco stepped up next to Harry and contemplated for a moment, before grabbing his Göktaşı and the Firebolt, handing the Firebolt over to Harry. It was much lighter and more powerful than their original model, which he knew Harry had had at one point, and he wanted to see how Harry handled it. They were barely out of the shed before Harry swung his leg over it and kicked off, hard, soaring into the air.
Draco mounted his broom and kicked off to join him, flying laps around his house to warm up. The old forest around the house swayed in the light breeze, and the sun shone down on them generously. Its warmth suffused his clothes, which Draco appreciated. He had forgotten to put on a cloak or gloves before leaving the house, and felt uncharacteristically bad for depriving Harry of the same.
But Harry swerved and dived through the air without a care for the early spring chill. There was a wide smile on his face, carefree and jubilant, something Draco hadn't seen since Hogwarts, probably since the last time he had seen Harry on a broom, grabbing the Snitch out from under the nose of an opposing Seeker.
Draco steered his broom away from the house, wanting to show Harry how far out the wards extended, hoping it would help his peace of mind. Harry followed him, performing an occasional loop or barrel roll, and Draco knew that if he could, he would be laughing with unbridled joy.
Soon Draco saw the shimmer ahead of the wards, and spun to stop. Harry stopped next to him, his eyes shining with exhilaration, the ghost of a smile still on his face. Draco had to look away.
"This is where the wards begin," Draco explained, motioning towards the shimmering, transparent wall ahead of them. He started flying lazily along the barrier, all the way around the property, with Harry next to him, watching, listening. "They extend half a kilometer in each direction from the house, including up." He motioned above him. "People can apparate into the front walkway, but not if they have any intention to cause harm. You probably felt an assessment of sorts on your way in."
Harry raised his eyebrows in surprise and nodded. He almost looked… impressed.
"I worked on them for years. This place is practically a fortress," Draco added. Then an amusing idea came over him.
"I've never been able to race these two brooms against each other," Draco told Harry, eyes full of mischief. "Will you do me the honour?"
Draco barely got a glimpse of Harry's wicked smile before he shot off, and Draco followed closely, urging his broom faster as they raced towards the house. It was close, but the Göktaşı was built for speed more than maneuverability, and Draco reached the garden barely a half-second before Harry, landing clumsily and laughing in delight.
"Thank you for indulging me in that experiment," Draco said, unable to keep the smile off of his face. It felt so good to beat Harry at something, anything. His inner twelve-year-old was whooping with joy. Harry shook his head at him, still smiling, his cheeks flushed from the wind, his dark hair utterly chaotic. Draco's heart raced—from victory, or flight, or something else, he didn't care to know. He simply savoured the lightness in his chest, and moved on.
They walked over to the shed, putting away their brooms, before returning to the house.
As they went to sit at the table, Timsy gave them one of his signature exasperated looks and snapped his fingers. Draco paid no mind to the cleaning charm that swept across his hands, quite accustomed to Timsy's interference, but Harry jumped, bringing his hands to his face, inspecting the new lack of dirt under his nails.
"Masters will not be eating Timsy's cooking with Masterses hands being filthy," Timsy croaked quietly, and Draco half expected him to roll his huge eyes.
Draco thanked Timsy as he served them and returned to the kitchen, softly muttering about manners and cleanliness. Draco tried to keep the amused fondness out of his eyes, but according to Harry's thoughtful look, he wasn't successful.
"He'll eat with me, occasionally," Draco started, "But only once or twice a year. It makes him uncomfortable, especially around guests. I'm lucky if I can get him to take tea with me in the garden."
Harry had his mouth open in shock—thankfully he was in between bites. Draco was used to his patients' general surprise at him when they got to know him, but now it just seemed so much more… personal. He looked back down to his plate, and they carried on eating in silence.
Timsy appeared as soon as Draco put down his fork, and began clearing the table. Draco took a quick swig of his pumpkin juice, made sure Harry was done, and stood up, stretching again. Harry watched, seeming to map out the lines of Draco's body with his eyes, the way he mapped out unfamiliar rooms.
"Back to work, then," Draco declared, and led the way back to his study.
Once they were safely ensconced back in their wingback chairs by the fire, Harry looking much more relaxed having flown and eaten, Draco picked up his notebook.
"So, we want to get the memories of the pub for Weasley by the end of the day. That means I'll start with the introductory Legilimency, getting you accustomed to it, we'll spend some time getting acquainted with the process. Every mind is different, and it takes some getting used to for me, as well," Draco explained, while Harry listened intently, rubbing the leather on the arms of his chair with his hands. Draco spotted thin, jagged scars on the back of his right hand, that looked like words. Curious.
