Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

The Masks of Real Heroes	By : Aelys_Althea Category: Harry Potter AU/AR > Slash - Male/Male Views: 17641 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: Many thanks to the wonderful J. K. Rowling who offered such a beautiful world for amateurs such as myself to frolick in. This is a not-for-profit fanfiction and all characters and original storylines of Harry Potter belong to her!

Chapter List
- 20
- 21
- 22
A/N: A LOT of angst this chapter. A lot. And Snape being surprisingly nice in a bit of a hard love kind of way. I apologise that Draco and Harry are taking a bit to actually admit what everybody already knows. Seriously, even I'm chaffing at the bit for them to finally get around to it. But it will come! I swear!

Oh, and thank you to my wonderful reviewers! You're awesome, as always! I love hearing from you.

Chapter 20: Climbing That Hill
The world was both better and worse after the visit to the hospital. Better because the crushing grief and despair that had threatened to reduce Draco to dust had eased, if only slightly. Worse because with that easing came a pervasive numbness. A numbness that, while smothering, could not keep the wheels in his mind from turning, the cogs from catching.
For Draco, those first few days after visiting his mother were torture. It was fortunate that the weekend had conveniently presented itself, for he doubted he would have had the presence of mind to attend classes. The image of his mother's face, from slack and waxen to tense and snarling, played on disjointed repeat in his mind. He found himself unable to follow the conversations of those around him, his mind drifting back to the hospital or, just as bad if not worse, to the image of his father…
They hadn't recovered his body. That was perhaps the worst part; even in death, Lucius Malfoy could not find peace in the family crypt. Most nights, especially in the beginning, Draco would awaken from nightmares of his father begging him, cursing him, pleading with him to rescue him, or to at least ensure his remains would not lie within the hands of his killers. Draco had never cried so much as in the first nights after learning that his world had been torn apart. He didn't think it was healthy to shed so many tears; he could never recall doing so before.
His friends, both the Slytherins and Gryffindors, were a constant source of support, both in his initial detachedness and when he gradually evolved to spurning their condolences. Returning back from the hospital, Draco had not moved from his seat upon Snape's couch for nearly a entire day. He knew his godfather had drifted around him, around the room, and asked him questions that he didn't answer. He knew that at least Blaise and Pansy had knocked on the door more than once to ask after his wellbeing. Draco didn't even raise his head.
Harry had been with him the whole time. Draco would wonder in later to come how, despite his aversion – no, more than that, his repulsion – from absolutely everyone, Harry's presence seemed to be acceptable. Not that there was truly anything to find objectionable in it anyway. Just as the dark-haired boy had seemed to innately know what to say at the hospital, he also seemed to understand that Draco simply did not wish to hear words, submit to attempts at communication, but rather preferred to brood in silence. Harry sat beside him the entire time, not speaking a word, offering a nothing so much as the curl of his fingers around Draco's own. It was all that Draco would accept and just what he needed. The third time Pansy and Blaise knocked on the door, Harry even went out to speak to them. Draco didn't hear what was said; the door was closed and not a murmur could be heard through the thick wood. Not that he really cared. His mind was too occupied with… other things.
He didn't sleep that first night. Harry did, slumped against him with his hand that ever-present hold. He apologized when he awoke, which Draco merely shrugged off without comment. They had stayed like that for most of the following day – much to Snape's apparent disgruntlement – until Harry evidently felt that a change was in need.
"Come on, we're going to get something to eat."
Draco turned his head slowly towards his friend, watching with dull eyes as Harry unfolded himself from his seat and planted himself directly before him. There was a flatness in Harry's eyes that Draco wasn't familiar with but he recognised from when Harry had asked – no, told Snape that he was accompanying Draco to the hospital. It brooked no argument.
Not that Draco didn't try. "You go. I'm not hungry."
Harry sighed. "Yes, you are. You just don't realise you are." Releasing his hold on Draco's hand, he flicked his fingers in a beckoning gesture. "Come on. Snape's rooms can't be the best place to sulk anyway."
Some small part of Draco's mind objected to the term 'sulk' but he didn't let it speak. He was so tired all of a sudden. His head hurt, and the urge to cry was so strong that he feared a repeat performance of the day before. Not that he was particularly worried about humiliating himself. It was simply that it would make him even more tired. And he was finding that the wearier he was, the more his mind drifted and where it drifted hurt. Exceptionally.
Draco shook his head in dissent again, not bothering with words. Perhaps he should have, though, for Harry didn't seem to understand.
"I'm not asking you, Draco. I'm telling you. We're leaving." And fitting a firm grip on his arm, Harry tugged him to his feet. Well, 'tugged' in the loosest sense of the term. Draco didn't honestly think that Harry could bodily pull anyone to their feet. Still, the grip he had on Draco's arm was painful enough that it encouraged him to rise on his own. It was difficult, and he felt light-headed, but he managed.
As they were leaving the room, Snape wandered from the bedroom to meet them at the door. There was an expectant air around the man, as though he was waiting for something but didn't want to ask for it. Draco regarded him blankly before looking away, fixing his gaze on the door. He didn't really care what Snape wanted at that moment.
Harry spoke up, though. "Thank you for having us, Professor. I'm going to take him to get some dinner."
