Twelve Steps

Chapter Two

"Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

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"Will you be joining us, Damien?"

Draco glanced up from his steaming polystyrene mug to where Rain beckoned, one hand on her generous hips and the other raised in a gesture of supreme impatience. He frowned, shaking his head blearily, and spit a mouthful of the bitter Muggle coffee back into the cup. Absolutely revolting, he thought. These Muggles are so daft that they can't even remember to put caffeine in their coffee! And which idiot invented decaffeinated tea?

Having spent most of the previous evening toiling over his Potion of Restoration, as he had tentatively dubbed it, he could have used a handy jolt of caffeine. The exhaustion seemed to have wormed itself into the very marrow of his bones, not to mention the fact that he was weak with hunger. He had refused everything that the Muggles had offered him for the past four days, certain that both food and drink were somehow contaminated. When Draco had requested a cup of coffee for lunch, the nurse had been so delighted that she'd brought it to him herself, practically dancing a jig along the way. After several sips, he'd noticed that the telltale tang of caffeine was absent. "Of course, Damien!" the nurse had said with an exasperated smile. "Many of our patients are addicted to stimulants; you can't expect us to lace our beverages with it! Why don't you join us tomorrow morning for our Daily Stroll? It can be quite invigorating, you know!"

To his credit, Draco had waited until she was out of earshot to mutter, "Bugger off."

Now he sat in a dejected funk, examining the swirling depths of his cup just as Professor Trelawney had once stared at her tea leaves. But Trelawney was long dead, and Draco was once again late for group therapy. Last time Dr Swill had warned him that, if he still failed to cooperate, "more aggressive methods" would be pursued to ensure his docility. He could not determine whether or not the other man was having him on, but he thought he ought to mind his manners just in case. One never knew what Muggles might do when provoked, and he had no weapons with which to defend himself anymore.

Shrugging off his malaise, he stalked down the corridor toward Room Two. Nurses scurried to and fro, clutching bright orange bottles with strange Muggle caps that unscrewed when you pressed on them at a certain angle, but the rest of the patients had already gathered for the session. The door was slightly ajar when he arrived, and the echo of a soft voice trickled through the open space. It sounded vaguely similar to--

No, Draco thought, chucking his cup into the nearby rubbish bin. It can't be. I must be hallucinating; I really ought to get a bit of rest tonight, or they'll truly be convinced that I'm a nutter.

With a trembling hand, he pushed the door aside and took one step into the room, and then another. Then he stopped dead in his tracks. Seated in the middle of the circle of chairs was his Hogwarts rival, Harry Potter, his faint but steady voice filling the room like a breath of warm, oppressive air.

"My name is Hugh," Potter was saying, oblivious to Draco's presence. His eyes seemed far away behind the glasses that sat lopsided on his nose, and his arms were wrapped around his shoulders in a wary posture. Draco noted that, indeed, the hastily scrawled name tag at the collar of his shirt identified him as a "Hugh P." The crude block lettering was so large that it was visible across the room. Dumbledore certainly is a bright spark when it comes to pseudonyms, he thought with no small amount of sarcasm.

Hoping that no one would acknowledge his presence, Draco sidled further into the room and slouched against the wall. The others all seemed intent on Potter, who was continuing his monologue in hushed tones. Draco took the opportunity to assess the other man as he spoke; Potter looked as thin and peaked as he himself must have. A narrow strip of gauze had been taped onto the side of his neck, and the dark circles ringing his eyes almost overshadowed the glinting frames of his glasses. Although he was attired in Muggle garb, the worn denim trousers and oversized jumper hung on his already wiry frame in a manner startlingly reminiscent of a scarecrow. Had he looked this sorrowful and pathetic in the Malfoy gardens? Draco couldn't recall, and he ruthlessly quashed the dregs of sympathy that began to stir at the sight of Potter's condition.

"Go on, Hugh," Rain urged, patting the arm of Potter's chair with her hand. Potter nearly sprang out of it, and it took several moments for him to relax enough to speak again. Even so, his hands remained clenched in a tight knot, fingers wound so taut that the knuckles had turned alabaster.

"Well," said Potter, "so, I'm a--oh, let me start again. My name is Hugh, and I'm a--" Again, he stumbled over the word. "I'm addicted to narcotics." He plastered a tremulous smile onto his face; Draco had seen that expression often enough at Hogwarts to know that it was entirely manufactured.

"Thank you, Hugh. Is there anything else you want to share with us today?"

"Um, er. No. Not really. I mean, that is to say..." Harry shrugged with practised nonchalance, and Draco was sure he was the only one in the room who noticed the telltale flutter of his eyelashes. Potter was frightened of these Muggles. "I guess I'm just not ready yet."

Rain was falling all over herself to reassure Potter when Draco finally emerged from the shadowy space behind the door. Potter gazed up in befuddlement, not recognising him as anything other than a fellow patient. Merlin, just how far gone is he?

