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Freud and his Friends	By : Alexa Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 4875 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor any of the characters from the books or movies. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Freud and his Friends � 13 � Days

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This takes place starting from the evening of the last
therapy session � which was on Monday.

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Draco Malfoy hated crowds. He hated parks, he hated the
rain, he hated the shopping district of the muggle infested neighborhood they
lived in, he hated the secrecy, he hated the lack of power it imposed on him,
he hated the lack of freedom, and most of all he hated himself.

What he's become.

Weak. Pitiful.
Victim. Someone who offered himself
as a victim. Someone who had no control over his own
life.

Hell, he didn't even know what he'd do with it if he did
have control.

And worst of all � it was all his doing. Nobody
else's. He made this all happen. Allowed it, asked for it, fought for
it. What was it about Harry Potter that made him think all this was worth while. What about a scrawny, short, ill-bred, Griffindor made him think it was a good idea to sign
his life away?

He sighed.

Again.

Then he went "home". He still didn't know what
he'd do, but he thought he should face Harry and see what happens, before doing
something rash. It would be the last point for return. He felt a resolution
forming, still vague, held vague by his own will � him, unwilling to hurry in
cutting off what was his life as he knew it. Again. So soon after the first time, too.

He already moved to the light, to Harry Potter, forsaken
his family, his honor, his friends, his obligations, and went on to live a life
of gray middle-class obscurity with a gay savior of the wizarding world. Almost in hiding, actually.

If he did break off again, he'd like to be more careful
about the outcome. He'd see.

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The flat they had was a muggle one, mostly. Neither Harry
nor Draco knew anything about house-hold charms, or sustaining a wizarding
house without the service of house-elves. So it was muggle � something Harry
could deal with easily, and something that provided them a level of protection
against their well-and ill-wishers. The neighborhood was also muggle.

Hermione lived near-by and popped in frequently.

Ron visited often.

Draco found himself wishing that neither of them did.

He flipped the light-switch, flooding their living room
with yellow shine, the light making everything seem older, shabbier. It wasn't
before: he always found the room cozy and warm in the evenings, filled with the
golden and brown shades of the lamp-light and furniture. Safe,
even.

Harry wasn't there.

After an hour filled with not-thinking and dallying in the
kitchen, the bathroom, and living room � studiously avoiding the bedroom, Draco
finally made a quiet examination of their bedchamber. Harry's bag of overnight
clothes that he kept packed for when he had to leave for Auror
training was gone. There was a note on the vanity. That was at least good.

�� "Draco,

I had to go to the call in. You remember, I told you
about it before � the Ferrings facility? The whole
unit will be there.

I waited as much as I could, but it's almost eight now,
and you're not here, and I don't know when you'll be back. So,�
send me an owl when you are to tell me you're alright.

I'll be back by Wensday,
noon-time.

Hope you're ok.

We'll need to sit down and talk when I get back.

�� Harry."

So, nothing could be resolved now. He'd have to wait and
hold off any decisions he might make. He wanted to be sure, after all.

He didn't send any owls.

He wanted to go and get drunk. Instead he undressed, turned
down the bed, and turned in for the night.

Surprisingly, he slept well.

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He spent Tuesday in a haze, working, reading, eating. The TV proved to be a good distraction when he got
back from work, something suitably neutral and soothing on the "National
Geography" channel.

He spent some time moving around the restricted space of
the flat, imagining himself in a mansion, or a large house, one fitted with all
the things he was currently filling other wizards' and witches' houses with,
decorated to his exact taste, with his every wish and convenience in mind. He
decided he really wanted marble for the floors � it looked so much better than
anything else, and was much more practical than, parquet.

He knew a lot about practical aspects of home decoration
and construction, now. He was, after all, responsible for the base magical
amenities a wizard's house should have. The basic package of
charmed objects, rooms, kitchen appliances. Some of the new things he
learned about he installed in the flat. He didn't do wards for the houses, even
minor ones, not for a long time yet, he supposed. That was a much higher level
than his, for now (and he supposed not everybody would trust him with warding
their home). And not actual decoration yet � though he hoped that would come
soon. He was still a trainee, but his taste was impeccable, and once he learned
the basics he hoped to be advanced.