Snape affixed Harry in his stare. It was an odd stare, contemplative, as though he was seeing him for the first time. He nodded his head slowly. "I think that would be for the best. But perhaps not the Great Hall."
"No, sir. But the house elves have always brought things to my room when I've asked."
Snape nodded again. "Very well.' He shifted his gaze to Draco. "I will make time to see you sometime at the beginning of next week, Draco. Ensure you have adequate rest for what remains of this weekend."
Draco didn't reply, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. Snape's words hardly warranted a reply. Besides, it would take too much effort. The Defense professor stared at him for a moment longer – Draco could feel it, but refused to cave and meet that stare – before stepping forwards, opening the door for them and urging them out. Draco got the impression that he was still watching them as they disappeared around the corner.
Harry made good his word. Back in his rooms, he asked with something akin to practiced efficiency for lunch; it involved rapping a pattern on the coffee table and requesting, similar to what Blaise had done in the Great Hall what seemed so long ago. Draco watched idly as Harry smiled at the house elves, thanked them profusely and sent them away blushing as he set about ladling out what looked more like a breakfast of sausages and eggs than a real dinner.
"Here," Harry offered him the piled plate, placing a fork deliberately on the coffee table. "Eat."
Staring momentarily down at the plate nestled on his lap, Draco was surprised when, slowly lifting his gaze, his mouth opened and spoke for him. "You don't eat on a couch."
Harry stared blankly at him for a moment. He seemed a little surprised that Draco had said anything at all. Then a small smile touched his lips. 'Well, unless you want to go to the Great Hall, you are today. Do you want to go? We can if you'd like."
Shaking his head hesitantly, then with more force, Draco closed his eyes. No, I don't want to go there. Not now. Maybe not ever. For some reason, the very idea of going out amongst people again left him feeling heavy and even more tired, kicking a bout of nausea into his gut. It would be too loud, filled with too many people that were acting simply too normal. It didn't seem right, that they should be so normal when the everything had suddenly turned so wrong.
My father… Mother…
Seeming to notice Draco's descending mood with his dropping gaze, Harry reached forward, scooped up the fork and fiddled with it between his hands. "That's okay. We don't have to if you don't want to." He smiled ruefully, which Draco only barely glimpsed from the corner of his eye. "I'm hardly one to comment on not eating dinner with the Houses. It would make me a bit of a hypocrite."
It was funny. A little voice in the back of his head, right beside the one that continued to wail and weep hysterically, noted the fact. But he couldn't seem to translate it into a smile, even had he wanted to. Harry stared at him for a moment longer, as though waiting for something, then nudged him lightly with his knee. "Please eat something, Draco. I'm not averse to feeding you myself, but I doubt you'd enjoy that."
The mental image of that, inserting itself right between that of his father's faintly smiling face and his mother's sickly profile, was enough to get his to pick at his food. The first bite tasted rubbery and bland, but the next was slightly better. He was almost surprised when he looked down what felt like only moments later and realised he'd finished the whole plate.
Harry smiled at him; not a patronizing smile, simply an acknowledgement, perhaps a little grateful, as though he was thankful that Draco had followed his request. "Alright. Now you're going to bed."
Those first few days, Draco wasn't sure if he would have survived without Harry. He would ponder, later, just how Harry had known exactly what to do. Almost as though he had done it before. Draco knew he hadn't; Harry had barely had a friend in his life – he knew this too – and his family had been less than ideal role models in the caring department. But however he managed it, Draco was quietly grateful for the matter. It was probably the only way he managed to attend class on Monday too.
Not that he fully attended. He was in the room, but not entirely present. No one commented. From the whispers around him, Draco knew that the other students only speculated on what had happened, but the knowing and silent sympathy that radiated from every teacher suggested they were all keyed into the cause of his distress. Pansy and Blaise, as well as the Gryffindors, also appeared to have at least an inkling. Draco didn't know if it was Snape, Dumbledore, or possibly Harry who had told them; he didn't really care. It's not like it changed anything. Besides, Harry knew everything, and that was all that really mattered. Harry knowing… somehow, that was important. And not only because his friend stayed by his side like a shadow.
The rest of his friends tried to talk to him. About what had happened, in a roundabout sort of way. About how he was feeling, similarly from an alternative approach. Draco didn't want to talk about it. He ignored most attempts to question him, and when he did reply it was as shortly as possible with a pointed stare to warn against further comments. Even Pansy took the hint after a while
When Snape's first request to meet him after hours came, Draco ignored it. He was drifting; he seemed to exist in a state of exhaustion, reliving memories of the past and rarely speaking to anyone. He no longer even felt the urge to keep up his ever-present Malfoy mask. What did it matter? After the hospital, after his flight from his mother's bedside, what did any of it matter? They could think what they wanted. He no longer felt the urge to play to anyone else's standards anymore.
The second and third requests met him shortly afterwards, until finally, by Thursday, Snape cornered him after Defense.
"Draco, if you will not see me after dinner tonight, than I will be giving you detention and we will speak as you scrub cauldrons." Draco had stared blandly back at Snape after that little ultimatum, but eventually nodded. What was the point in avoiding it any longer?
"He's probably just worried about you." Harry propped his head on his hand, staring at Draco sideways as he picked at his dinner. They were seated at the Slytherin table in the Great Hall, oddly isolated from other students in general. Draco remembered, in a detached sort of way, that Pansy had mentioned something about their Head of House having a word to the other students; something about leaving him alone and that anyone who questioned him would receive detention peeling Maudlin Goo off the potions desks.
