Twelve Steps

Chapter Three

"Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

* * * * *

Draco Malfoy was not about to cater to anyone's whims, especially the Boy Who Lived.

He refused to speak to Potter after their brief conversation in the therapy room, despite the other man's polite entreaties. A lesser wizard may have been swayed by the thought that they both shared the same plight, but Draco was not yet ready to consider himself a--he could barely bring himself to even think the word--a Squib. Potter had brought the whole thing on himself, at any rate; Draco was positive that, had he been the one entrusted with the task of defeating Voldemort, the resulting spell would have been more specifically targeted. Thus Draco fully intended to ignore Potter, perfect the Potion of Restoration on his own, and then leave the pitiful berk to consort with his precious Muggles. Finally, the revered Harry Potter will become acquainted with the wrong end of his own wand.

The day did not progress entirely as Draco had planned, however. Although he normally used the afternoon prayer hour as an opportunity to let ideas about his potions germinate, Potter's insistent presence at his side made it difficult to concentrate. Three times Potter swayed on his feet, but Draco obdurately refrained from giving Potter so much as a steadying hand. He had begun to think that Potter really was under the influence of some sort of strange Muggle drug. Never had his rival approached him with such patent vulnerability; it almost seemed as though Potter felt guilty about what he had done to Draco. This, of course, was utter nonsense. Potter would never feel anything more than repugnance for a Slytherin, let alone a reformed Death Eater. This was evidenced by the scorn with which he had always regarded Professor Snape, in spite of the Potions Master's multiple (and successful) attempts to save the wretched boy's life.

During dinner, Potter made another futile attempt to converse with him. "Why aren't you eating, Malfoy?" he asked from across the table.

"I refuse to consume Muggle slime," Draco snapped, sipping from a lukewarm glass of water that he had poured from the tap himself.

Potter's eyebrows shot up in concern. "But you really ought to...you look a bit--"

"Before you develop a sudden interest in my welfare, Potter, perhaps you should consider your own." Malfoy nodded meaningfully at Potter's own plate, where an unidentified piece of meat lay untouched. Potter poked at the mysterious brown glob with his plastic knife.

"If you would just let me explain--"

"No," Draco cut in, spearing a wilted stalk of broccoli with his fork and examining it carefully. Perhaps he could substitute it for aconite in his potion. It certainly looked poisonous enough. "I think we understand each other quite well, Potter. You," he continued, stabbing the broccoli savagely, "are content to remain with the Muggles. I, on the other hand, will succeed in restoring myself and then return to claim my birthright."

Potter mumbled something under his breath, but he said nothing more for the rest of the evening. They walked back to their rooms in blessed silence; it was only then that Draco discovered who his new roommate was. He had considered the possibility, of course, but he had been hoping that Potter was one of several new patients to arrive at the centre that day. Unfortunately, Potter was close on his heels as he stomped into the bedroom and shoved the broccoli that he had saved into one of his bureau drawers. Unwilling to work on his potion with Potter staring at him from the other bed, he finally drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

At precisely three in the morning, according to the fuzzy red numbers on the Muggle alarm clock, Draco awoke to a cacophony of noise.

Two white-clad nurses hovered around the other bed, trying in vain to muffle the howls that echoed through the room and drifted out into the hallway. Potter sat bolt upright, arms flailing wildly in his oversized flannel pyjamas. His hair was matted to his forehead with a thick sheen of sweat, masking the scar that sullied the skin beneath it, and his eyes shone in the darkness like a beacon. Without the glasses, he looked older and somewhat sinister. His mouth hung open, agape with raw terror, as though he were awaiting a Dementor's kiss.

"P--Hugh!" Draco shouted crossly, but there was no response. The caterwauling went on for what seemed an interminable length of time. Gradually he began to discern a pattern in the shrill keening; Potter was talking to someone in his nightmares, evidently. Draco listened more closely, hoping that he might blackmail Potter into procuring ingredients for his potion.

"Nonononono," Potter screeched.

