A muggle therapist.

It was ironic. Scratch that, it was absolutely ridiculous.
Draco Lucius Malfoy, sitting in a clean sunlit room, listening to a bunch of Muggles telling him their ridiculous problems. Him, Draco Malfoy, giving THEM advise on how to manage their lives, while his own had fallen apart during a war they weren't even aware had happened. He advised them to talk to someone, to HIM, when he himself refused to do the same. He advised them to face their fears, when he kept avoiding his own.

It was a punishment, of sorts. The kind he had chosen for himself. It was only appropriate, considering all the things he had done. Or rather the things he hadn't done. It was a punishment and a redemption in one. It was an odd sort of balance he had created for himself, as he tried desperately to atone his sins.

Death eaters hated Muggles, didn't listen to them, didn't care for their problems. They killed them. They laughed at their problems, their feelings and their deaths. Draco bore the same Mark, like a reminder and a warning. But the Muggles didn't know that, did they?

Draco was trying to face it. His prejudices, his mistakes, his sins. To understand where he went wrong, he needed to change perspective. Only to find that the people he used to look down upon went through similar horrors as he did. They went through losing people, being abused and violated by family and friends, being tortured, kidnapped and abducted. Surviving wars and losing their homes. Most of the time, it weren't even the results of war. He had so much in common with them that at some point, he found the lines blurring.

It was eye opening. In a sense that it shouldn't be. Draco had always known there was something off about the ideology he had been taught as a child. Despite the fact that he had clung to it, to his privileges, because they made him feel superior to others. If he was by nature better than Muggles or Muggleborns, then he didn't have anything to fear. Turns out, being privileged and rich didn't mean you were safe.

Muggles were living beings, too. They weren't even aware of the magical side of the world. Of the war that Draco had been in. They knew little to nothing. And now they considered themselves safe in his presence. They had no idea what he'd done. What his past self would have tried to do to them.

It was healing in the same sense that it hit it home. His mistakes, his choices, his pain.

Eventually, Draco had to realise that he wasn't alone. And it was the people whose trauma he had caused that made him feel like he belonged.

His patients were mainly muggles sent to him by the St. Mungo. Some of them had been obliviated, and Merlin, did Draco suffer after the first time he met one of them. Turns out, amnesia doesn't always last forever. Turns out their perfect, magical cures destroyed those people's lives! Once the magic had somewhat faded into normalcy, the trauma would resurface without the memories. These people suffered and had no chance to figure out why. Without the why, there was no because, and with no because, there was no solution, no way to cope. There never would be, because the healers at St. Mungo's thought that ignorance is bliss. It's a curse, and it was protected under the laws meant to protect the magical community from being discovered by the no-mages.

Draco often had to swallow around his own pain when he faced a new patient. Had to remind himself that he was here to make amends. Not, to make them bear his own burdens.

Even when Harry fucking Potter himself had invited him to become an Auror alongside himself, he had declined.

Saint Potter.

Draco's relationship to Potter, the hero of hero's in the magical world, was a difficult one. Draco's own actions against him were more than questionable. Potter's however, Potter's actions were beyond honourable and in Draco's case entirely undeserved.

First he made Sure Draco and his parents didn't have to go to Azkaban for some batshit reason that Draco could barely follow, and then he decided Draco could reenter society like a normal citizen. Like hell he could. Just because his mother, Narzissa Malfoy, had cared more about Draco's life than the Dark Lord's, didn't mean they should have been welcomed back to the good side. Draco himself had been too much of a coward to disobey the Dark Lord. And too self aware to blindly follow him into war. No, Draco had followed him with both eyes wide open. Only in the very last moment, his family had changed sides. Potter said it was enough. Draco didn't believe that to be true. It was too little, too late.

So, Draco tried to make up for it. He worked too long, ate too little, all to face the consequences of his choices. He had pledged himself to this life the moment he walked out of that court room, his sentence being the opposite of what he had hoped for, the opposite of what he deserved.
He stopped talking to his friends, his father, his mother. He holed himself up in the manor, unable to face any room but his own. Every other room was being invaded with the memories of the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters. By the torture of his classmates and teachers. His dreams were haunted by people he hadn't particularly cared about until he heard them scream his name in plea, begging him to stop it.