Which explained their distancing, at least, and their averted gazes. Not the absence of his other friends. Draco wondered idly if Pansy, Blaise and the Gryffindors had finally grown tired of his presence. Their questions had gradually decreased over the past week or so and they seemed almost nervous to speak to him now. Another little voice told Draco that he should be more concerned with such a distancing, but he couldn't seem to find the willpower to bother.
He shook his head, spearing a pea before dislodging it with a flick of his fork. "He wouldn't be worried. Snape isn't the kind of person to 'worry'. He's just doing what he's told; Dumbledore probably asked him to check up on me or something."
"No, I don't think so," Harry murmured, gaze dropping down to his own plate.
Draco scowled. "And how, exactly, would you know?" He felt the flicker of anger, subdued but still there as it beamed through his words. He had been struggling with it more and more the last few days. It threatened to break out at the most unexpected times and had done so, simmering and bubbling, a few unexpected times. Well, not really unexpectedly; it mostly happened when Pansy asked him if he was 'alright'. He swore, if she asked him one more time…
Shrugging, Harry turned back towards Draco. "He seemed worried when we were in his rooms last Friday. I think he's actually concerned for you."
"And I'm saying, it's just his job. He's my godfather and all, but he's never been close or bothered to care before." Why was Harry even pushing this? It was so bothersome. Draco felt that weariness rise within him, at odds with the growing anger. "Why does it even matter?"
"It matters because if he wants to help you then perhaps it would be a good thing to talk to him."
"Oh, because you're a prime example of talking to people about your troubles? Done so much of that in the past, have you? How did that work out for you, Harry?"
He shouldn't have said it, Draco knew that. Even half-buried beneath the dark blanket in his mind, Draco knew. The spasm of hurt that passed across Harry's eyes was testimony to that, and he only managed to wipe his face clean with apparent difficulty. But his friend didn't rise to the bait as Draco suddenly realised he wished he had. Instead, he simply dropped his chin and focused back on his plate, staring unseeingly at the half-eaten meal. "I know. You're probably right. But that doesn't mean it wouldn't be good for you. Just to at least try. Maybe…"
Draco stood abruptly. He didn't want to hear any more suggestions. For once, Harry didn't seem to be saying the right thing. It was only adding fuel to that gradually rising fire within him. He couldn't even push himself to feel faintly guilty for his words any longer.
Without another word or a glance back at Harry, Draco stepped over the back of the bench and strode from the room. He thought he saw Hermione at least watch his departure, but didn't turn to confirm it. He felt inexplicably angry, and he just wanted to get away from people. For the first time since returning to Hogwarts, Draco considered sleeping in the Slytherin dormitory rather than going back to Featherwood's rooms.
As he strode swiftly down the corridor, Draco seethed silently. What could there possibly be to talk about? Why would Snape, of all people, even try? Why can't people just leave me alone? Is that so much to ask for?
He wandered aimlessly for a time. He knew he should go to Snape's office, but couldn't seem to direct his feet in that direction. The school bell chimed seven o'clock by the time he felt calmed enough to push himself towards the Defense Against the Dark Arts room. For even brooding and detached as he was, Draco did not feel in the least bit inclined to scrub cauldron. Snape always stayed late in his classroom and could often be found in his office even on weekends. Draco didn't even consider the possibility that the man might have departed for his private rooms.
He was correct in his assumption. Stepping into the classroom without knocking, Draco paused just inside the doorway. Snape was seated, bowed over a stack of parchments like a vulture. The man's prominent nose and draping robes only added to the impression.
And he was pointedly ignoring him, too, even when Draco ensured he made enough noise with his entry that ignoring him would have been simply impossible. What a resentful old man.
After standing silently for five minutes, Draco cleared his throat. Still receiving no response, he sighed heavily, his anger sizzling once more. Fine, if that's how you're going to be. Pivoting on his foot, Draco turned to leave.
"Sit down."
The words were slightly ominous and probably would have made Draco struggle not to cringe in the past. Now, he simply turned slowly back to Snape and stared at him flatly. The man hadn't even raised his head from his papers.
Draco contemplated leaving, but… You're already here. And if history is anything to go by, he'll just keep pestering you until you come back again. And that would just be annoying. Heaving another sigh, Draco turned back to the room and wandered to the front row of desks. He slumped into one of the seats and fixed his gaze firmly on the pockmarked table before him. Snape kept reading, only pausing to make an odd notation with a flourish of his raven's quill.
Draco lost track of time. That happened sometimes, lately. He stared at the desk and memories played out over his mind. He would have prided himself on his ability to out-wait Snape, if only the memories had not settled their familiar, choking darkness upon his mind and sadness engulfed him. It was so consuming that the flickering flame of anger died to a fragment of its initial heat.
Finally, Snape apparently deemed him to have waited long enough. Draco was only faintly aware of him placing his quill down precisely and folding his arms across the desk before him. "Have you calmed yourself now?"
Draco's eyes rose of their own accord. "What are you talking about?"
"Your anger. I will not converse with you if you are not in a mind to be civil."
Draco felt his eyes widen incredulously. That bastard! "I was not angry, sir, I was –"
"Yes, you were. Don't attempt to fool me, Draco. It will not end well for you."
