Twelve Steps

Chapter Nine

"Made direct amends to such people wherever possible except when to do so would injure them or others."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

* * * * *

"Well," Harry Potter was saying, "I don't know about all of this apologising."

Draco stared. Where was the catalogue of woes he had been anticipating? Weasley, Granger, Hagrid; the mousy bloke whose body Voldemort had borrowed? By his standards, Potter should have been itching to kneel in supplication before every grave in the makeshift war cemetery. He waited for the litany of guilt to erupt from Potter's lips.

"I think," Potter proposed affably, "that I rather fancy the idea of starting anew. Pouring the caul--um, that is, turning over a new leaf? A clean slate? That sort of thing."

Now the other Muggles, including Rain, were all gaping at Potter in tandem. This was not how Harry Potter--or Hugh, for that matter--was supposed to react. Not at all. The morning ruckus had evidently prevented Potter from taking a shower, and both his clothing and hair were somewhat rumpled. Draco was growing so accustomed to the look of the Muggle garments that he had not even noticed at first, and clearly Potter was not concerned with his bedraggled appearance. Under intense scrutiny from every pair of eyes in the room, his equanimity wilted but did not entirely wither away.

"Um, er," he stammered. Then, with a significant glance in Draco's direction, he reclaimed his poise. "What I mean is, well, I'm not trying to criticise, but...it just seems like we keep rehashing the past over and over. I reckon that could be good, if there was a mistake you made before that you're liable to repeat over and over again. But I don't really have anything like that, and I'd rather just move on. Does that make any sense? I mean, I don't really want to dwell on the mistakes I made as a kid for the rest of my life. The narcotics were only a way to escape my guilt, I think; the addiction itself didn't harm anyone except me."

Falling silent, Potter turned a questioning eye upon Rain. Draco's thoughts were in such a whirlwind that he could only watch whilst Rain, who was similarly discombobulated, suffered the loss of her prize pupil. Her eyes narrowed into hard slits, but her voice was deceptively genial. "I see," she said, "that you have learned one of the most important lessons of the Twelve Steps: to put yourself on the top of your list. How very insightful, Hugh."

Can't handle the taste of your own rubbish thrown back at you, Muggle peon?

Then he noticed that she was looking at him; at his mouth, which had regressed into its natural sneer. Belatedly he also realised that he had been inwardly rooting for Potter. Embarrassment immediately overcame satisfaction, and his eyes darted around the room in search of something innocuous on which to focus. In spite of his best intentions, they kept zeroing in on Potter. Finally he settled on a view of Potter's left arm, as outlined by the hefty Muggle sweater. It was comparatively safer than gawking at Potter's chest, on which the word 'Oxford' was printed in blocky crimson letters. The 'f' was marred by a stain of indeterminate colour, and he could see the beginnings of a hole just above the--Merlin, I am not staring at his chest!

Closing his eyes, Draco resolved to ignore Muggles and former wizards alike for the remainder of the hour. One of the other patients began to list all of the reprehensible deeds he had done in his quest to obtain Coke, although Draco had no idea why it would be so difficult to purchase what he understood to be a foul-tasting Muggle beverage. His voice droned on so interminably that Draco began to nod off, head slipping down to rest on the upholstered back of the chair.

"Damien?" Rain prompted, shaking him out of the encroaching doze. As his eyes shot open in preparation for another classic Slytherin smirk, he found his gaze once again drawn in Potter's direction. Potter regarded him quizzically, one eyebrow quirked. The other man's fingers thrummed a steady beat of anxiety on the ridged denim of his trousers, but it was of little comfort to Draco that Potter shared his discomfiture. He was the one who had spent his entire childhood in training to disguise such frailties.

"Damien, are you quite all right?"

I am not staring at him, Draco told himself sternly. Absolutely not! Just because he is the only eligible male in the building and possibly the only other person with a semi-functional brain and because he is being absurdly pleasant to me for no apparent reason and he is much more comfortable than one of those ratty Muggle pillows at night...

"Er, yes," he mumbled, clearing his throat. "Right, then. I think Hugh's idea is just brilliant. In fact, I like it a lot better than all of this hoopla about making lists."

Rain simply goggled at him, evidently unable to process the idea of two of her precious sheep straying so far from the flock.

"Why not start over?" Draco continued, warming to his topic. "I intend to fully absolve myself and others of any of our past failings. What is it that we're always saying here in whatever-it-is Anonymous? Hindsight is twenty-twenty? Well, perhaps I've had enough of hindsight."

At the end of the session, his hand slipped into Potter's of its own accord. Despite the draft, the other man's palm left a damp sheen of sweat on his skin.

