Twelve Steps

Chapter Eleven

"Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

* * * * *

"Shit!" Draco had said.

Now that he looked closely, he decided that it was not the precise term he would use to describe the scene laid out before him. Firmly reattaching his jaw, he tried again.

"Are you ill?" he queried, in the mockingly solicitous tone that his father had once reserved for Mudbloods and lower officials in the Ministry of Magic.

Crouched on the floor in front of him was the Muggle woman from his therapy group. Sludge ornamented the floor tiles surrounding her in a kaleidoscope of hues, trailing in slimy tentacles from the rim of the toilet. A garland of watery amber splattered across her forehead. Her bloodshot eyes were wide with alarm and her knuckles bloomed white against the toilet bowl as she caught sight of him in the doorway.

She gaped at him for a moment, chest heaving, unable to speak. A glob of carnation pink speckled her chin, and a swipe of her trembling hand only smudged it further. He swallowed hard, willing his gag reflex to remain at bay.

"I'm fine," she coughed. Her voice was scratchy, as though her throat was raw. A trickle of saffron coated the side of her temple and she dabbed at it ineffectually.

Where have I heard that one before?

The myriad of colours swam before him, pricking something in his memory. Candy wrappers paraded through his mind as the realisation hit him. He lurched against the door, but she had made no move to rise. Nor did she hang her head in shame. This was not the same creature who had shied away from him at mealtimes.

"Why," he hissed, "did you steal our sweets?"

Something shrewd gleamed in her eyes, then; a calculating appraisal that he would never have expected from a Muggle. The woman leaned back from the toilet in disarray, all frizzy hair and stained pyjamas, but her features were contorted with a desperation that made him look away. Sweets, he mused, trying to shake off the Flobberworms that wriggled up his spine. I suppose they're tasty, but...

"I don't have time for this," the woman rasped, "and they weren't your sweets. You should have been more discreet when you nicked them, if you weren't inclined to share."

Her face was like one of the pieces of Muggle modern art that decorated the cafeteria: conspicuous in its brilliant, slapdash exterior, but without meaning beneath the sloppy outer strokes. Shaky breaths wheezed in and out through the gaps between her teeth. He wondered if he should ring up the nurse and then lucidity washed over him again. Merlin, are all Muggles this barmy?

"You were doing that purposely. Why?"

Rocking back on her heels, she began to flush. Red flamed and spread along the puffy swell of her cheeks. "You wouldn't understand!"

He wondered if he had worn a similar expression whilst hacking away at his leg with the nail-clippers, and resolved never to do such an idiotic thing again, potion or no potion. The potion, he acknowledged, was never going to work; his only hope was rescue by way of the dratted Headmaster. We're all trapped here, he thought. He would make no headway with any of his ridiculous concoctions, and none of the Muggles' secret pastimes would make a dent in their grief and loneliness. They would return here, over and over, teeth rotting and skin hardening with scars until they finally collapsed from within. But he was no Muggle--not yet, at least--and there was still time to escape.

"You might be surprised." He certainly was, at any rate. This was possibly the longest conversation he'd ever willingly conducted with a Muggle.

But she merely shook her head, leaning back in the direction of the toilet. Bile rose in his own throat and he swallowed again, hastily. She spoke again. "Are you aware of the Laurel Centre's policy on patient liaisons?"

The conniving cow! "We weren't--" he began, and then stopped. Denials would only perpetuate her belief, at this point. "The sweets--that's why you're here, isn't it." It was not a question. He looked at her only because he could not stand another glimpse of the viscous mess that seemed to coat every other surface of the small room. "You can't stop eating them, and then you..."

She returned his gaze as though he were the one beneath contempt. "As I said," she spat, "you would not understand. You and your perfect public school mates! Your parents probably paid your way here and they'll lavish you with gifts when you kick that clever habit of yours. I reckon you got to skip a few classes with it, didn't you, now? You were probably off snogging with that guileless little pet of yours!"

Draco's mind wandered out to the man who awaited his return, and his Slytherin scheming ran amuck. What would Muggle-loving Potter do if he were awake? Surely, he would not bristle at the insult to his work ethic. Would he comfort the hideous old troll? Faint, as he did before the Dementors? Would he and the tattletale Granger have dutifully reported the woman, despite potential consequences to themselves?