Huffing a sigh, Draco turned back to his study of the table, slumping further into his seat. His father would have been disgusted at his slouch, but then his father… Draco clenched his teeth, thrusting the thought away with shattering force. The grazing pain it left behind it remained strong, however.
"Now," Snape leant forward slightly in his seat, apparently satisfied he had made Draco wait long enough again, "how are you, Draco?"
Draco snorted. It was almost funny. "Are you serious? You called me here to ask me how I am?"
"I feel that such a question is redundant," Snape replied in a drawl.
Barking a humorless laugh, Draco turned his eyes to the ceiling. "Well, thank you for asking, Professor. I'm wonderful, just dandy, couldn't be better –"
"Draco –"
"In fact, since you asked, I think things are going along swimmingly. Was that all you wanted to know? Alright, then." Planting his hands on the table, Draco pushed himself to his feet, already turning to leave. "I'd quite like to take my leave now."
"Sit. Down."
It was a tone that Draco had only heard several times throughout his life, and even in the midst of his rekindled anger, Draco felt the faint murmur of fear in his gut. The words was quiet – too quiet – and soft. As soft as a cutting knife. Draco paused in his retreat, resisted for a moment, then sank back down into his seat. His eyes fixed firmly once more upon the little craters and burn marks dotting the desk.
"Good. Now, you will speak to me if I have to keep you here all night."
Draco couldn't meet Snape's eyes. "What exactly do you want me to say, sir?" The sir slipped out without his behest, but he didn't make an attempt to suck the term back in. It seemed appropriate. Instead, he settled for staring fiercely at the table. The wood weathered his glare remarkably well.
"You are not coping, Draco."
"I'm fine –"
"No, you are not. And I think it would be best to talk to someone about it."
"What, like a Mind-Healer?" Draco snorted. This was getting ridiculous. "There's nothing wrong with me."
"Oh?" Snape waited until Draco reluctantly raised his eyes. The man's face was expressionless, save for a slightly quirked dark eyebrow. "So ignoring your friends is normal?'
"I'm not ignoring them –"
"Neglecting your studies?"
"They're not neglected –"
"Spending your hours alternating between brooding silences and scowls, punctuated only by angry retorts to the most mellow of questions?"
"I don't -!"
"Draco." Snape's eyebrow rose further. "Do not where the façade of the village idiot with me. You are not stupid, though you appear to be attempting to conform to as much. Had I not known your circumstance, I would have felt that Longbottom and Weasley were having a negative influence upon you." He paused, and a frown wrinkled his forehead this time. "Though you do appear to be driving them away as well."
Draco stared at the man silently. He knew his mouth had dropped open, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt angry. Angry, and self-righteous and… and… misunderstood! "I am not acting like an idiot."
"Yes, you are. In fact, your change has been so rapid and dramatic, that I thought perhaps you may have pushed yourself into it. It has been less than a week since –"
"Since what? Since my entire life turned to shit?!" Draco was so affronted that he didn't even consider the dangers of swearing to a teacher. And Snape, of all teachers. It felt far too necessary. How could Snape sit there, spouting how he had changed 'so rapidly' and reprimanding him for it when his life as he knew it had been turned upside down. "What do you expect, Professor? Do you think I'm so cold and heartless that the death of my father wouldn't effect me? That my mother being tortured into near insanity would leave me unaffected?" He realized was breathing hard, chest heaving as though he had just run a mile, but couldn't slow it. The words pouring from him were an insuppressible and tearing torrent.
Snape stared at him silently for a moment. His fingers tapped idly on the desk. "No," he finally uttered, gaze narrowing slightly. "No, I do not believe it would have left you unchanged. How could it? And in such a way…" He trailed off, fingers tapping a rhythm against upon the heavy wood that Draco found immediately annoying.
"Thank you, for you acknowledgement. Sir." Draco's voice was nearly a growl.
"You should not blame yourself, you know."
Draco blinked. It took a moment for Snape's words to process, incomprehensible as they were. Where had that come from? "What?"
"This guilt you feel. Let it go. It was not your fault."
"What the bloody hell are you know –?"
"Draco, stop." Those fingers drummed infuriatingly again, their rapid movement catching Draco's eye and causing him to twitch with every repetition. It set his teeth on edge. "I can see the truth of your thoughts even as attempt to deny them. We are more similar that you would likely believe, you and I. And you are not as invincible as you seem to think."
"I don't believe I'm invincible," Draco muttered dully. He couldn't even bring himself to consider that he and Snape were 'similar'.
"Then why are you denying that you are hurt? So guilty? You know that is what you are feeling, don't you? Why you feel angry? It is unnecessary, unwarranted guilt; you feel that it is your fault that your parents were attacked as they were."
Draco dropped his chin. It was disconcerting, hearing Snape speak so heartfelt with his usual monotonous drone, words that carried a weight and truth that Draco couldn't deny. His anger was growling like an awakening dragon, but alongside that was a deep, heart-wrenching sadness. I know that. Don't tell me how I feel, what I think. I know that's what I feel. And it's because it's true.
"It is not true." Snape spoke as though he had stood witness to Draco's thoughts. It caused Draco to flinch and tuck his chin further.
"What they hell do you know?"
It wasn't really a question, but Snape answered anyway. "I know more than you would think."