* * * * *

"Here you are, Damien!" exclaimed the nurse, pressing a crisp white envelope into Draco's unwilling hands. "A letter came for you today! There's no return address, but..."

"Thank you," Draco said, with a perfunctory nod. He glanced down at the thin rectangle of paper, which bore a Hogwarts crest in the top left-hand corner.

"Is it from your mum?" the nurse inquired nosily, in between nibbles from the box of sweets that the staff had received earlier that day as a gift from Dr Swill. The aroma wafted toward Draco's nostrils in an enticing wave, shifting his attention away from the post.

"No, my mother is...say, could I try one of those?" He stood on tiptoes, peering over the edge of the counter into the nurses' station, where the chocolate box was tucked into a filing cabinet. It filled in the otherwise sparse 'X' drawer.

The nurse gave him an admonishing grin. "Now, Damien, you know very well that we aren't permitted to give our clients preferential treatment." Clients? What is this, a detective agency? "Many of your friends here suffer from eating disorders, and it would be cruel to distribute chocolates to the rest of you while depriving them--not to mention horribly unhealthy!"

He was trudging back to his room, stomach yammering angrily about how famished it was, when Potter caught up with him. In yet another turnabout, the former Gryffindor was now clearly apprehensive. He shifted his feet back and forth in the partially untied trainers, and his diffident gaze only travelled as far as Draco's chin; the one that he had termed 'pointy', in fact. Finally, he blurted out, "Did you really mean what you said in there?"

Draco took a moment to relish having the upper hand once more. He awarded Potter a look of casual disdain. "Of course not, Potter. Do you honestly think you can erase years of harassment and the destruction of not only myself, but my entire family, with a few words to a room full of Muggle imbeciles? I'm beginning to think that Professor Snape was spot on in his assessment of your questionable talents."

"Oh." Potter's face fell. The elation that would have normally threaded its way through Draco's consciousness failed to surface, and he battled the unfamiliar desire to reach out and retrieve his words from the air as their echo dwindled down the hall. "I'm not going to apologise again, then. I'll just--we can leave each other alone for the rest of..." Potter trailed off, biting his lip uncertainly, and turned on his heel to depart.

"Wait a minute, Potter," he called to the other man's retreating back. Potter whipped his head around so quickly that Draco thought he must have somehow foreseen this change of heart beforehand. But that was nonsense; even in the wizarding world, Divination had been a massive pile of hogwash.

"Yes?"

"Do Gryffindors give up that easily?"

Potter's breath huffed out in a little sigh. "I'm not a Gryffindor anymore. You aren't a Slytherin, either, even if you still look a bit slimy. And maybe we shouldn't judge behaviour based on a two-dimensional stereotype."

Filing Potter's new attitude away for future contemplation--he kept it in the portion of his mind that also wondered, 'Exactly how long have you known you were gay and was that why Ron was always looking at you askance during seventh year?'--he took a step toward Potter.

"Haven't you ever heard the old adage that actions speak louder than words?" he murmured, speaking very softly. It would not do to have the overly curious nurses listening in on their private conversations, after all.

"Er. Yes?" Potter repeated.

"Right. Well, how about a favour, then?"

Hitherto wide with hope, Potter's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "A favour? I'm not going to help you escape, you know. And if it's anything that might harm the Muggles--"

"Oh, hush, Potter." Draco waved one hand in an airy, sweeping gesture. "It's not dangerous to anyone, especially the Muggles. I just want to get one of my personal items back from the nurses. And we'll discuss our plans for departure later." That is, when I've had a bit of a snack and can scheme properly, he thought, but he did not mention this to Potter.

Potter was still looking at him dubiously. His expression was reminiscent of the day when the other students had volunteered him as the first to approach Hagrid's pet Hippogriff. It seemed ages since it had happened--during their third year at Hogwarts, in fact--but Draco still blanched at the memory of how quickly his attempts to humiliate Potter had backfired. Then again, Potter was now presumably on his side.

"Oh, do remove that broomstick from your arse, Potter," Draco said, exasperated. "I just want you to distract the nurses for thirty seconds. Go back to our room. Let out one of those hideous screeches and tell them someone's stolen your jumper. They'll spend the next two hours searching the other rooms; we may even get out of the prayer session for today."

"But you'll--" Potter protested.

"I swear on Salazar Slytherin's portrait that I will not leave. Besides, there is a very burly guard at the front gate, and I doubt he'll be too distressed by the loss of your jumper."

"I didn't think you'd leave, I was just--you're not making another potion, are you?"