Draco hadn't stopped it.

He remembered Luna Lovegood in the cells thanking him once. He had felt brave enough to go down there, intending to apologise. He never would have gone down there otherwise. Never would have confronted her. Had never would have tried to say it. Then he saw her. Starved, pale, eyes so hollow they were constantly in shadow. She had looked frail and tired. He had broken down in front of her single cell and cried his eyes out, while she comforted him in his pathetic state. Her clothes had been ripped, open wounds standing out in several places. Yet it had been Draco who had been comforted that night. It had been humiliating and painful, even though she had never blamed him for anything. Had never made fun of him. After the court, after the war, she had hugged him and forgiven him, despite everything. Draco had felt powerless. Still did. It was the exact opposite of what he was taught he would be one day. Smart, powerful, ... and good.

Even now, when he slept in his room, or attempted to, at least, he would stare at the ceiling and be paralysed. He'd hear screaming voices outside his room, uncertain whether or not they were real. He'd hear his aunt laugh, despite her being long dead. His own mouth would be drawn shut in silence. Begging the sounds to just disappear and for darkness to claim him. It rarely did.
By now he knew it were auditory illusions, but that never stopped him from trying to drown them out by suffocating himself in his pillows. He couldn't stop the illusions. He brew health potions with shaking hands, trying to gain lighter sleep. But one time, in his post traumatic haze, he had seen himself grab for poison instead, and decided then that his own hands could not be trusted anymore. He had almost drunken it. Sometimes he regretted that he didn't. So, he had no choice but to sleep with the horrors in his mind. Haunting him day and night.

The next day, repeat.

He lost trace of the days. They were no more than numbers that he didn't pay attention to anymore. He read the Daily Prophet in fear, constantly afraid to see the headline announcing the revival of the Dark Lord. It had happened before. Back then, he had been foolishly excited. This time he'd know better. He told himself he'd do better too.

He was wary of every sentence. Of hidden messages between the lines. He could only ever breathe, when he saw the winners of the war on the front page winning some stupid new price. Potter, announced as a hero of an Auror. Most headlines regarding him told them about his newest accomplishment. Then, one day, his marriage announcement. Another day a picture of him with his pregnant wife by his side.
Other times it was Granger, the prime minister, shining with new wonderful ideas that would revolutionise the wizarding world.
Neville Longbottom, enrolling as a teacher in Hogwarts.
Then, another analysis of a Death Eater who participated in the war. What happened to them. How their trials went. Which of them fled the country. Who committed suicide, which ones turned insane, who's sentence was the kiss of a Dementor. Some were found trying to revive the Dark Lord once more.

Draco couldn't bring himself to feel jealous. He didn't have the energy to grief for his dying friends. He could barely feel remorse for his own actions. He simply lived by. Got married himself, as his parents demanded. They quickly drifted apart after they met their expectations, it was okay. He didn't deserve love anyway.

Draco was trapped in this house. Perhaps confined was the better word.

He was born here. And raised. He found his favourite memories right next to his worst. Every painting enchanted to remind him of the same. So much that he asked his mother how to silence them for good. He was the only heir. He couldn't leave. He had no place to go besides. No place to belong apart from work. No people to see or be visited by. He knew his future, as he knew his past. It was all the same. Repetitive and horrid and haunted as it always had been and always would be.

And he had accepted that. And he wished he was dead.

Draco didn't notice the shift in the air, when he woke up that one morning. Not until he walked downstairs and saw his parents peacefully at breakfast. The sight startled him enough to pause at the bottom of the stairs.