"No, you don't." Abruptly, the dam that had held back his emotions shattered. Lurching to his feet once more, Draco leant heavily on the table. His breath was ragged once more and his eyes infuriatingly blurry. "You don't know anything. Because otherwise, there is no way that you could say it wasn't my fault. It's my fault that the Dark Lord found out about their conversion. Merlin, it's my fault that they even switched sides in the first place! If I had been better, if I had tried harder, then they would be safe. If I had fixed that bloody Cabinet, then the Dark Lord would have had no reason to threaten them. If I had –"
"Killed Dumbledore?"
Draco froze, his breaths still gasping, and raised his eyes slowly to Snape's. The man met them with quiet regard. "What?"
"Your next assignment. To murder Dumbledore."
Draco couldn't breath. Though his chest still pumped, his throat still clenching and sucking painfully, there didn't seem to be enough oxygen in the room. "What do you…? How …?"
"Your parents knew. It was what drove them to seek protection from the side of the light. It was an impossible task, as the Cabinet was supposed to be, but when you reportedly did so well with it the Dark Lord saw fit to assign you further 'duties'."
The words entered Draco's ears fuzzily, as though he had pygmy-puffs stuffed within them. It didn't make sense. Why hadn't he even known about it, if it was his task? Then a thought occurred to him. His words tumbled out in barely a hoarse whisper. "Then it is even more my fault that they –"
"No, it is not." There was so much force in Snape's words that it seemed an almost impossible task to consider disbelieving him. "I spoke to your parents, both of them. They made the decision based, yes, on the thought of protecting you, but also because of a shift in viewpoint. The Dark Lord has been acting erratically, ruthlessly, and mercilessly since his return. Even more than he once had. It was not the world they wished to live in, the perceived benefits no longer outweighing the destruction wreaked to attain such goals. And killing Dumbledore would make sure that the Dark Lord succeeded in his plans.
"Your parents made an educated decision. They chose to spy for the side of the light. In the past weeks, they have provided valuable information to the Order of the Phoenix, information that I alone have been attempting to gather yet failing to given the nature of my own circumstances." Snape paused, and Draco wondered for a moment if he was thinking the same as Draco was: Snape was openly declaring his position, declaring his treachery to the Dark Lord. Draco had suspected, certainly, but to have it confirmed… "The information both your mother and father gained was invaluable. It will contribute exponentially to ending this war. However," and Snape paused again. A brief flicker of pain crossed his face, so brief Draco almost missed it. "The Dark Lord became aware of their shift in allegiance. Your parents were careful, but not careful enough."
Draco gritted his teeth. The upwelling of tears threatened to bubble over once more. Not careful enough. It hurt, too much to even fully contemplate.
"So you see, Draco. The fault lies not with you."
It made sense, a little bit. Logically, Draco could understand how it was his parent's decision. Of course, he was sure that his own protection was a large contributor to driving their change of heart, but he could understand Snape's words. Yet logical as it was, it did nothing to alleviate the guilt. It shifted it slightly, but only slightly, and only to better dig its claws into the shoulders of his grief.
"You are not convinced."
"Did you really expect me to be?"
Snape stared at him, then slowly shook his head. "No, I suppose not. I had hoped, but that is a different thing entirely."
"It is," Draco agreed tonelessly. He realised abruptly that he had fallen back into his seat at some stage. He wondered when.
"But that is beside the point. What I am saying, Draco, is that you are not coping. For whatever reason – and I cannot claim I understand all of them – I fear that this will only get worse unless something is done." The man released a breath that was not quite a sigh, a sound that so rarely passed his lips that Draco lifted his head in surprise. He almost sounded concerned. Tired. Worried.
Worried?
"I think perhaps you should speak to someone."
Draco shook his head. His anger had died completely and for the first time in days, Draco could not find a trace of it. The guilt still remained, though for some reason it wasn't as consuming as it had been before. Painful, yes, and horrifying, but manageable to a degree. Draco didn't know why. Snape's explanation? His own confession? Simply that the reality of his feelings were cast into the open. He didn't know, but for some reason he realized that even just slightly he could accept the guilt. More than that, he could almost – almost – understand that guilt was illogical. Not all of it, but some.
Or maybe I just needed to yell at someone.
"I don't want to see a Mind-Healer. I'm not sick." There was no heat to his words, though, and Draco knew that if Snape pushed it he would probably cave under the suggestion.
Snape only shook his head, lank hair flipping loosely. "I am not suggesting a Mind-Healer. I was thinking rather a grief counselor"
"Grief counselor? What, like a therapist?"
"Of a sort." Snape had begun tapping his fingers again. It was still annoying, but not enraging. "Just someone to talk to, to convey your fears to, your worries. Your guilt, unrealistic as it is."
Draco released a huff a humorless laugh. Of course, even when attempting civility Snape would always press his opinion. For he was always right, wasn't he? "I don't know. Will you let me think about it?"
Black eyes pinned him firmly. They were so dark that Draco couldn't even see the pupils. They seemed to search within him, though searching for what Draco wasn't sure. He seemed to find it though, whatever it was, for he nodded shortly afterwards. "If you will. Inform in a week of your decision. If you feel you are more than capable of recovering without it, then I will abide by your decision. However," and Snape's jaw tightened slightly, "continue as disagreeably as you have, particularly in regard to your friends, and I will have to promote my own opinion further."