But Draco was not Harry Potter. Even his clandestine desire to attain Potter's level of prestige, borne of his father's constant goading, had faded with the knowledge of the price tag attached to it. Nor was he the vindictive little prat from first year. Why grind the Muggle into the ground when she was already at his feet of her own accord?

"I'll keep my mouth shut," he sighed, "and you...can do whatever you wish with your mouth, however repugnant it may be to others. It is not my mission to cure the world of its addictions. But I expect this room to be spotless when my friend and I wake up this morning."

She smirked at him. Smirked! Had a Muggle the audacity to so much as look at him a year ago, he would have hexed her into oblivion for her cheek. Now he could summon only a half-hearted flicker of indignation. Like a false smile, it did not reach his eyes.

Too weary to wait for her response, he fumbled his way back to the bed with as much stealth as he could muster in the cluttered darkness. Potter was still fairly tranquil, but his breath came in rapid bursts. The sheets had braided themselves around his legs, which slowly undulated as though he were swimming through the bedspread. When Draco climbed in beside him, gingerly shifting the other man's head on the pillow to clear a space for his own, Potter latched onto his shoulders for an anchor. Little by little, both the movements and the clamped hands slackened, until Potter was once more adrift in a placid slumber. Pressing one ear against Potter's temple and the other into the pillow, Draco tuned out the occasional sound of retching from the bathroom until he joined Potter in blessed unconsciousness.

* * * * *

Potter roused Draco while the sky outside the window was still a shapeless void. His fingers were twined in Draco's hair, twirling golden figure eights with the shaggy locks above his forehead.

"Sorry," he whispered into Draco's ear, their heads still resting lazily on the pillow. Potter had rolled over during the night, shifting Draco further to the side in the already narrow single bed. One of his legs dangled over the edge, boneless, toes just brushing the carpet. "I don't mean to hog the bed."

Draco made a sound that fell somewhere in between a sniffle and a yawn. Heaving his legs back onto the mattress, his foot connected with Potter's calf. Ignoring Potter's startled grunt of pain, he let his eyelids slip down again and willed himself to become insensate. It was difficult to convince himself that he was merely tolerating Potter's presence when the other man was draped around him like a human jumper.

This should feel awkward, he told himself in silent rebuke. Uncomfortable. I am only biding my time until I can return to the wizarding world, after all. And Potter is only being this forward because he is not yet awake and still under the effects of Muggle medicines.

Potter cut his thoughts off with an insistent press of lips against his cheek. "I haven't forgotten about those sweets," he said, his teeth grazing Draco's jaw line. "We--you--have to compensate those Muggles."

Several witty comebacks teetered on the tip of Draco's tongue, itching to get out. He considered insulting everything from Potter's breath to his visual impairment. He might terrorize Potter into believing that he snored. Any number of careless jibes could twist the knife into Potter's already bludgeoned ego. He could fall into the pattern of the past eight years with such ease that, after a few minutes, he might even forget that he had ever ventured close enough to the Boy Who Lived to taste coconut on his lips.

Instead, he used his tongue to leave a faint mark of ownership on Potter's neck.

When he had finished, Potter's hands floundered in the dark until he located his glasses on the night stand. The first rays of dawn slanted through the windowpanes as he settled them around his nose, casting oval shadows across the rumpled cotton sheets. Draco threw them off and climbed to his feet, dragging Potter up with him despite the other man's murmur of reluctance.

"Do attempt to make yourself presentable today, Potter," Draco groused, leading Potter to the bathroom with a firm grip on his sleeve. "I shall be supervising your wardrobe selection, and we are not going down to breakfast until I am satisfied."

"Mmm," Potter mumbled, propping himself up against Draco's shoulder. Despite the other man's scrawny appearance of late, Draco staggered underneath the added weight. "What did I do to merit such service?"

Restoring Potter to a standing position, Draco unceremoniously shoved him into the bathroom. "Nothing whatsoever. Really, Potter, I couldn't care less about your personal grooming habits. However, we are receiving a visitor today, and I shan't have my reputation tarnished by the impression that I am rooming with a vagabond."