"Of course not!"

"And it's not something sharp that you want to steal?"

"Potter! I'm not a psychotic Muggle. I may not be a Malfoy either, but do you really believe that someone with my upbringing would practice voluntary self-mutilation?"

"I guess not," Potter conceded. His eyes flickered doubtfully.

Now, if ever, was the time for pity. Draco allowed his features to soften into something faint and forlorn. "No, it's--it's something that reminds me of my parents."

Potter wrinkled his nose. He shifted his weight several times, evidently waffling over how far he could trust a Malfoy, even one who now made a show of denying his heritage. Not far, Draco thought slyly. Eventually Potter headed back to their shared room, although indecision still registered in the lines around his eyes and mouth.

It all happened very quickly after that. No strangled yelp issued from the room, of course. Potter appeared in the doorway and politely beckoned one of the nurses. Soon, they were all hovering over him in fits of maternal anguish. Draco was in and out of the nurses' station before they could catch even a glimpse of his white-blond head. The sought-after object tucked into his own sweater--for once, he was grateful that the Muggle garments were so poorly fitted--he headed for the common room. On his way, he noticed the bulimic woman watching from her doorway. Has she been staring at me the entire time? Really, I know I can be quite captivating, but this is a bit much. I do wish she would leave me alone.

He wriggled his brows at her and she promptly fled back into her room, cheeks flaming, as though in obeisance to his every whim.

After dinner Draco unveiled his prize, to Potter's mingled amusement and reprimands. They sat on Draco's bed, twilight seeping in through the blinds to illuminate a sea of darkly bronzed morsels. Draco picked one up and held it up to a shaft of light, turning it as though examining a precious gem.

"I wonder what they put in Muggle sweets," he said reflectively.

Potter pursed his lips. "Sugar, I would imagine. M--er, what should I call you, anyway?"

Biting into the round glob, Draco discovered that Muggles were not altogether useless. Indeed, the gooey marshmallow filling inside the chocolate was a work of culinary art. "Mmph," he said, his mouth a sticky, saccharine paradise. "Dwraco, mmf sposfe."

"Well, Draco," said Potter, in a tone of mild reproof, "I'd never have distracted the nurses if I'd known you were going to raid their chocolate supply. I mean, I miss Chocolate Frogs, but it's not as though we aren't being fed here..."

"Potter, don't tell me you actually believe that soy is edible. They may well have been feeding us lint, for all that I can taste."

"Well, I'm not eating them," Potter declared. His stomach gave an audible growl of betrayal.

Draco, now assured that the chocolates were of top quality, shovelled two into his mouth at once and began to chew noisily. He savoured the delicate zest of strawberry nougat with crunchy walnuts before attempting to reply. "You're not turning me in, either, are you?"

"That's because you made me an unwitting accomplice!"

"Don't be such a prude. If it bothers you so much, pay them."

Potter looked crestfallen. "I can't. You know we've only got wizard money. It wouldn't mean anything to the Muggles, and I didn't bring any with me, at any rate."

Rolling his eyes, Draco popped another sweet into his mouth. This one was caramel; he was still searching for something akin to a Coconut Cauldron, which had always been his favourite of his mother's gifts. It occurred to him that Potter was much easier to deal with when he had another pleasurable activity on which to concentrate. The chocolates were, after all, much more attractive than Potter's boyish features, which he was definitely not ogling surreptitiously in between bites of chocolate. Really, I can't conceive of anyone fancying Potter without the mantle of the Boy Who Lived, he told himself. Not with that ghastly scar!

"Did you ever compensate Professor Snape for all of those potion ingredients that you and your ickle Gryffindor friends borrowed?" he countered, making a dilatory show of rolling the chocolate around on his tongue. The sucking sounds were an especially nice touch, he thought. Potter's cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink.

Resolve faltering in the face of his own combined hypocrisy and ravenous hunger, Potter leaned toward the box of sweets. A moment later, the room was silent but for their joint munching and wordless exclamations of pleasure. Once again, Draco found himself canvassing Potter's body with his eyes. In the time it took to swallow, his gaze slid up from the muddy trainers, past the bent knees, and up to roam around the other man's face. It was a bland face, of course, and he was only looking to see which delectable sweet Potter had plucked from the box. And it was the sweets that he had thought of as delectable; certainly nothing about Potter himself would bring that sort of language to mind.

Having polished off his first sweet, Potter's tongue snaked out to lick the last vestiges of chocolate off of his lips. Draco nearly went blind on the spot.

Buggerall, I knew this was a bad idea!

* * * * *