Bowing his head, Draco nodded. He didn't even pause to contemplate the remarkable admission in Snape's words; that Draco needed his friends. He pushed himself to his feet, recognizing the end of the conversation when he saw it. Tiredness reaffixed its hold upon him, and he wished for nothing except a pillow and a bed.
"Draco?"
Glancing up, Draco met Snape's gaze once more. There was an odd softness to it, something Draco wasn't sure he had ever seen before. "Sir?"
"In regards to visiting your mother."
Coldness spread through Draco's stomach, warring with his weariness for precedence. It was akin to nervousness, yet so much deeper than that. He swallowed, pressing his lips together to stop them from trembling. I won't cry. Not this time.
"She is somewhat better. She has not yet fully awoken, but her medi-witch reports that her bouts of hallucination-driven distress have decreased markedly." Snape paused, tilted his head as though contemplating Draco from a different angle. "She is predicted to awaken within the week."
A lump formed in Draco's throat, making his eyes water with its tightness. "She is… alright, sir?"
"Recovering, yes." Snape waited for Draco to continue, but he couldn't. It felt as though the lump were pressing down on his voice box. "The headmaster has informed me that, should you so desire, you may visit her as you wish. It is not uncommon for students to visit ailing relatives. Your circumstances are slightly different, what with the need for Auror accompaniment, but can be accommodated."
Nodding, Draco swallowed, gulping to push the lump down. "Thank you, sir. I'll…" What? He wasn't sure if he was ready to go and see her again, didn't know if he could face it, even when there was such a large part at him reaching out longingly, desperately.
"Let me know," Snape requested, nodding knowingly. Draco was grateful for that.
Sliding out from his seat, Draco made his way towards the door. He was nearly through when Snape called out to him again. A twinge of something like annoyance tweaked in his temple. Not quite anger but... Still, he could say everything at once, for a change.
"About your friends."
No, he definitely felt annoyed. Still not angered, but certainly irked. Draco glanced over his shoulder. "Sir, I think I'm capable of handling the mess I've gotten myself into."
A faint smile curled Snape's lips. It wasn't a particularly pretty sight. "Just so long as you recognise it is a mess."
Draco sighed. Perhaps he had been a little short with them. His mind flickered towards Pansy and Blaise, who he had drilled into silence, to the Gryffindors that he had practically ignored. To Harry, who had barely left his side in the past week and to whom he had snapped at so unnecessarily over dinner. Which, he realized with a cringe, had been very uncalled for and very unkind. Yes, perhaps he had been short.
"I can see you are considering remedying your disharmonies." There was something that sounded almost like pride in Snape's tone. Draco could have been imagining it, maybe even hoping for it, but he didn't think so. A final nod, and Draco left the room. He sought a pillow and a bed, for sure, but there was really only one course he could set himself upon.
He stood outside the door with a feeling of anxiousness that he was entirely unaccustomed to. The walk back to Harry's rooms had been more and more confronting with every step. Yes, he had been short. And unkind; he shouldn't have said what he had. Especially not to Harry. His friend had been nothing but supportive since he had received the news that shattered him.
No. Draco frowned. He's been supportive since before then. I just haven't appreciated it. The thought only made him feel worse. For the second time that night, Draco contemplated returning to the Slytherin dormitory to sleep, though for entirely different reasons this time.
Taking a deep breath, Draco raised his hand and rapped his knuckles on the door. It was an odd feeling; he'd never knocked before. Prior to the Christmas holidays, Harry's rooms had been a bit of a private area; no one had ventured into them, nor even approached them. And after the holidays, Draco had practically treated them as his own. Would that change tonight? He certainly hoped not. His words had been few and short, but the pain that had briefly crossed Harry's face had been very real.
The door swung inwards silently, revealing a shrouding darkness beyond. Harry peered out, half-hidden by the door and blinking rapidly behind his glasses at the difference in light in the torch-lit hallway. He had pulled his braid out, the hair falling messily around his face, and had already changed into the loose slacks and t-shirt he favoured over pajamas.
It was with a pang that Draco noted the solemn expression on his face, the faint sadness in his friend's eyes as he met Draco's gaze through the long tresses of his fringe. It hurt, more than Draco had expected it to. More, perhaps, than he had wanted it to.
Surprisingly, it was Harry who broke the silence. His voice was small and quiet, just like him, yet the reservation was nearly heartbreaking. "Hi."
Before Draco knew it, his tongue had run away from him. "I'm sorry. Harry, I'm really sorry. I shouldn't have said what I did. It was wrong, and cruel, and uncalled for and… I'm really, so sorry. I never want to upset you."
Harry stared at him for a moment. A long moment, in which left Draco fought the urge to fidget. Then, as though nothing were amiss, Harry gave his small, familiar smile and stepped back from the door. The meaning couldn't have been plainer. Draco hastened indoors.
"I really am sorry," he muttered, biting his lip as he followed Harry into the living room. "I hope you'll –"
"Draco, I can't even think what it was that you said that apparently upset me. So in that case, you're forgiven."
Which was a lie. Or at least the first part was. Draco knew this, but he appreciated the words nonetheless. Sighing heavily, he sank down into the couch. "Well, I am still sorry, but even saying that, I'm glad I'm forgiven. I was wondering if you'd make me sleep in the Slytherin dorms tonight."