"What is he on about?" Draco demanded. One of the nurses shot him a glare, her hands still shoving at Potter's shoulder in an abortive attempt to restrain his frantic movements.

"Withdrawal," the nurse said shortly, most of her attention devoted to her patient. The other nurse had retrieved something from the pocket of her uniform and was fiddling with it. As Draco watched with dawning horror, the two women finally pinned Potter to the sheets with their combined strength. One of the nurses rolled the fabric of Potter's trousers up on one side while the other pressed a long, thin device against his bare leg. Potter's screams shot up in pitch as he jerked forward, once, and then collapsed against his pillow like a rag doll. It's no wonder that he's terrified of the Muggles. He wondered how long Potter had been in Muggle care, and how long they had been drugging him, but he was distracted from his thoughts when Potter resumed his whimpering.

"Ron," he mumbled. "No, Ron..." He whispered something unintelligible. "M'sorry, I didn't mean to, Mrs. Weasley. Please don't take my jumper back. No, I'll get 'im back, promise..." Then he was asleep.

Draco spent the rest of the night staring at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

He was still awake when, just before the nurse's daily summoning to test him with the Muggle health contraptions, an escort arrived to take Potter off to see the good Dr Wellington. It was lunchtime before he saw Potter again; he was arranging the rice on his chipped plate into a long snake when the other man trudged into the cafeteria, flanked by three nurses. They left him alone, but only after he had dutifully swallowed four pills the size of scarab beetles. Draco scanned his underfed form, noting that he had thrown on the same wrinkled jumper and trousers as he had worn the day before. The bandage at his neck had peeled off at one side, revealing a crusted scab. It would probably become yet another scar to add to Potter's growing collection.

"Sleep well?" said Draco, by way of greeting. A little knot of satisfaction twisted in his stomach as Potter flinched visibly. He refused to meet Draco's eyes, spending the rest of the lunch period shovelling overcooked carrots into his mouth. So he does remember, Draco thought. How convenient for me.

Despite Potter's recalcitrance, he seemed more alert today, if not more akin to his old self. Draco remembered weeks at Hogwarts when the young Harry Potter had stumbled through his classes surrounded by a veritable fog of doom, muttering only a word or two to his Gryffindor comrades, who had followed at his heels with cloying solicitude. Of course, Draco would never stoop to their level; he would wait for Potter to approach him first. Besides, why should it concern him if Potter were plagued by nightmares? Only a Gryffindor would allow bruises of shame and grief to fester until they began to seep into his dreams. Whilst Draco might feel a marginal amount of regret over his conquests as a former Death Eater, he certainly did not permit such emotions to leech away his sleep, let alone corrode his waking hours. Potter, he told himself, was a weak fool.

Still, he listened with scarcely concealed interest as Potter related more of his 'story' during their afternoon therapy session. "I've made a lot of mistakes," Potter was saying, tremors disturbing the balance of his voice every so often. "A lot of people--people that I cared about--have come to harm because of my own carelessness. In my dreams, they return to me. They demand to know why I let them down. I just couldn't take it anymore, so I started taking..." He paused, wiping the lenses of his glasses on a loose fold of his rumpled jumper. "I started taking narcotics. They kept me from dreaming too much, I guess, and they dulled the pain."

"Why don't you just find the people you hurt and apologise to them?" interrupted one of the men, his words slurred as though he were still deeply inebriated.

"George!" Rain chided, shooting the scruffy man a glare of warning. "In the Twelve Step Programmes, we do not give advice or criticism; we are only here to listen and offer the wisdom of our mutual experience." What utter rubbish, Draco thought, rolling his eyes. "Besides, what do we always say?"

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty," mumbled one of the other men from a haze of what Draco assumed to be, as the nurse had termed it, 'withdrawal'. Rain beamed at him in response and then turned back to Potter.

"Do go on, Hugh. I'm sure everyone is fascinated by what you have to say!"

"I'm afraid that contacting most of the people I've harmed is impossible," Potter said, acknowledging the initial question. "There's only one person left that I might make amends to, and so far, that person has resisted my attempts to explain myself."