"Visitor?" came Potter's voice, quivering as it bounced off of the bathroom tiles. Draco's eyes skimmed the room just long enough to discern that the woman had, indeed, left it spotless. Then he gently closed the door on Potter's face, the other man's green eyes still bleary behind the smudged lenses of his spectacles.

"Professor Snape," Draco announced to the doorknob as he headed out to endure yet another humiliating examination from the nurses. "And he's certainly not going to restore your wizarding abilities if you resemble a reject from some Muggle orphanage. Now make it snappy; I'd like to have a bit of a wash myself."

I am planning my conversation with Snape, he swore, studying the blank wall of the corridor as he made his way toward the common room. I am certainly not thinking about Harry Potter in the shower. Not even under the cold water. I am not thinking about it. My triumphant return to the wizarding world and the adulation of the Ministry is a much more viable topic, should I choose to fantasise. However, I have no need to do so. There are many other individuals whom I could envision in the shower. I am not thinking about Harry Potter at all. I am especially not enjoying thinking about Harry Potter.

When the nurse took his pulse, she informed him that it was well above his normal range.

* * * * *

"Mr Malfoy, Mr Potter. How kind of you to grace me with your presence."

Severus Snape's voice oozed sarcasm as Draco stalked into the front room that the Laurel Centre employed as a visiting area, Potter shuffling behind him in his freshly scrubbed trainers. They had been in the middle of breakfast when a staff member informed them that Snape had arrived. Draco, for one, was happy to have an excuse to leave the cafeteria: the loony 'bulimic' Muggle was still staring at him. She no longer had the decency to direct her gaze elsewhere when he met it, and the constant surveillance was beginning to tax his already frazzled nerves. He wondered if this was what Potter had experienced on a daily basis in the wizarding world; if so, perhaps the famed Gryffindor stamina had more than one useful application.

Speculation about Muggles and Harry Potter himself fled from Draco's thoughts at the sight of Snape. Dressed in jet-black Muggle trousers and a matching coat, Snape looked decidedly ill at ease. He perched at the edge of a plush, rose-coloured loveseat, sticking out like a bruised black thumb amongst the flowered pillows. He wasted little time in broaching the topic of his excursion to the Muggle world.

"The Headmaster," Snape announced in a derisive bark, "insisted that I would be the most appropriate person to apprise you of the latest news from the Ministry. I need not explain my objections to you, but I am fairly certain that I have been followed, despite lengthy precautions." His voice rose in volume with the last sentence, and Draco noticed the centre's receptionist making prurient eyes at them from the front desk.

"Can they hear us?" he asked in hushed tones, taking a seat opposite the Potions Master. Potter, still standing, flashed the receptionist an uncertain smile. She flushed pink and turned back to Muggle device into which she was entering some sort of data.

"Draco, unlike some of us, I did not misplace my common sense during the war. We are under a charm. Everything you say will be interpreted as gibberish by anyone who stands outside the field of the spell. I am assuming, of course, that one of you might possibly say something meaningful during our discourse."

Draco, who had grown accustomed to Snape's acerbic sense of humour, merely shrugged. Dashing off another bashful grin in the receptionist's direction, Potter slumped into the seat beside Draco. Draco elbowed him discreetly until the other man assumed a posture more becoming of an adult wizard.

"She just thinks we're drug-addled rock stars, anyhow," Potter observed.

"While I am sure that such misplaced adoration must be an immense comfort to you, Mr Potter, I'm afraid I haven't the time to discuss such matters." Snape paused just long enough to glare daggers at the Boy Who Lived over his hooked nose. Had they been at Hogwarts, Draco was certain that points would have been deducted from Gryffindor. Here and now, Snape merely continued with a flick of his wrist, as though stirring a particularly corrosive potion.

"Headmaster Dumbledore has exerted his influence over the Ministry on behalf of both of you, in spite of my warnings that such efforts would ultimately prove fruitless." Something flashed in his eyes as he glanced at the two men, but his expression was as dour as ever. "As a result, the Ministry is even more determined to prosecute Mr Malfoy to the fullest extent of wizarding law for his stint as a Death Eater, brief as it may have been. Both the Ministry and the press are eager to contact you, Mr Potter, but for reasons that are less hazardous to your health. They wish to groom you to become the official spokesperson for the Ministry. Interviews and speeches will abound, and I believe I overheard a few of the less discreet officials on the Committee of Historical Revision planning a monument to the Boy Who Lived when I had the misfortune to visit the Ministry yesterday."

