Twelve Steps

Chapter Twelve

"Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to others, and to practice these principles in all our affairs."

- Al-Anon Family Groups

* * * * *

"Draco, wait...it's not the end of the world!"

"I am aware of that, Potter. That already happened--because of you, remember? This is only the aftermath."

Draco stalked down the corridor with long, loping strides, barrelling past nurses and patients alike. Potter followed close on his heels, extending an arm to tug at his sleeve. The initial shock of betrayal had faded, leaving only a low hum of desperation that throbbed in Draco's temples. It was like a trapped animal clawing to get out, stretching the confines of his skull with its frantic talons. And he, like the ensnared creature, felt the walls of the Laurel Centre closing in on him with every step he took.

"Draco--"

In the bracing discomfort of their shared room, Draco flopped onto his bed, trying to drown out the insistent lilt of Potter's voice. He was faced with the same decision that he had so clearly bungled a few years ago when he had chosen Dumbledore's Order over a position as one of Voldemort's minions. If he returned to the wizarding world, he would forfeit his soul. If he remained with the Muggles, assuming that the Ministry somehow failed to capture him, he would be forced to consort with people whom he despised. Even if he survived, he would never truly belong in Muggle society, nor had he any desire to do so.

Salazar Slytherin, when did I start thinking of the Muggles as people?

Eventually he noticed that Potter's demands to 'listen' and 'don't go ballistic' had dwindled. Prying his head out of the nest of patterned sheets, he scanned the room for Potter and found it empty.

"Potter?" he called out tentatively. After Snape had departed--and somehow, it had not been the same without the swirl of his Hogwarts robes--Potter had not seemed particularly distressed. Had the selfish git gone gallivanting off to lunch already?

Something twittered in the air beside him.

"Who's there?" Draco squawked, hopping out of the bed. His eyes darted around the room in search of the culprit, but not even a breeze stirred in the oppressive stillness. Racing through the list of possible intruders, his mind stopped at a disturbing possibility. Hadn't Snape warned them that he might be followed?

"What have you done with Potter?" he hissed into the space where he had last heard the noise. There was a distinct snicker from somewhere in the vicinity of the nightstand. "Rita Skeeter? I'll have you know that I can still report you to the Ministry for being an unregistered Animagus--"

Without warning a body slammed into him, propelling him backwards until they both landed in a twined heap on the bed. Whatever it was, it was definitely larger than Rita Skeeter's beetle form. Strong, human hands gripped him; one against his chest, the other roughly seizing his chin. As he tussled with his assailant, his own fingers grappled with lengths of invisible but decidedly masculine musculature.

Just as his hands began to close around the other man's neck, the invisible figure whispered, "Leave off, Draco! It's me, you prat!"

Freezing, Draco stared into the faint shimmer of air above him. His mouth, contorted in the beginnings of a shout, softened at the brush of gentle fingertips. Then the lips belonging to that familiar voice pressed against his own in a melodramatic sweep.

"Potter," he croaked. "Surely there are ways to inform me that your magic has returned that do not involve assault?"

The sparkle of holiday tinsel in the air solidified, revealing Potter's rather shaggy head. Propping himself up on his still insubstantial elbows, he offered Draco a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I was just so excited--er...it's not...I can't do magic. But I kind of had a feeling, when Snape brought me the robes--I mean, there had to be something inside them, otherwise it was a useless trip out here and Snape wouldn't brave the Muggle world unless Dumbledore had absolutely insisted upon it, and obviously he can't help us directly but even the Ministry couldn't trace this sort of thing to him since it belongs to me..."

"Potter," Draco ordered peremptorily, "do attempt to speak coherently. If this is your idea of explication, it's no wonder your parchments received such poor marks. This is not your fifth birthday party."

"Maybe I'd better show you." With that, Potter began to wriggle on top of him. Draco's mouth opened again in protest. Shouldn't the decision to consummate our relat--er, lust--bugger all, our fleeting attraction--be a mutual one?

After a moment, however, Potter's frenetic motions stilled. He rolled away from Draco and almost toppled off of the bed. By the time he had scrambled back onto the mattress, Draco was examining the glistening sheen of the fabric pooled in his lap with rapt eyes.

"It's an invisibility cloak," Draco breathed. "And it works? Even on us?"

Potter gave a slight nod, his cheeks colouring in a way that did not lead Draco to thoughts of further snogging. Not at all. "It was my father's," he whispered. "I found it in the robes, along with some other stuff from the Headmaster."

"Right, then," Draco muttered, closing his eyes. The heavy swath of dread bathing his thoughts felt even more cumbersome than Potter's body when it had pinned him to the sheets only a minute ago. "That's just splendid for you. Congratulations."

Potter's arm stiffened against his side. "I didn't mean--um. I don't quite know--oh, bugger this! I'll just say it, all right? The cloak is big enough for two people--er, if we scrunch a bit, anyway--and Dumbledore put in two train tickets from the closest station, and I know you think Muggles are about as clever as Chocolate Frogs but they're not all that bad and it's certainly better than Azkaban and won't...won't you come with me?" His breath came out in a rush, whooshing against Draco's neck, and then he fell silent.