"Once we're more comfortable, I'll go ahead and run through the memories of the pub, and if you're alright with it, I'll remove them myself, and put them in a vial for you."
Harry nodded his assent, and Draco took a deep breath.
"Have you ever been successful at Occlumency?" Draco asked.
Harry tilted his head from side to side, apparently undecided. He eventually shook his head no, and lifted his hand to absently rub at his scar.
"It sounds like Snape taught you similarly to how Bellatrix taught me," Draco guessed, and Harry grimaced. "It's obviously not the best way to learn."
Sitting up in his chair, Draco put his hands on his knees and got comfortable. "I'm not going to teach you Occlumency unless you ask me to, but it would be easier for us to start if we're completely relaxed. Imagine what your mind looks like when you're anxious or upset, then imagine having to watch that in someone else—" Harry shuddered, "—quite—so we'll start with some breathing and meditation."
Harry sat up as well and mirrored Draco's position. "You don't have to mirror me exactly, as long as you're comfortable, but aware. Now, close your eyes…"
Draco guided Harry through a basic meditation, and Harry followed his instructions intently. Draco watched him, occasionally, watched his shoulders gently rise and fall with his measured breathing, watched his thumbs absently rub the inseam of the denim on his knees. When Draco told him to open his eyes, he sighed and gave Draco a little smile, and Draco fought to keep his face neutral, to not betray the glow in his chest through his face.
"Are you ready?" Draco asked, and Harry took another deep breath as he nodded.
Draco raised his wand, and concentrated to allow only a fraction of his power through it. "Legilimens."
The quick flashes were expected, even with the meditation, and he rode it out, while softly explaining himself to Harry.
"You won't last two seconds if He invades your mind," Severus snarls. "You're just like your father, lazy, arrogant—"
"I'm using the least amount of power I can, right now," Draco murmured.
A tiny, dark room, under the stairs, a small spider descends from the ceiling.
"You may feel like someone's standing right behind you, looking over your shoulder."
A toddler is hugging his leg, looking up at him and smiling. As Harry watches, his hair turns from soft turquoise waves to chaotic black curls. Harry laughs and ruffles it.
"Focus on where you feel me, in your head."
A fourteen-year-old Draco laughs at him, surrounded by their classmates, wearing a badge that flashes 'Potter Stinks'.
A twenty-five-year-old Draco hands him a piece of chocolate and says, "Eat, you'll feel better."
A twelve-year-old Draco stands with the Slytherin Quidditch team, holding a new Nimbus 2001, sneering at Granger. He spits the word, "Mudblood," at her, like venom.
A seventeen-year-old Draco stares at his swollen face, recognition and fear in his eyes, and says, "I can't be sure."
"It's alright," Draco said, his own emotions tucked carefully away to deal with later. "Let them come, let them drift. I'm going to add more power, see if you can pick out my presence." He concentrated, and felt more energy flow through his wrist. Harry gasped softly.
Fifteen-year-old Harry runs through the Ministry atrium, full of grief, and screams "Crucio!" as Bellatrix taunts him, "You have to mean it!"
Ginny Weasley sits on a bed. "You don't love me, Harry—I don't know why you keep trying to convince yourself that you do."
"I've been told my presence smells a bit like broom polish, or candlesmoke. You may experience something similar." Harry's memories were so vibrant—detailed and intense. He felt everything so strongly, and Draco had trouble keeping up with the rapid changes. Fear, curiosity, anger, grief, joy. Draco could feel his own reactions about to burst from where he kept them held back.
In a graveyard, Voldemort's Cruciatus rips through a fourteen-year-old Harry, as Lucius laughs and jeers from the side. Harry screams in agony.
Draco gently pulled away, breathing shakily. He lowered his wand, and closed his eyes, and kept them closed, forcing his breathing to even, counting his breaths, rubbing the tops of his thighs. He ran his hand through his hair, yes, that was his own hair, soft and sleek. He stuck his index finger into the open collar on his shirt, felt the raised skin of the tip of a scar there, on his collarbone. He rubbed the inside of his left forearm through his shirt, though it disgusted him more than usual, after that.
Draco should have been expecting a memory of Lucius. He should have been prepared for something like that. He would be, next time, he promised himself. He opened his eyes.
Harry was looking at him anxiously, but didn't appear to be in distress. These were his memories, after all, he must be used to them by now. Apparently, they flowed through him that quickly all the time. It was clearly Draco who had been affected the most.
"I told you, it takes both of us some getting used to." Draco quirked his lips, trying to inject confidence back into his voice. "How did that feel?"