Draco, who had fully expected Snape to arrive with a curative potion in tow and possibly even an apology from the foolish Ministry officials, found himself mute. Unable to move, although every cell in his body would have been levitating out the window had they still contained any vestige of magic, he fixed his gaze on the wrapped parcel on Snape's lap. When Potter's arm closed the gap between their chairs in order to cover his hand, he could not bring himself to object to the touch. Snape was the closest he had ever come to having a friend in the wizarding world, and the Potions Master had now betrayed him not once, but twice. He had engineered the spell in the first place, and he now refused to reverse the damage.

"But why can't the Headmaster--" Potter began, but Snape interrupted him with another sweeping hand gesture.

"I must admit that when the Headmaster first informed me of his plans to send both of you here, I began to doubt his own sanity. There are a few remaining members of the Order who would have been willing to hide you from the Aurors, Draco...and Mr Potter had only himself, and possibly an excess of positive publicity, to fear."

Eyebrows scrunching together, Snape frowned, as though he were reluctant to continue. "But there are factors of which I was--unaware, shall we say." He shifted so that he was facing Potter directly. "Headmaster Dumbledore and I agreed that the Dreamless Sleep Potion was necessary in order for your mind to recover from the damage caused by the spell. Weaning you off of it after the initial danger had passed, however, was another matter. I thought it best to send you to St. Mungo's. I have now seen firsthand the extent to which the Healers cater to the wishes of the Ministry. They would not have made your long-term health a top priority. Nor would I, for that matter, but I believe that the Headmaster suffers from the delusion that he must somehow repay you for the sacrifices you made while battling the Dark Lord."

Draco opened his mouth to inform the traitorous Potions Master that the Muggles here were about as concerned with Potter's well being as the Slytherin Quidditch team, and that he could be repaid by the restoration of his magic, but no sound emerged.

It was Potter who stammered, "What are we to do, then? How is he repaying us--er, me?"

Snape arched an eyebrow. "Much as it pains me to say so, Mr Potter, I cannot offer advice on this particular matter. The Headmaster is convinced that you should make your own decision." As if the Headmaster ever let Potter so much as breathe without somehow guiding him in the proper direction! Hah! "You may always capitulate to the Ministry's demands and turn yourselves over. If so, you might eventually find yourself free of your own obligations as a figurehead after a half dozen decades, although I fear that the Ministry is determined to make an example of Mr Malfoy. But there are other avenues that you may decide to pursue."

Potter eyed his least favourite professor with suspicion, shoving his glasses further up his nose with his free hand. The other tightened over Draco's fingers. Wallowing in a quagmire of confusion and disillusionment, Draco barely registered the touch.

"Other avenues?" Potter repeated.

"Indeed." Snape did not elaborate. As his piercing gaze fell upon their clasped hands, the mask of disdain flickered for a moment.

I wonder if he's surprised or disgusted, Draco pondered, in his first semi-coherent thought since Snape had delivered the final blow to his dignity.

"I must reiterate my warning: I suspect that I have been followed. Even if I have managed to remain inconspicuous, the Headmaster's sources within the Ministry indicate that they are closing in on Mr Potter's location. Once they arrive here, they will no doubt apprehend you, Draco. I would advise you to make your decision within the next two days, if not sooner. Should you choose to return to the wizarding world, you may simply wait here until the Ministry's hounds arrive."

Finally, Snape lifted the package he had been carrying and offered it to Potter. "Mr Potter, the Headmaster instructed me to return your dress robes. According to him, they will prove 'most helpful' in your decision making." Draco did not miss the emphasis on Dumbledore's words, nor the glimmer of comprehension in Potter's eyes, although he himself was bewildered.

What is Potter going to do with his bloody dress robes? They're hideous, for one, and there isn't a whit of magic in them...

"As you and Mr Malfoy appear to have resolved your differences," Snape murmured delicately, "I expect that you might wish to share them with him as well."

Merlin, I knew Snape was bent, but I had no idea that he was such a pervert! Sharing dress robes, indeed!

* * * * *