His father had been locked in his study room for months, his mother had done nothing but clean every corner of the house for just as long. Neither had been exchanging more words than what was necessary. This morning, this cursed morning, they were chatting with that same cold casualty that had possessed them before the war. Draco's eye twitched, because how couldn't it. Then, he took a deep breath. Perhaps they had talked. Perhaps they wanted to move on. They had done it once, raised a failure of a son after the first war and still made the same mistake again. Surely this was to be expected. Draco kind wished his parents had a better conscience.

He shook it off and sat down before them, as quiet as he had grown to be since the war.

The sudden hit on his hand took him by surprise. Slowly, he pulled his hand away to look at the red stain on the back of his hand. The pain surprised him. Sometimes he forgot he could still feel things. "That would be 'good morning', Draco."

Draco gave him a blank stare. His father hadn't done that since before the Dark Lord had decided to make the manor the main quarters for his operation. If this was Lucius' attempt to turn things back to normal, then he had forgotten how stubborn Draco could be. Draco didn't bother a retort and grabbed for his fork instead. Not really to eat, but attempt to. A few bites he could manage, and he needed to to survive. But soon, his stomach would protest and reminded him of what else had been presented on this table, just like the breakfast before him. Lifeless, glassy eyes came to mind, as he envisioned the corpse of that muggle study teacher hanging from the chandelier.

His father glowered. "Draco! Wish us a good morning!" Lucius Malfoy was't loud in his complaints. He would only hiss through his teeth when annoyed. His tone was demanding.

Draco looked up and met his gaze with a hollow one of his own. "With all due respect father, you don't actually believe either of us deserves a good morning." It wasn't a question. It was his self loathing dripping from his tongue. His father should know better than to expect otherwise.

Even his patients heard the tone in his voice sometimes. Some would request a different therapist. A lot of them took well to it though. They felt understood in a way Draco guessed only muggles would. Muggles or trauma-patients. Unfortunately, only few could be sent to other therapists, as Draco was basically the only one specialised on what he called post-magic-stress-disorder (pmds).

Lucius' eyes widened a bit in surprise. He did not retreat or brake the eye contact, but let happen what had always happened before the war when Draco had been irritatingly emotional. He let his wife handle it.

"Draco, dear, is something wrong?", Narzissa said, voice soft and openly concerned. She had been the only one willing to talk after the war. She had searched a connection. After all, she had risked betraying Voldemort himself for his sake, but when she realised that Draco wasn't in it, she had quieted down as well.

Draco stared at the plate. He didn't think he could eat today.

He was a horrid therapist, he supposed. There was a reason why he had to manipulate his boss into thinking he were a capable, or even trained therapist. Which he wasn't. (With magic of course.)

"Draco, you're pale."

Draco didn't meet her gaze. Even from here, he saw the warmth in it and it made him want to vomit. It had gotten easier over time to face her again. This was still overkill. His past self would have probably made a joke on how he was always pale. Would, in fact, be proud of his marble stone looks. Today he knew paleness was the sign of sickness. Of low blood pressure and anaemia. Draco had always looked sick and twisted. In that, he supposed, he was a perfect representation of himself.

"Answer your mother.", his father quickly hit him again. It was his way of showing concern.

Draco looked up from his breakfast, not even twitching. "You have great observation skills, mother. I am, indeed, pale." His voice was monotone and uncaring. He didn't get what they were playing at anyway, but he wasn't going to play along. It was then that his parents looked at each other, as if noticing his haunted gaze. Draco couldn't stand their combined staring. They may have bounced back from the horror, but he wasn't ready for that. Not yet, probably ever.

He grabbed his left arm, where the Dark Mark was hidden by his sleeve and took a deep breath. It burned. Not all the time. It was a phantom pain. It felt real enough, though.

His mother noticed his movement, as if she didn't already know. She stood up quickly and moved around him to grab his arm and he let her. If she no longer wanted to pretend that it wasn't there, so be it.

He was a walking corpse. Half the time, she had to drag him to bed, when he was up late and working on the files he was given for new patients. She uncovered his arm now and frowned. As if she had expected something different there.

Or, something at all to be there.