Harry just watched him a moment more, before grabbing his notebook and turning to a blank page to write.
It didn't hurt?
Draco frowned. "It shouldn't have," he said cautiously. "As I said, it only hurts if the intention is to cause pain. I don't want to hurt you."
Harry shook his head, scratched something out, wrote again.
It didn't hurt? hurt you?
Draco furrowed his brows. Harry was looking at him with… concern? He couldn't really tell. "No, it doesn't hurt me, either. But your memories are very vibrant, you feel things very intensely. It's a lot to handle, at first, but I'll get used to it."
Harry was still looking at him with that maybe-concerned face, and Draco decided to move on.
"Were you able to identify my presence in your head?"
Harry thought for a moment, and touched his finger to his nose with a smirk. "You could smell me?" Draco guessed, and Harry nodded. "That's a good place to start. Soon you'll be able to tell, it'll feel a bit crowded. You'll experience your own memories, but we'll see the same things. You'll feel the presence of a spectator, again, like someone is watching from right behind you, just out of sight."
Harry rubbed his hand over his jaw, thinking. He turned considering eyes back to Draco.
"Do you have any questions so far?" Draco offered. Harry hesitated, holding the pen over the paper.
"I told you you can ask whatever you like, and I will answer honestly," Draco reminded him, ignoring the warning lights flashing in the back of his mind, begging him to retract the statement, to crawl back to safety.
Harry thought, and began to write. He took care in writing this one, chewing the end of the pen, finding the right words, before turning the notebook around.
Why did you agree to do this?
Draco took a deep breath, and caught himself rubbing his chest. He quickly returned his hand to the armrest, but Harry stared at his chest now, as if he could see through the fabric.
"A few reasons," Draco began. He had to be honest, Harry would know if he wasn't. "The biggest reason is that I'm a Healer, and I'm obligated to help when I'm needed. It's not a part of my bonds, but I feel the obligation nonetheless. I haven't turned down a case yet." Harry furrowed his brows, and Draco cleared his throat. He hadn't meant to mention his bonds, and now he was flustered. He didn't want to get into that now.
"The second reason is that I owe you at least one life debt, if not more than that, and I knew this would help even it out, if only a little." Harry's eyebrows were drawing even closer together. He clearly didn't like that.
"The third reason," Draco paused, but made himself continue, "is sheer curiosity." Harry's face smoothed out, carefully blank. He really didn't like that. Draco narrowed his eyes at him. "Not in the way your fans are curious," Draco added, because apparently that wasn't clear. "I'm curious about all of my cases, because they all present a unique challenge. I love that part of my work, I love solving the puzzles, traversing the mazes." Draco paused again, watching Harry's eyes slowly lose that carefully guarded look. "And of course I was curious about the challenge you would present. I never was able to ignore a challenge from you."
Harry continued watching him, absorbing his words. Draco made himself finish.
"And lastly," he continued, "I wanted the opportunity to show you that I am much more than the cruel, spoiled boy you knew me as." Harry's lips parted in shock. "Your opinion matters to me, always has," Draco muttered, "even when I made you hate me and fight with me, I earned your regard as a rival, an enemy. I relished in it, spitefully, as a child. And then everything went to shit, my father turned out to be a monster who kissed the feet of another monster, everything I knew was turned on its head. I wished that I'd seen it sooner, that I'd been able to make you see me differently. But it was too little, too late, and I was a coward. I did horrible things, inexcusable things," he shuddered, unable to suppress it. "And then you testified for me, to the surprise of the whole world, and I didn't understand why, but I figured that was as good as I was going to get. I was sure I'd never get an opportunity to… to get to know you, for you to get to know me. So I never bothered to try. Until Weasley woke me up at the crack of dawn yesterday, and made fun of my slippers, and asked for my help." Draco met his eyes. So outrageously green, and bright like the sun on the foliage in Draco's sunroom, and so fucking intense. "So, here we are."
Harry seemed appalled that Draco had answered truthfully. His shock was evident on his face, his hand still holding the pen, still held carefully over the notebook, as if he'd forgotten it was there.
"I told you I would answer you honestly," Draco reminded him again, because Harry apparently hadn't really believed him. Hopefully he would, now. Draco had had practice in honesty, but it still felt heavier, more difficult, with Harry. More important.
"Could I ask…" Draco hesitated. "You don't have to answer, since that's not part of our agreement. But I'm curious as to why…" he bit his lip, sorting his words. "Why you agreed to work with me, considering our history, when there are plenty of Healer Legilimens elsewhere in the world."
Harry began writing right away.
Need this fixed ASAP. Responsibilities
Draco nodded. "I figured," he muttered. "But the Healers I trained under have more experience, they might have been faster."