Harry's smile widened as he tucked himself onto the couch beside him. "Oh, I couldn't do that. Blaise said they've already converted your bed to storage space. You'd been sleeping on the floor if you went back."
Draco snorted. "Oh, heavens no. Well, looks like your stuck with me, then."
Harry shrugged, butting his shoulder into Draco's. "Good thing I don't mind you hanging around, then."

Things took a turn for the better after that. Though he was still weighed down with a constant ache in his chest, it felt like Draco had finally reached the bottom of the hill of grief and despair and was beginning the slow climb back up again. It was heavy going, and he had to stop at times, even slide back a few paces, but move forward he did.
He realised he had been a little irrational. Or perhaps a lot. In the depths of his brooding, he hadn't even been fully aware of his surfacing anger most of the time. When he finally bit his cheek for long enough to apologise to Blaise and Pansy, the Slytherin girl gave him no chance to overlook what she saw as a slight.
"I know, Draco. I do know you are in pain. But I swear, I thought you were planning to murder me in my sleep for the glares you gave me."
"Pansy, lay off a little, his father just –"
"I am well aware of that Blaise." Pansy gave Blaise a glare that suggested she was considering murdering him in his sleep. When she turned back towards Draco, though her face softened and adopted something that was as close to sympathy as Draco thought had ever graced her features.
"Draco, I understand. I may not be able to relate completely, but I do understand." She reached out and grasped his hand firmly. There was solidity, sureness, in that grasp that erased any feelings of resentment Draco felt was the faint flicker of pity beneath the sympathy. "I was only worried about you, though. We were only worried about you. And," horribly, her eyes glazed over and she struggled to blink back tears, "I respected your parents. No, that is too impersonal. I liked them. Your father…" She paused again, turning her head for a moment and her free hand rose to wipe beneath one eye. "But your mother, she will get better, Draco. She will. I know it."
Not days before, Draco would have yanked his hand from Pansy's grasp and stared at her in angry disdain. Resented her for even trying to understand the pain he was feeling. The resentment was still there, certainly, but he managed to quell it enough that he could see the care and worry she felt for him, saw her own grief that she fought valiantly to hide in the face of his own. It was not as profound, not as deep, he was sure, but it was still definitely there.
"Thank you, Pansy. I appreciate it." He couldn't look at her face, fixing his eyes on the table instead, but he caught the nod of acknowledgement out of the corner of his eye, saw the small smile before she slowly released his hand.
"We're here for you, mi amico. Just don't push us away again. Please." Blaise spoke up in the following silence, meeting Draco's stare imploringly, and how could he do anything but nod at such blatant honesty? Even if it was a little embarrassing. He murmured something that he hoped passed as gratitude.
The Gryffindors forgave him more slowly, but they did eventually. Surprisingly it was Ron who showed the most compassion; the Weasley seemed devastated when he related how he was sure he would have been even more of a sullen git than Draco had something happened to one of the members of his family. The look of nauseated horror that paled his features was so profound that Draco couldn't even find it in himself to be affronted at the back-handed criticism. Ron's words seemed to take strides in convincing Hermione and Neville to follow in his footsteps, however, for which he was grateful.
Gradually, in the week following his meeting with Snape, Draco managed to get a hold on his emotions enough to limp towards a semblance of his usual behavior. It was difficult, there was no denying it; as though his physically limped on a wounded limb, rather than being plagued mentally by an onslaught of triggering memories and overwhelming emotions. Emotions that were gradually softening, if not quite numbing – still there, but somehow less painful.
It helped that he had his friends as a crutch. And it helped more than anything that Harry was at times literally propping him up under the arm, as though he saw the mental need as a physical one and offered the comfort of contact without request. They never spoke of their brief argument, so incredibly brief that it was barely a pimple in the flat plains of smoothness. Draco was more grateful of that than even his friend's renewed support. He didn't know what he would have done if Harry had abruptly decided he was too much trouble. It was a little frightening to realise how much he relied upon him.
Steadily, over the next weeks, he fell back into routine, and even began paying attention in class once more. By Tuesday of the third week from receiving the news, he felt composed enough to participate once more in Hermione's study group – for both Gryffindor's and Slytherins unanimously agreed that it was very much hers. His friends watched at him warily for a while initially, but recovered quickly and proceeded with their studying as usual, note taking and essay writing broken only by hushed chatter.
By the time Friday came around, Draco felt he could almost claim to be 'composed' once more. The memory of his father followed him like a ghost, flickering often to the image of his mother, but like a ghost it didn't seem to have the power to drag him to the floor and demand he serenade his sorrow. He still flinched whenever he looked at it too closely, but that was livable. It was endurable.
So when Snape spoke quietly to him after Defense Against the Dark Arts once more, questioning him on his consideration of seeking a counselor once more, he shook his head almost firmly.
"No thank you, Professor. I believe I will maintain my own attempts at coming to terms with my… um…" He trailed off, unable to find the words, or perhaps unwilling to voice them. He firmed his jaw however and met Snape's eyes, stare for stare.
Snape had gazed at him piercingly. If Draco hadn't known that Snape respected his privacy enough, he would have feared the man of performing Legilimens on him. Finally, he inclined his head slowly. "If that is your choice, I will not oppose it."
"Thank you, sir."