At first, Draco found it difficult to breathe himself. His voice came out in a strangled gasp. "What makes you think that they won't find us?"

"We don't have magic anymore," Potter reminded him patiently. "They can't track us."

"And you don't want to go back to be hailed as the heroic Boy Who Defeated Voldemort?"

"There's nothing--no one--left for me there. You know that. I'd just be a mouthpiece for whoever ends up running the Ministry. Dumbledore is manipulating us even now. I say we use what he's given us."

"And just how would we survive amongst the Muggles?"

Potter shifted closer on the bed, his hand settling over Draco's with a diffidence quite unlike his earlier burst of exuberant glee. "I don't know if anyone ever told you, but my mum and dad left me a vault at Gringotts. I've always been a bit embarrassed about it, actually. Um..." He paused for a few moments, and Draco's eyes opened just far enough to witness two irreconcilable emotions battling their way across Potter's face.

Finally Potter muttered, "Oh, sod it all. Dumbledore left a note and a debit--well, a key to a Muggle bank--in the cloak. Your money was confiscated, but I'm--oh, I still can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sort of wealthy. He converted all of my money into Muggle currency, and there's even twenty quid left for the train ride into London." He patted the pocket of his trousers, which jingled reassuringly. "He said to contact Mrs. Figg when we get there. She'll set everything up for us. So, er. Do you want to come?"

"Mmm," was Draco's only response. Once again, he weighed the benefits of escape and continued existence against the horror of associating with Muggles on a daily basis. The decision was obvious. Even the lingering remnants of his pureblood pride endorsed it, though not without an attempt at justification. I'll just be using him for his money now, that's all. It's really quite a brilliant plan, if I do say so myself. Why, I've got Potter so wrapped around my wand that he thinks he concocted it himself!

"I suppose a Dementor's Kiss might be a bit colder than yours," he conceded. "And it is winter. In fact, it looks as though it's beginning to snow."

Sitting up, Potter peered out the window into the frozen desert of white that surrounded the Laurel Centre. Draco tensed, awaiting another one of Potter's unbearably mushy confessions, or possibly a nauseatingly sincere apology. But Potter only declared, "We should leave in the morning, I think; during that morning stroll Rain is always pestering us to take. We're almost a day's walk away from the nearest train station, and I don't fancy sleeping in a snow bank."

"You're the expert on Muggle geography," said Draco. He reached back to fluff the lone pillow, which had deflated somewhat after Potter had inadvertently punched it during their struggle. Noticing this, Potter took the opportunity to snag half of the flattened bedding and smashed it further under the weight of his head. Muttering something to himself about Gryffindor impertinence, Draco stretched out lethargically beside him. With visions of Chocolate Frogs and treacle sponge dancing in his head, the soy glop down at the cafeteria no longer seemed even remotely appetising.

"When you say wealthy, what exactly do you mean? I refuse to work for Muggles," he grumbled into the tangled cobwebs of Potter's hair. "And I still loathe them. If you haven't yet noticed, all of the ones here are daft. Especially the one with no teeth; she's been stalking me! If only I had my wand..."

Where he had expected a chuckle, or perhaps a reassurance that Potter's financial situation was secure enough to render any possible employment unnecessary, he got only a muted sigh. He reached over to trace Potter's cheek with one hand and discovered that the other man's mouth had sunk into a pensive scowl.

I shan't say anything to appease him. That Muggle wench deserves what she got. If Potter expects me to suddenly dissolve into a puddle of guilt every time our opinions clash, he's dead wrong.

"Fine," Draco finally snapped, after the silence had expanded into an awkward bubble of tension. "You want me to pay for the chocolates, don't you?"

"What?" Potter murmured, sounding genuinely startled. "Oh! No, that's not it. I've already decided to leave ten quid for the nurses, and I know you haven't anything of value right now. I mean, except yourself." Draco groaned inwardly; he didn't need to turn toward Potter to envision the other man's flaming cheeks. "Merlin! Forget I ever said that--I was just thinking, you know. Did you ever talk to that woman?"

Draco shrugged, the movement creating a slight friction between the press of their arms. Potter's own shoulders heaved with another regretful sigh.

"If you had bothered to talk to her, Draco, or even paid an ounce of attention to her during group therapy...she came from a rich family, probably the closest thing to a pureblood that Muggles have. Her father was very critical. He wanted her to become a doctor, and she wanted--well, I reckon she didn't know what she wanted, since she was only about our age when her problems all started. She passed her exams; I guess the closest thing at Hogwarts would be N.E.W.T.s. But then she told him that she wasn't going to do what he wanted her to, and he disinherited her. But I'm sure that sort of thing doesn't sound familiar to you at all. And if I explained about addictions, you wouldn't understand that either, would you? Did Snape ever mention anything about the effects of habitual use of the Dark Arts?"