As if compelled, Draco looked up from his study of the upholstery and froze. Potter was staring straight at him, his eyes glinting with a fervent intensity. Draco could not determine the precise emotion that flared within them. Yesterday, he would have pegged it as loathing without a second thought. Today, however, Potter's conciliatory tone was at odds with the expression on his face.

After Potter had finished his soliloquy, Draco bent his will to the task of ignoring the rest of the Muggles' speeches. They were all the same, at any rate: lengthy recitations of horror and misery that all centred around their inability to moderate alcohol or Muggle drug intake. The sole exception was the woman who had termed herself 'bulimic', and Draco still had no idea what she meant. She seemed fixated on her appearance, though, which did not interest Draco in the least. He had stopped paying attention to feminine aesthetics in his second year at Hogwarts, much to Pansy Parkinson's dismay. Nor did he pay any heed to the desperation with which the sharp-featured woman clutched at his hand at the end of the session, as they gathered in a circle to recite the Serenity Prayer like the mindless sheep that they were.

Once they had all filed out of the room, Draco made his way down the corridor. Potter, of course, was close behind him, and he wasted little time before diving into yet another useless conversation.

"Malfoy, would you just wait a moment?"

"Unlike you, Potter, self-flagellation is not at the top of my priority list."

"We're both stuck here, so couldn't we just agree to--"

"To keep our noses out of each other's business? Why, yes, that would be splendid. I'm so glad you suggested it." They had reached the bedroom now, and Draco slammed the door with an audible clang.

"If you would just let me explain, Malfoy..." Potter trailed off, turning to face the wall, hands plunged into his pockets. Draco flounced over to his bed and fell upon it while the other man's back was turned, not wanting Potter to know how close he was to collapsing from fatigue. Hunger gnawed at his insides, but he elected to pretend that it was only a passing sensation.

"Your justifications are not my concern, Potter. And after that load of codswallop you dropped on the Muggles today, I would have to be an ickle Gryffindor to trust anything you have to say."

Potter whirled to face him, his mouth set in an outraged line. "But it's true!"

His brow furrowed in contempt, Draco stared back. "You're dependent on Muggle narcotics?" he asked, incredulity straining his voice.

"Of course not," Potter muttered, shooting Draco an exasperated glare. "Snape has been supplying me with--well, you do remember seventh-year potions, don't you?"

A Lumos spell went on in Draco's head. "Dreamless Sleep Potion," he murmured. "You're such a git, Potter. Did you conveniently forget Professor Snape's three hour lecture on the dangers of its extended use?"

Storming over to his own bed, Potter flopped down and studied the wall for a minute or two. The silence stretched out between them, separating them more substantially than any wall could have. Finally, Potter spoke. "Whatever I say, you turn it around on me."

"Stop blathering on, then!"

"I want to make amends for what I've done, Malfoy," Potter went on, blithely ignoring him. His voice held a remnant of its steadfast Gryffindor determination. "I will not, however, cede my will to yours--or to anyone else's, for that matter. Not anymore. I've been browbeaten enough for today. Let me know when you're willing to hear me out without hurling insults all over the place."

Your behaviour is all over the place, Potter, Draco thought, but he said nothing. Either it was the after effects of the potion, or Potter really had become mentally unhinged. Becoming a Squib might cast a pall over one's lucidity, he decided. He would do well to refine his potion before he himself began to exhibit the telltale symptoms of dementia.

Draco spent the rest of the evening curled up on the floor of the bathroom, slaving over the latest incarnation of his restorative potion. Having spent much of the previous two years in hiding, often in confined spaces, he was reluctant to close the door. Of course, that left his ears open to the bone-chilling sounds that echoed from the bedroom. He found the slow trickle of blood down his leg to be a welcome distraction from Potter's garbled, inexorable screaming. As he sifted the last of the powdered ingredients into the polystyrene cup that substituted for a cauldron, Potter emitted a wail that he actually recognised.

"Sirius! Don't go in, Sirius! It's a trap!"

* * * * *