"However, should the need arise in future –"
"I will most certainly reconsider. Thank you, sir, I understand the error of my ways before and I am… dealing better with it now." He struggled with the words slightly; one thing that he had noticed return since his low period was the pride he had in his own correctness. No Malfoy would willingly admit their shortcomings, nor readily confess to their mistakes.
Snape nodded once more. "I will take you at your word." Draco nodded gratefully and turned to leave.
"Draco?"
Why does he always wait until I'm just about to leave before bringing something else up? But Draco turned back once more in enquiry.
"Yes, sir?"
Pausing with that infuriating pensiveness – though at least he's not drumming his fingers again – Snape regarded him silently. "Have you considered my other suggestion?"
Draco swallowed. He shook his head, dropping his eyes. He still didn't know if he was ready for that.
"Your mother awoke two days past." The words caused Draco's head to snap up sharply. "She was lucid for the first time, though very tired." Snape shifted in his seat slightly, dropping his eyes to his hands and folding them distractedly. "Perhaps you would consider?"
Cringing, Draco squeezed his eyes shut. The very prospect of seeing his mother filled him with both fear and longing. He wanted to see her. He wanted it so badly that the hurt nearly overwhelmed the pain of the memory of his last visit. Almost, but not quite.
"I don't know… if I can, sir." He struggled to enunciate the words, and they were barely audible, even to himself.
'Then that is your prerogative." Snape was still staring at his hands, but he closed his eyes, as though defeated. "I will not force you, Draco. You are the best judge of what you are ready for."
Draco nodded, his own eyes shifting to his feet. He felt like he had disappointed Snape, though knew that if asked again he would have replied the same. He didn't even know why the thought bothered him so much; he could hardly claim he knew Snape at all. "Thank you for telling me, sir."
His godfather didn't speak to him again as he left, didn't raise his head even as he slipped the door shut. Draco sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the wall tiredly. The confrontation was not as bad as their last, but still draining.
"Are you alright? You look like you've run a marathon."
Snapping his eyes open, Draco turned towards Harry's voice. His friend was regarding him quietly, always quietly, with a slight tilt to his head.
"What are you still doing here?"
Harry tilted his head further. "Am I not allowed to be?"
"No, it's just… I though you were going with Neville to the –"
'I told him I'd meet him there. It's no rush, and Hagrid doesn't mind waiting. Besides, I think it's more Neville that he wanted Spit to see than me.'
Draco chuckled despairingly at the name Harry gave the hydra. It was the beast's choice, according to Neville, but he still though it rather stupid. "You didn't have to wait, you know. It wasn't anything huge." Except for the bit about his mother. He glanced away so that Harry couldn't see the pain tightening his eyes.
"I know. I'm sure you would have told me if you needed anything." The tone denied his words as much as Harry's pointedly raised eyebrows. Draco had to laugh again at that. How Harry could make him laugh with just an expression when he felt that horrible ache…
A thought occurred to him. He glanced towards Harry and his friend frowned questioningly, as though he had already heard the request on Draco's lips. "Harry, I've…" He stopped, pressed his lips together for a moment before trying again. "Would you help me?"
For a moment, Harry just stared at him in surprise. It would have been comical, except that a moment later his small smile caught at his lips. "Of course. What do you need?"
And so, on Saturday morning, they visited the hospital once more.
Vince accompanied them again, though with a different partner this time. Draco was mildly disconcerted to recognise Alastor Moody, his teacher from not two years back. Not that he was a hard person to recognise. Moody stood out in a crowd, and it wasn't solely due to the wooden leg and madly spinning eye. He just carried an… air about him. Harry appeared to be struggling to decide if he was more disconcerted or fascinated by the sight of him.
"Alright, boy?" Moody grunted at Draco as soon as he saw him. "Let's get along with it, then." His tone wasn't entirely unsympathetic, but he was curt nonetheless. Draco and Harry trailed after the man's lead this time.

Draco paused once more outside his mother's door, as he had weeks before. The feeling of déjà vu gripped him once more and he tightened his grip on Harry's hand. Because of course Harry held his hand; he hadn't let go of it since they had left the school. Harry's cold fingers gripped his own back just as tightly. It was that which gave him the courage to step inside the room.

She looked better. She truly did; not entirely better, to be sure, but it was a vast improvement on the last time he had seen her. The curtains were thrown open, shedding morning light into the room, and that probably improved things. It didn't seem so gloomy any more.
Her face was pale, but not that yellow waxiness that had tinged it before. Her arms were thin, but her fingers didn't twitch and claw at her wrists like a madwoman's anymore. And when Draco stepped into the room, her head turned and her eyes blinked open. A wobbly smile settled on her lips.
"Draco."
He didn't cry. Harry would calmly and soothingly deny his claim later, but he knew he didn't cry. He did nearly fall into his mother's proffered embrace, however, and held her so tightly that she had to urge gentleness for fear of injury.
"Mother… I'm so… so…"
"Shhh, it's alright, my love."
"But Father… Father, he –"
"Hush," she stroked his head gently, softly, just like she had when he was a child. "All will be well now. We cannot change the past, but the future will be bright."
Though her voice trembled, and her arms shook with the strain of holding themselves up, Draco felt immediately soothed by the words. He could believe them, if his mother was the one who spoke them.
And for the first time in weeks, Draco was able to breath without pain.
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The Masks of Real Heroes