The very thought of such humiliating hopes was bitter.

He thought that he'd rather be one of the clients, than
even the chief decorator in the company. He realized that he didn't actually
want to serve the rich as a glorified house-elf for hire. He didn't want to
meet people he recognized from his pre-war years, or encounter the uppity
social climbers that would delight in giving him orders and titillated by even
talking to him. He didn't want them telling him what they wanted and what he
should do. He wasn't born for this. Dear God, he was a Malfoy, working for his
livelihood, in service, the lowest in the food chain. How did that happen? He
bid on the right horse, he believed, his lover's side had won, and he was
supposed to be at the top of the social ladder. Yet what was he doing?! Hiding� from the
spotlight with the just-out-of-school Hero, and fading into obscurity.

Oh, he knew the future, the long term would bring power;
Harry was destined to become minister, after a good career with the Aurors. But till then, what was Draco doing working for a
decorating company, hiding among muggles? Why didn't
he do something to advance his agenda, prepare his and his partner's future?
That was what he was supposed to be doing.

But Harry wouldn't understand that. He probably wouldn't
look at anything, having to do with gaining influence and power, rationally.
He'd be too shy of the spotlight and too desirous of setting himself apart from
Vorldemort's agenda. In Harry's mind, still, power
and corruption were too close. He might fool himself into thinking that he
should follow in Dumbledore's shoes � never running for minister, never in lead
of the whole country. Draco knew that wouldn't work � Harry was too keen on
fixing the wrongs of the world. He'd need power.

For a minute Draco dwelt on how adult these thoughts felt
in his own head. As if they didn't quite fit in there. And if so, they probably
would seem much more so for Harry. For Harry it would take time to get there,
to even start thinking about these things � an abused put-down child that he
still sometimes echoed � it would take time, and guidance, which he didn't know
if it was his place to provide.

Draco, in the end, wasn't his father, though he was a
Malfoy. He didn't have the patience and the emotional distance needed to
sustain a relationship out of pure political interest. Draco wanted too
many things for himself to be able to do so. He wanted
a life on his own, he wanted his own form of power, he wanted freedom to do as
he wished � freedom he never had before, which he could only imagine to taste
like cool water from a spring. He didn't know what it would really feel like.
But he wanted to know.

And he wanted Harry, as well.

His Harry: lovable, strong, pure, so full of potential that
you expected the world to change around him any second. A
well of power and promise. And a good fuck, and a
loving boyfriend, and a klutz, and a jealous git, and a school rival, and his
best friend. His life, really.

Which was exactly the problem. He
needed his own life to fill him, not Harry's.

He'd talk to Harry. Explain this all to him, and they'd
work on doing better. He'd add to his life, and build it, and they will be able
to stay together � happy, both of them.

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On Wednesday Harry broke up with him.

It wasn't a row, it wasn't fiery passion, it wasn't even anything too sad. It was composed of some
shrugging, some long pauses in the conversation, times
of looking out the window while few simple words fell from the lips trying to
explain that "it is all just too much" and that "it wasn't
working for any of us." He was sorry. Draco was numb. Not really caring.
He surprised himself with how easily he took the words.

They weren't sure what they were supposed to do for the
rest of the day. Move out? Who then would do it? Tell their friends? Have a
goodbye fuck, for old time's sake? What?

Draco informed Harry that he'd move out. He packed. Harry
helped. They finished around one past midnight.

Draco stayed the night on the couch in the living room,
surrounded first by the yellow light of the lamps, then, by the comforting
shine of his own Lumos, reminding himself who
he was � a wizard, one of few blessed, one of those loved beyond all, rich,
lucky, destined for greatness. Magical. Then he slept
by the blue light of the moon coming in through the windows, his face speckled
with the little square-shaped shadows thrown by the pattern on the filmy
curtains he chose when they first moved in.

He never remembered if he dreamt of anything that night.

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It was five in the morning when he woke up. Unusually early
for him; but it was an unusual day, he supposed.

The door to the bedroom was closed. He finished the packing
under a silencing spell, and left the apartment without saying goodbye.

It was Thursday.

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A/N: For those who worry - no, it's not the end.

Reviews are most welcome.
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Freud and his Friends