Draco froze. His eyes fell on the white, marble, unharmed, UNMARKED skin. He pushed himself from his chair, uncovering the arm further. Slowly, he breathed in and looked at his father. "What on earth -"

"Son, did something happen? Did someone bully you in school? You know I will talk to the school board, if -" Threatening with law suit WAS the Malfoy way, but it was not appropriate right now.

Draco recoiled away from both him and his mother. "School?" Were they NUTS? Draco wasn't - "Why the hell would you talk to the school board? I'm not a student anymore!"

His father immediately sat up more straight. Eyebrows arched as he would accuse Draco from making fun of him. "Not a student anymore? At fifteen? You will not drop out of school, young man. No matter what has happened, we will deal with this as we always have."

'Fifteen?' Draco mouthed at his father and absolutely confused. "Fifteen?", he said out loud, because surely he had misheard. His voice came out squeaked.

Lucius picked up the daily prophet he had been reading and rolled his eyes. "You didn't think you could trick your own father with your age, did you? No. I wanted to speak with you about your knew Defence against The Dark arts teacher. But I suppose that can wait until you've calmed down from whatever tirade of a mood you're into right now."

'But I'm 26!!!', Draco thought wildly.

"Do you have a fever? Should I make up a potion for you?", his mother said, always a lot more open to her affections than his father had ever been. Lucius Malfoy showed his care by laying off when he was emotional, and creating harsh consequences for anyone who dared to mess with them. When Draco was upset, Lucius would make sure that someone else handled Draco, while Lucius handled whoever caused Draco harm.

Draco hadn't exactly been abused by his parents. His father never really beat him, except for slight hits with his cane. Frequently, that. But, other than that Draco had enjoyed a calm upbringing. His mother had always made a fuzz about him, like right now, as she held her cold hand against his cheek. His father watched with clearly hidden concern, pretending he wasn't interested.

For the sake of his sanity, Draco decided this was all his imagination. He already had auditory hallucinations, why not add more to the list? "If this is a joke, father, I'll have you know it is not funny. What, we're going to pretend like nothing happened?", Draco snapped instead, not understanding why the mark was suddenly gone. Why they suddenly turned back to their pre war selves. Had they done this to him? He wouldn't put it past them.

"And what exactly happened, son?"

Draco laughed in half a panic. He couldn't help it, his father was acting insane. "I don't know.", he quipped, loud and hysteric himself. "How about the WAR! Voldemort taking your wand! Potter, taking mine and saving the fucking world with it? Bellatrix DYING. People getting tortured in the manor, and all three of us knowing if we say the wrong word, we're next?" He laughed again, burying a hand in his hair. "I don't know how you removed my mark, father, but that won't erase the fucking MEMORIES, as you of all people should very well KNOW!" No one knew that better than Draco's patients.

His father stared at him with an open mouth, his pretend ignorance forgotten. His own mother stepped away. "What on bloody earth are you talking about?"

Draco looked at him, then his mother, his very arm and then blinked at daily prophet. There were News on them that had nothing to do with Saint fucking Potter and that was simply not possible. Potter was always in one or other article. Last he looked anyway. And if not him, then at least Granger, the PRIME Minister of magic. Or anyone of the Order or the Phoenix, as they were proclaimed heroes, while Draco was just the guy who refused to ever show his face in public. No. On that paper was Cornelius Fudge's face. But that didn't make sense. Fudge was dead. Or did they find some hidden secrets of his?

Suddenly, the only possible explanation dawned on Draco. His eyes moved up and that was the moment that he realised his father wasn't just calmer, he was far younger, too. Draco looked around, trying to find the mirror he had shattered that one time at night. He had cast a reparo on it, so it wouldn't shock him to find it in perfect condition. He instantly marched over. It hung where it always had, reflecting his pale, normal self. About 11 years younger than he ought to be. "No way.", he thought and paled even further.
Without looking back at his parents, without listening to their protests and orders, he walked into his room and forcefully pulled out the drawer. He found his wand in the nightstand, where it always had been. That is... before. It was his own wand. The hawthorn wand with unicorn hair that Harry fucking Potter had defeated the Dark Lord with. Potter had wanted to give it back to him, but Draco had refused to accept it. Even now, as he took it into his shaking hands, its legacy lay heavy in his palm. Yet familiar. Known. It welcomed him home in a way nothing had since the war. And he didn't feel like he deserved it.

