Twelve Steps

Chapter Five

"Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

* * * * *

Late that night, Draco collected the last few ingredients for his Potion of Restoration.

Potter had languished in silence for the rest of the evening following their confrontation, presumably battling his inner Boggarts. This suited Draco just fine; he was much too busy with his potion to give Potter the time of day, much less boost the other man's faltering ego with further confessions about his own sexual history. Half of the wizarding world had been ruthlessly slaughtered, both of them had lost their magic, and Potter had ruined his wand. And what was Potter agonising over, naturally? His sexuality. The selfish git, Draco thought, stirring his potion with such brute force that he nearly spilled it into the sink. He glared down at the flimsy cup and plastic spoon as though they were to blame for his difficulties.

What would Snape think if he could see me now? He'd say I've gone mental, I suppose. And dock Slytherin a few points for not using a proper cauldron. But it's his fault for not sending supplies with me. The wanker wouldn't even visit me after my grand sacrifice! When I return to Hogwarts, I do believe I'll have him cowering at my feet. He's certainly never had to improvise a potion before...

Without Snape's assistance, Draco had been forced to concoct his own potions from what he remembered of his old textbooks, substituting ingredients and even directions here and there. He had made two attempts at restoring his magic before Dumbledore had consigned him to Muggle oblivion, both using his own essence as the primary ingredient in the potion. Both had failed. This time, however, he had a trick up his sleeve. This time, he had Potter. The former Gryffindor was a blessing in disguise.

Supper had involved a substance that resembled chicken but was, in all likelihood, more of the 'soy' stuff that Potter had mentioned. Although Draco did not deign to ask the other man, he assumed that it was edible and managed to swallow a fair portion of it before his taste buds went on strike. The chicken had been sprinkled with a light dusting of spices, and he had spent most of the dinner hour harvesting miniscule sage leaves from the cutlet. Upon their addition to the potion, the leaves sank to the bottom of the polystyrene cup and gathered in a mossy lump. He prodded them savagely until they formed an even layer beneath the lumpy mixture.

When Draco emerged from the bathroom, the lights had been dimmed and Potter was sound asleep in the other bed, his breath wheezing out in a steady cadence. Potter did not snore, precisely, but Draco would have preferred even that to the harsh screeching of the previous few nights. Right, then. Time to collect my payment for Potter's transgressions.

After his eyes had adjusted to the darkness that bathed the room, Draco tiptoed over to Potter's bed. He stubbed his toe along the way, still unfamiliar with the layout of the room, but frequent training sessions with the Cruciatus curse had taught him the value of suppressing his pain. He stifled the urge to throw a hex at the bureau and continued to sidle over to Potter's side. Hexes tended to have less than the desired effect when one was magically impotent, anyway.

Leaning over Potter's still form, he skated his fingers across the coarse fabric of the other man's pillow in a gentle caress. His new potion was the amalgamation of three others, including the Polyjuice, and as such required three strands of hair from an eminent wizard. In other circumstances, Draco might not have admitted it, but Potter had the dubious distinction of being the most powerful and gullible wizard he knew. Of course, there was also the fact that Potter was currently the only wizard within reach. He certainly was not going to entertain the thought that the Boy Who Lived, like himself, was no longer a wizard, either; surely his hair would still harbour a few remnants of magic.

He had collected two strands of hair and was beginning to consider actually yanking the third out of Potter's scalp when the hitherto motionless body in front of him stirred. Drawing back instinctively, he crouched beside the bed and waited. People did move in their sleep, and Potter might merely roll over and fall back into a deep slumber.

"Mmmph," Potter mumbled. His eyes remained closed, and he did not move. Draco's hand climbed hesitantly back up to the pillowcase and began to roam.

"Not s'posed to be here," Potter asserted in a somewhat louder voice, his head jerking on the pillow. Startled, Draco withdrew his hand again. Must he prattle on like this, even in his sleep?

"No, he told me you wouldn't--nobody should--please, you have to get out now!"