"Hugh," Draco sneered, injecting as much Slytherin pomposity into his voice as he dared. He stared down at Potter with lofty disdain. Some of the fog seemed to clear from Potter's eyes. He blinked thrice, his chapped lips opening and closing several times, fishlike.

"M--"

"That's right." Draco cut him off before he could complete the name. "Damien. Fancy meeting you here after all of this time. Splendid, isn't it?"

"Yes," Potter said slowly, as if clouds coated his tongue in a thick fuzz. He pushed his unruly brown fringe out of his eyes. "I wasn't expecting to meet anyone. I reckon we have a bit to discuss, then?"

Their burgeoning conversation was interrupted by Rain, who reminded them--with effervescent cheer, of course--that others were due their turn to speak. Both men sat in numbed silence as the session drew to a close. Whilst the other patients filed out of the room in rapid succession, they remained in their seats. Draco reclined in a slovenly fashion, legs stretched over the arm of his chair and head tilted back in deceptive repose. Potter sat rigid and motionless until the last of the Muggles had staggered out of the room. Then he turned to Draco, whose eyes were hidden behind a veil of white-blonde locks.

"Malfoy," he said. "Did Dumbledore send you? Why are you here?"

"I could ask you the same question," Draco murmured. For the moment, he was determined to avoid divulging any information about his own situation.

"Very well, Malfoy," Potter said with a sigh, sounding almost like his old self. "If he is hiding you here as well, he certainly forgot to mention anything about it to me. But then, I'm not sure I was--maybe I wasn't fully cognisant at the time, you know?"

"No." Draco stared at Potter, wriggling in his chair until he sat up straight. "I don't know. What, precisely, are you attempting to communicate, Potter? You're beginning to sound a bit dodgy yourself."

"That's why we're here, isn't it?"

"What are you on about? I thought Dumbledore had sent you to retrieve me."

"Retrieve you?" Potter sounded incredulous. "Whatever for? What is it that we're to return to, exactly?"

Draco hesitated. He had already revealed too much in his haste to escape the nightmare in which he was currently trapped, and the web of truth was drawing closer with each word he spoke. "Why, to Hogwarts. To the wizarding world." When the other man failed to respond, Draco finally tossed his head in exasperation. "Aren't you here with the potion, Potter? To restore my magic?"

This time, Potter did hurtle forward from his chair. It was a miracle that he managed to land on his feet. Draco followed his lead with greater leisure, stretching his aching limbs as he rose.

"You've lost your magic too?" Potter demanded, his eyes flashing, jaw jutting forward in shock and indignation. If he didn't examine the furnishings too closely, Draco thought, he might convince himself that they were back at Hogwarts after all.

"What do you mean, too?"

"Well," Potter muttered, and now his voice seemed to be failing him again. "I didn't know that it had affected so many people."

Draco shot him a venomous glare. Crossing his arms defensively, Potter stared back without his usual pique. "Don't play the innocent with me this time, Potter," Draco hissed. "You and Dumbledore are in collusion all the way up to your lovely emerald eyeballs. You sent me there to the final battle, and it's because of you that I've lost my magic--that I've lost everything. What else do you want from me, you prat?"

"You were t-th-there?" Potter stuttered. Draco could only nod, a blush of shame spreading across his features as he realised that he was now virtually helpless before the Boy Who Lived. If his magic had deserted him, then his training in Occlumency must be null and void, and Potter could have his revenge for all the years of torture that Draco had inflicted upon the Gryffindor House. He steeled himself, awaiting the mental blow that was sure to follow. Surely this was why Potter had followed him here; the anxiety must have been a ruse to get him alone, away from the ignorant Muggles.

"Go ahead," Draco said. "Have it out, then." I'm a right fool for ever trusting that wretched Headmaster, but what am I to do about it now? There was nowhere to run, and he was tired of fleeing from Harry Potter; he had done it so many times already.

Although Potter was indeed staring deep into his eyes, Draco did not feel the fingers of Legilimency rippling across the surface of his memories. Nor was his wand anywhere in sight. What was Potter plotting now?

"Come on," he repeated, this time with a hint of derision. "I haven't all day to wait, Potter. We have another prayer reading in less than an hour, as I'm sure you are aware."

But Potter had turned his eyes away from Draco's, rummaging through his pocket with one pale, callused hand. After a moment, he glanced up, his wand clutched to his chest like some of the first-years had once hugged their new owls. With what seemed like a great, heaving effort, he extended his arm so that Draco's view of the elegant holly stick was unimpeded. Draco's eyes flickered from the phoenix feather at the tip down to the body of the wand, and an involuntary gasp escaped his lips. The wand had been snapped neatly in two, almost as if it had been cut.

"You've lost yours, too?" Draco whispered in sudden comprehension.

"Yes," Harry breathed, taking a step closer to him.

"It was a rhetorical question, you git."

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