Harry's mouth twisted; he turned his notebook back around, returned the pen to it for a minute more.
Knew you had incentive to do well—reputation
"This is true," Draco nodded again, "and not only because you could ruin me if I failed, or otherwise sabotaged your healing."
Harry's hands gripped the notebook like a lifeline, and he seemed to be fighting himself over something. He turned the notebook back to himself, and wrote once more.
Curious, too
Draco prayed to whoever was listening that he wasn't blushing. Merlin preserve his dignity, Harry Potter was curious about him. Or maybe about his work. Or about whether he was up to anything nefarious. He accepted the warmth in his chest and put it out of his mind.
"Fair enough," he replied. Harry's lips turned up in a small smile, and Draco returned it.
"Now, back to business," he declared, shaking himself out and taking a deep, stabilizing breath. "I didn't see anything that particularly stuck out to me as a clue, but the memories were flying past me rather quickly. Tomorrow, when we go back in, we'll do more meditation. It helps slow things down, in your head. I'll be able to look more closely. But since we're nearly finished for today, how about I grab those memories from the pub?"
Harry seemed grateful to move on from the heavy moment, and he nodded quickly in assent. Draco raised his wand.
"This may feel overwhelming, but try to sit back and ride it out, alright?" He waited for Harry to nod, keeping his eye contact. "Legilimens."
A small Harry stands at a stove. The food is burning, a shrill woman is yelling.
Hermione is dancing with him, tears in her eyes, in the middle of a wizarding tent.
Robards is yelling at him. "You're not the Chosen One, here, you're not fighting evil alone anymore, Auror Potter! Your fellow Aurors are relying on you out in the field, trusting you, and you need to rely on them and trust them in return!"
"It's alright," he repeated, unsure of what he was trying to console. "I'm going to steer us around, hang on." He focused, imagining what he was looking for. He found a similar image quickly, and latched on, commanding his wand to find more.
The memories started to rush past, but Draco paused the flow, stopping for barely a second on each one.
The bartender smiles at him as he enters. "Back again, Harry?"
Harry laughs. The bartender pours a glass of whiskey, neat. "You know me too well, John."
Draco, still watching the memory, gave his wand a complicated flick, and the memory started funneling away from him. Draco didn't have to see it to know it was drawing itself out of Harry's head, floating into an empty vial on his shelf. He moved on.
A man with curly brown hair and light blue eyes smiles at him. "I'd offer you a drink, but it seems you've had plenty, and I'd much rather you buy me one so I can catch up." He winks.
A woman sits next to him, drunk, rambling about her ex boyfriend. "Thanks," she sighs. "You're a good listener."
"You seem familiar," a blond man says. "Have we met?"
Draco flicks.
"You in law enforcement?" a pale woman asks. "We've never met, obviously, but you seem the type. Am I right?"
Flick.
"Come on, Harry," a burly man smiles at him, as Harry gathers darts from a dart board. "I've got money on you. I know what you can do." He winks at him.
Flick. More memories passed, Harry at the bar, chatting with the bartender about nothing. Men and women chatting him up, but uninterested in him, talking about themselves constantly. Harry evades their questions, and leaves with no one.
"You're very mysterious," a man with deep brown skin remarks, a small smile on his face. "I'm not trying to pull or anything. I find you interesting, I want to get to know you."
Flick.
"So, which war were you in?" an older man sidles up next to him against the wall. Harry snaps his head around, looking for a wand on the man's person, and doesn't see one. "I can just tell," the man says. "You look the way I felt."
Flick. On and on it went. Anyone who actually showed interest in Harry's life was funneled efficiently out of his head and into the vial. Any repeating faces, as well, even though the attacker would probably have remained disguised. Anyone who mentioned anything about knowing him, or not knowing him, or how much he hid from them. He tried to listen for vocal inflections he might recognize from the attacker, but he figured they'd have masked their voice as well.
Harry looks over his shoulder—a blonde woman is staring at him from across the pub, nursing a drink. She stares for the rest of the night, never approaching him, until Harry gets fed up with the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, and leaves in a huff.
Flick. Draco felt Harry urge him on, then, a quiet yes feeling. Maybe he was stared at often. Draco rushed through the memories, searching for that particular feeling of discomfort, of being watched, and flicked several more strands into the vial. He stopped the flow, gave Harry a second to catch up now that he controlled his own thoughts again, and pulled away, lowering his wand.
Draco came back to himself, performing his normal routine, rubbing his thighs, his hair, looking at his fingers, feeling the scar, touching his left arm. When he opened his eyes, Harry was already writing.