With Potter's entreaties steadily rising in volume, Draco was at a loss. At this rate, the nurses would soon barge in with their Muggle needles, putting an end to Draco's foraging and further endangering Potter's precarious hold on his sanity. He wondered who Potter was remembering; whom he was trying to rescue with his frantic warnings. Perhaps he could substitute himself for Potter's lost comrade?

"Potter?" he asked experimentally, his hand returning to its perusal of the pillow. He was not particularly keen on plucking the other man's hair out, but he was fast growing impatient. The other man evidently did not own a hairbrush, and his hair seemed permanently attached to his skull.

"You shouldn't be here!" Potter keened in response, his head lolling over to the side until Draco's hand was virtually cupping his cheek. His eyes popped open, dilated pupils zeroing in on Draco's face. Draco froze. For a moment he could have sworn that Potter was wide awake; that he would glean the machinations of Draco's plan from the onus of guilt that must hang over his features.

"Shh," he hissed in desperation.

"No, no, get out! You're the last one left! I can't--" Potter trailed off, his head flopping back and forth against Draco's hand as though tugged by invisible strings. At a second glance, however, Potter's eyes were dull and unfocused, glazed with the chill of reliving horrors that now existed only in memory. Once Draco succeeded in restoring his magical skills, he would plumb the depths of Potter's mind and satisfy his curiosity about the events of the final battle.

"All right, all right, I'm getting out," Draco murmured in what he intended to be a soothing voice. Was he playing the role of Sirius Black? Why had Potter dreamt of Black, after so long? The scruffy mongrel had been one of the very first casualties of the war against Voldemort. Perhaps Potter was still mourning his passing. If the Boy Who Lived blamed himself for the having the audacity to survive whilst his parents were annihilated, then he might harbour lingering guilt over Black's demise as well. Draco added, for good measure, "I'll escape, if you'll just keep quiet for a bit."

But Potter, imprisoned in his chamber of nightmares, appeared not to have heard. He howled once more. "You shouldn't be here! No one else is s'posed to get hurt!"

As Draco slid his hand back in defeat, his index finger brushed against the elusive object for which he had been searching. All of Potter's frenetic movements had finally shaken another strand of hair loose. As he prepared to flee with his prize, however, Potter's anguished plea stopped him in his tracks.

"Malfoy!"

"Potter?" he whispered tentatively.

Whipping through the air, Potter's hand eventually alighted upon Draco. His fingers, sweat-soaked, clutched at the collar of Draco's pyjamas. "You 'ave to get away," he gasped, jagged fingernails digging into the ridge of Draco's collarbone. Draco winced. "They told me you wouldn't be here, Malfoy..."

With great care, Draco detached Potter's writhing fingers from his chest. He succeeded in part, but Potter then seized his hand and refused to let go. A thousand thoughts swam to the surface of his mind, but he quashed them hastily. It was an inopportune time to revamp his entire mental portrait of Potter, to say the least. Instead, he found himself guiding Potter's hand back to the bed and pressing it into the tangled sheets.

"Potter," he said urgently. "Listen, Potter, you're going to disturb the Muggles."

"You're the only one left," Potter moaned piteously, grasping Draco's hand even more tightly. "You have to get away before he kills you too."

"Very well, Potter. I'm going away. I shall depart to such a secure location that no one can ever lay a hand upon me." Draco tried again, in vain, to extricate himself from Potter's own death grip.

Potter's voice was garbled with fatigue and fear, but he seemed to be settling back into slumber, albeit more slowly than Draco would have preferred. "Draco," he slurred.

"Get stuffed!" Draco fairly shouted, wrenching his hand away at last. He backed away in a rush, almost falling into his own bed, where he lay in a welter of confused revelation. To think, he had teased Potter about his misplaced concern for Draco's welfare.

As Draco pulled up his sheets to evade the sudden draft that hung in the air, Potter mumbled something unintelligible.

"Quit your whingeing and go to sleep, Potter," Draco commanded.