In his panic, he locked it away again and marched out of his room. He walked out into the garden, while his parents seemed to finally catch on to his madness, because they worriedly followed him there.

It was the very same garden where the Death eaters had tortured his father's peacocks for fun. Where younger Slytherins had practiced their unforgivable curses on them. Where they had gotten rid of the wizards they deemed unworthy of being tortured. Where the bloodstains had fed the ground and helped aunt Bellatrix grow her poisonous weeds. The ones that neither of his parents nor himself had been able to get rid off after everything was over because of the blood magic. They were gone. Not a sign of them.

Draco sank to his knees, heavy breaths choking him as he took it all in. He saw his tears fall in the grass before he even felt them on his skin. Instead of weeping, he curled up on the ground and lay there, feeling his lungs expanded without any air coming in. How do people breathe again? He just stared at the dirt beneath him, hoping against hope that he was either dead or at least dying.

Either way, he wished he was wrong about his assumption.

This isn't how life flashes in front of someone's eyes, he knew that much. Had felt it every night in his own room during the war. Had felt it, when he had almost drank that sleeping potion with the hemlock in it.

He was heaving dry tears, unsure what this was. Was he going mad? Was this normal? Had he imagined this hole interaction with his parents? The sight in the mirror? His wand in his room? Were his hallucinations getting worse?

He felt tempted to call at work to let them know he was sick today. Only to find his mobile phone gone. It was gone. The one muggle possession he owned, because he needed it for work. And it was gone. Which meant he would no longer work. Whether or not he was in the past or not. He could no longer make amends. The last tether that kept him sane broke with the realisation that he couldn't go back to his safe space.

The break down he had then, he would later not be able to recall. Nor did he remember his mother calling his name or his father showing open concern for once.

Draco woke up in a bed in St. Mungo's hospital.

It was a familiar sight, though from a vastly different perspective. Everything was a blurr. There, with Healers running around him and finding NOTHING wrong with him, he was reminded of how little the magical world cared for emotional wounds. They said he was wasting their time and he believed they were right. Yet, his father insisted they should keep him for at least another day, to be absolutely sure he hadn't been poisoned.

Quite ironic, Draco thought to himself. For a moment, he wondered if it had been a dream. Of course he was never that lucky. When Draco saw his wand on his nightstand, he knew it hadn't been a dream. When he looked at his naked arm, he felt tears falling despite his conscious effort to keep them in. Not that he made a sound or attempted to wipe them off.
So he lay there, holed up as usual, unable to busy himself with anything useful, and trying not to vomit from being alone with his own mind for so long.

'Unable to make amends.'

Draco hadn't known his job had given him so much to hold onto. Never in a million years would he have believed that helping Muggles would be his calling. His way of self preservation and attorning to his sins.

He lay awake, even at night, while the days were filled with his father shouting at the healers that they hadn't found a single physical problem with him. Apparently, he wasn't even undernourished yet. That was preposterous with how little he ate. But if his theory was right, then this was hardly a surprise. His body simply wasn't used to it yet. It would, soon enough, Draco thought, because he still couldn't force himself to eat. It wasn't a physical problem. It was a mental one although the healers didn't seem to get the difference.

So, Draco lay awake. All day and all night. Always drowsy and tired. He wondered if he was going to miss school like this, stuck in this hospital. It was an odd thought to have at 26 with a full on profession on his back.

One night, he was still drowning in his mind, as he saw a figure walking past the door to his room. It had been left open to keep Draco under better supervision. Now, the figure halted in front of his door, eyes wide and frozen in shock. Draco normally wouldn't have cared about the stares, but then he saw it was Neville Longbottom staring back at him and confirming Draco's theory. Longbottom looked young. About 15 years old. And the boy bolted as soon as Draco acknowledged him with a nod.