What are you doing?
"Ah," Draco said, "with my body, just then?" Harry nodded.
"I'm er…" how could he phrase this without sounding like a nutter? "I'm returning to my body, per se," he tried. "The lines can blur, sometimes, of where I end and the other person begins, and it's very important to maintain those boundaries as much as possible. I do that every time I leave someone's head, I take inventory of the things I know about my own body, and reaffirm those boundaries." Harry listened intently, eyes moving around Draco's body where it was seated in the chair, taking an inventory of his own.
"My hands fall on my thighs frequently, so my legs are very familiar to me," Draco explained, rubbing the tops of his thighs again. "I know inherently what my own hair feels like, that it is my own. I have a scar, on my collarbone, here," he stuck his finger in his shirt again, but didn't move the fabric, "and on my left arm is what's left of the Dark Mark, something that's very unlikely to be on anyone I'm healing, so I know I am me."
Harry nodded slowly in understanding, his eyes still roaming Draco's body. His thumb absently rubbed the scars on the back of his right hand.
Draco stood and retrieved the vial from the shelf, corking it. It glowed silver with the plethora of memories in it. He handed it to Harry, who took it carefully, with a vague look of awe on his face.
"This should be enough to start with," Draco said, explaining his criteria for filtering the memories. Harry nodded along, his eyes still watching the swirling strands. "We can go back for more later if you need them or decide on a different criteria."
Harry looked back at him, considering. They watched each other for a moment.
"Do you have any more questions before we wrap up for the day?"
Harry thought for a bit, biting his lip, before shaking his head. Draco sat back down in his chair.
"Then we'll finish with one more meditation, which is meant to help you reaffirm your control over your mind, and your autonomy over your body, like I just did. I'll guide you through this one, but after today, you'll do the ending meditation on your own. It's important for me not to have sway in how you return to yourself, understand?" Draco paused briefly, before adding, "Plus, you'll be quite sick of my voice in your head after a while. You'll want to do this part on your own."
Harry grinned at him, sitting up comfortably, putting his hands on his knees and closing his eyes. His breathing slowed, and Draco could tell he was counting through them, inhaling for four, holding for two, exhaling for four, over and over.
Draco guided him through it, telling him how to touch things he knew about his body, birthmarks or scars. He rubbed the scars on the back of his hand, one that Draco couldn't see, on his upper chest, and one on his left bicep. He told Harry to think about times he felt most loved, most at home, and delighted at the small smile this produced on Harry's face. He told Harry to think about things he wanted, even things he hated, if he had to, as long as he went back to things he loved afterwards. He made Harry think about his accomplishments—his favourite accomplishments, not whatever the Wizarding World thought were his greatest moments, he clarified. He asked Harry to think about the things he liked best about himself, which made Harry frown in concentration. Apparently he struggled with that one.
He finally told Harry to let his thoughts drift however felt natural to him, to not try to control them, but simply allow his mind to flow how it was used to, and to open his eyes when he felt ready. Harry breathed for a couple more minutes before opening his eyes, where Draco waited, watching him. Harry grinned at him again, and Draco returned it, silently reveling in how good it felt to have Harry look at him with something other than rage or revulsion.
"Leave that notebook here," Draco told him. "You can use it for our sessions, but it won't leave this room." Harry set the notebook on the side table, and grabbed a chocolate covered biscuit from Timsy's tray. Draco smirked. "Good, Timsy would be terribly offended if you didn't."
He walked Harry to the front door himself, and watched him take his leather jacket off the hook on the wall and slip it on. Harry ran a hand through his hair, and turned to face Draco, holding out a hand for him to shake.
Draco shook it gently, "Thursday," he reminded. "Nine o' clock." Harry nodded.
"Until then, Harry." The corner of Draco's lips turned up as he opened the door, and Harry gave him a quick smile, before stepping out. Draco closed the door after him, knowing he wouldn't hear a goodbye of any sort. It was indeed odd to say goodbye to someone without hearing it in return.
But he'd get used to it.
He stayed there with his hand on the doorknob until he felt the wobble of the wards, then released a long breath, the work of the day finally catching up with him. He felt drained, emotionally, physically, magically.
"Timsy," he mumbled. The elf simply leaned his head out of the sitting room and looked at him, instead of apparating. Draco was glad for it. "Will you please wake me in time for dinner?"
"Yes, Master Draco," Timsy replied as he slipped back into the sitting room. Draco smiled faintly as he heard the muttering about "Master is never learning to be sleeping when he is supposed to, never learns."
His bed welcomed him, and he barely bothered to remove his clothes before climbing under the covers, drifting into a deep, dreamless nap.