To his utter and complete bewilderment, Potter did.

* * * * *

By the time the next therapy session commenced, Draco's thoughts had wound down several dozen paths that might shed illumination on Potter's bizarre words. His dreams, after he had eventually fallen asleep, had been a deluge of jumbled images: shattering glass at the Malfoy Manor; gleaming ruby eyes burning into his own; his mother's lily-white neck crushed at an angle that was at odds with nature; Harry Potter, screaming in agony, the scar at his forehead flowing freely into a river of crimson; Harry Potter, chortling with ill-concealed mirth, one hand tousling the Mudblood Granger's frizzy hair. None of them were memories that he was particularly fond of, and it took the majority of his wayward concentration to shove them back into the recesses of his mind.

Thus he was startled to hear Rain's voice intruding upon his internal musings. "Damien, do you have anything to share with us today?" Even her unflagging enthusiasm had begun to wane, and she sounded as if she were asking only out of routine.

"Indeed, I do," Draco announced, in a split-second decision that he sincerely hoped he would not regret. Rain stared at him in bemused consternation; he flashed an insouciant Slytherin sneer her way and she drew back in her seat, unnerved. Oh, how he relished baiting the Muggles.

"You already know my name, clearly," he continued, dispensing with the usual Twelve Step frivolities. Pausing, he glanced over at Potter, hunched in the seat to his right. It was fitting that the other man should have an opportunity to speak just after Draco finished. He allowed his eyes to survey Potter's body with clinical detachment; Potter had thrown on the same rumpled jumper, now splotched with what looked like orange juice, and another pair of trousers so loose that they would have fallen without a belt to cinch them in place. Although his complexion was sallow and his dark hair fell in unkempt waves about his face, Potter's eyes were steady and alert behind the shield of his glasses. Again, Draco found himself wondering just how much Potter remembered from his nightly bouts of deranged hallucination.

"Before I came here, I lost something," Draco began, trying to unravel the tangled skein of his narrative into something that the others--one specific other--could follow to its conclusion. "It was the most important thing in my life. Imagine, say, if your family name was stolen from you, or your identity snatched."

A few of the other patients nodded in blind acquiescence. As if they could possibly understand, he thought, his resentment welling up in a rising current. Potter was still regarding him with a penetrating stare; only his fingers betrayed his anxiety, tapping against the arm of the chair in time with the ticking of the Muggle wall clock.

"Anyhow, this item was not merely misplaced. It was taken from me. And the last person at the...at the scene of the crime, shall we say, was an old school rival of mine."

Potter let out a low gasp of comprehension, but he did not interrupt.

"For a long time, I blamed this person. I assumed that he had purposely stolen the item to inflict pain on me, because I was not as...cordial...as I might have been during our school years. But recently I have been thinking that it might not have been intentional." He stopped again to draw breath.

"Do go on," Rain prompted, perceiving his pause as reticence.

"Well, that's about it, really. I'd rather like to discuss things with my school mate, but I don't know quite how to contact him. Even after we left Hog--our private academy--we still didn't speak to each other. At least not civilly, that is. But if he could explain what happened, I might be able to retrieve my personal item."

By this time, all of the Muggles looked thoroughly flummoxed. Rain gave him another reproving stare. "Thank you, Damien. I'm not quite sure how retrieving this item of yours will assist you in recovering from your addiction, but I'm sure we are all glad that you are becoming more comfortable with our group!"

Draco only nodded; he was too busy judging Potter's reaction to his speech. The other man had scooted forward in his chair, and his hands were clasped loosely on his lap. He would not meet Draco's eyes.

"Hugh," Rain proclaimed, "it's your turn. Do you have anything that you would like to share with us today?" She bestowed such an ingratiating smile upon Potter that all of Draco's hackles rose at once.

"Yes," Potter said, shifting in his seat to face Draco. His eyes were hooded and unreadable. "I've actually had a very similar experience to Damien's. I think it may help him to resolve his dilemma."

With that, he began to relate his story.

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