I, thought Draco, even his mental tone echoing imperiously, am not remotely similar to Muggles. Their motivations are entirely beneath me. Honestly, the gall! If there were any other option, I'd get rid of Potter quicker than one of the dratted Weasel Twins' Wheezes.

Incensed, Draco sat up. "Come on, Potter. I don't mind foregoing that feast of mould that the Muggles call lunch, but Rain's heart will be all aflutter with worry if we don't show up for the daily torture session."

"All right," Potter acquiesced. He did not bring up the subject of Muggles as they headed toward the therapy room. Neither did Draco, and they both travelled the hallways in a brooding silence.

When it was his turn to speak to the group, Draco declined. There was nothing unusual or especially gripping about the Muggles' diatribes that day. However, the words that usually trickled past his ears in a soothing stream now lodged themselves in his consciousness. Potter elected not to address the group as well, but his eyes remained fastened on Draco for most of the hour in impassive scrutiny.

As the session drew to a close, they gathered into the usual circle. Draco's hand slipped into Potter's of its own accord, fingers gripping a little more tightly than he had intended. Potter squeezed his hand and blinked at him in mute inquiry. Whilst the others chanted in prayer, he leaned against Potter and pressed his lips to the other man's ear.

"I've already lost enough, Potter," he hissed.

"...accept the things I cannot change," recited the Muggles.

"I'm not going to change for anyone else. Not even you."

"...courage to change the things I can," the Muggles chorused in unison.

"In fact, you should be grateful that I manage to be somewhat civil to the little beasts."

"...wisdom to know the difference."

Anticipating a look of reproach, he glared at Potter through his lashes. But Potter was grinning as though he'd just caught the Snitch. When they stepped away from the circle and headed out into the corridor, Draco barely noticed that their hands were still clasped together. He was too entranced by the images that flitted before his eyes.

Lemon meringue. Ten quar--quib--whatever he called them--will certainly buy a slice of that, and possibly--oh, Merlin's beard, I'll have coffee with caffeine in it and a bit of hazelnut syrup. And definitely some meat pasties. Have they got Chocolate Frogs in the Muggle world, I wonder, or at least some approximation thereof? Toads, perhaps? I'll bet I can find some comfortable pillows too. And I've got to find some pumpkin juice somewhere...

* * * * *

The sun rose with ambivalence the next morning, hovering low in the sky to cast faint streaks of illumination over slopes of chalky white. The Muggles set out on their daily walk bundled into several layers of mismatched jumpers, trudging slowly through the hard-packed snow. Behind them, invisible feet left delicate tread marks in indentations that the Muggle hiking boots had already created. A bitter chill whistled through the air, and the Muggles' incessant whinging and moaning about the frigid wind overshadowed any occasional sound that escaped the lattice of snowflakes lingering in their wake.

"Ouch! Watch where you put those boots, you clumsy oaf. My toes are very sensitive!"

"So-rrry, it's a bit difficult to see where you're going when you're invisible! And I wasn't aware that you meant the word ponce in a stereotypical sense."

"That was uncalled for, Potter. Although I'm sure that both of us resemble fairies in this flimsy cloak of yours. When you informed me that it was roomy enough for two, are you sure you weren't picturing yourself and a house-elf, perhaps? I insist that we sit in separate aisles when we reach the train."

The cloud of living snowflakes took a step forward, and then back. It seemed that it could move only a dozen or so steps before its inhabitants lost their bearings in the ivory haze of winter.

"Potter?"

"Mhmm?"

"In any other circumstance I would have to be under the influence of the Imperius curse to ask this, but...I don't suppose you'd be willing to part with that ridiculous Weasley jumper..."

There was a short pause and a faint scuffling noise. Then the shimmer of snow began to stumble forward again, inch by inch.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

"I was referring to a more general sense of gratitude, Potter. And I certainly will not profess my thanks again, so you'd best savour it before that thick head of yours freezes."

Another silence ensued as the swatch of white ascended the peak of another slope. By now, the Muggles had returned from whence they came. An unsullied field of snow stretched out across the horizon, marred only by the occasional stump of a charred tree. Once, perhaps only a few months ago, a fierce blaze had swept across the landscape.

"If you're really keen on showing your gratitude, Draco..."

"Indeed?"

"Couldn't you call me Harry?"

The billowing cloak, now faintly outlined by the snowflakes that had begun to accumulate on its surface, puffed outward as one of its occupants sighed.

"These things take time, Potter."

"Oh."

"You might speed things up by plying me with boxes of sweets."

"Oh."

The snowflakes ground to a halt once more.

"Potter, if we proceed in this fashion, I may not be able to detach my lips at the train station..."

A hush enveloped the figures within the lambent cloak, but they shuffled forward at a steady pace until the faint glitter of movement was lost in a sea of white.

* * * * *

fin