It made sense that Neville was here, Draco thought. Even though they had never talked about it, Draco knew the reason. It was still surprising to see him. In Draco's time they tended to avoid each other.

The sight of a young Neville Longbottom brought him back to the war. Brought him back to Bellatrix cursing people into insanity, much like she had Neville's parents.

Draco didn't call him back.

If he were to never talk to anyone of the Order of the Phoenix ever again, it would be too soon.

The next day, Draco remained a hollow shell of himself. His father kept arguing with the healers. It was hilarious. Hilariously annoying. Eventually, Draco just broke. "Why don't you get me a therapist already! I'm clearly MENTALLY ill! Get me someone who can actually help, for Salazar's sake!"

The Healers stared at him. So did his father.

Draco bit his lip. Right. He was the only one of his kind for a reason. "Forget it." He turned away.

"You mean MUGGLE therapy?" The healer laughed, as they always laughed at him. Regardless if now or in the future, they thought it ridiculous. Draco's father looked as if he was about to disinherit him on the spot for the humiliation.

Draco remained quiet. He had known this would happen, why did he even bother? Draco just wanted to go back to his office and stay there. Talk a bit with Sarah, his Muggle secretary and hear what she thought about his cases. She had helped him a lot. Brought him lots of Coffee and research material. But Draco knew that she had been around for only a year longer than he had. Realistically speaking, she probably wasn't even there, yet. And his office belonged to someone else. But seeing it would help. Seeing it would help him put that chapter past him if he was, somehow, supposed to be 15 again, with everything that that entailed. He couldn't imagine going back to school. He had gotten so used to his job, it was simply...

"Keep him another day. Don't you see he's deranged?", said Lucius to no one's surprise and perhaps Draco's outburst made the healers more willing to agree.

And so, Draco stayed another night. He stayed awake again. Pretending to sleep, instead of risking the healers drugging him and then sat back up once they were gone. That night, he saw Longbottom peaking around the corner again. This time, he was trying to hide, but Draco could smell his curiosity a mile away.

"You can come in, you know?", Draco finally said and heard a yelp. Draco raised an eyebrow. Had Neville really thought he was stealthy? Like, at all?
Patiently, Draco waited as Longbottom debated with himself whether or not it was wise to follow Draco's orders... or invitation. In the end, he stumbled about two steps into the single bedroom. Naturally, a Malfoy wouldn't be holed up with just anyone. Not when his father had the money to prevent it.

Longbottom stood in the room and Draco watched him, aware that he was being watched in return. Longbottom was the first to lose his nerves. "I... I saw you in here. I was just... curious." He looked afraid, his voice barely more than a squeak. He was likely imagining Draco to hex him for seeing him in his weak state.

Draco didn't say a word as Longbottom fumbled with his fingers.

It hit Draco then that this was THE Neville Longbottom. This was the boy who had slain the snake Nagini, the most dangerous creature Draco had ever encountered. This was Neville Longbottom, the boy who spoke up against Voldemort when their greatest hope had been considered dead. Neville, who managed to harness the legacy Harry had left behind in a swift moment and given them another reason to fight on, when they thought Potter dead. He, who had never been involved with the golden trio beyond a shallow friendship, yet lead Dumbledore's army in the final days. He hadn't known about their secrets, their plans against the Dark Lord. He who became the hope of the wizarding world, when they had already given up. And this boy, this HERO, looked at Draco like he was scared to say a wrong word.

At DRACO, the boy who hadn't managed to ask the Dark Lord if he could use the bathroom during dinner while his family was housing him.

A wave of unwanted admiration washed over Draco and he closed his eyes. He couldn't stand the sight of that fear. Longbottom had no reason to be scared of him. "My father brought me here, because I had a panic attack.", he said after all as he saw the question in Longbottom's eyes, well aware the boy would never ask.

Neville, who had been looking frightened and shaken at his sight, paused. "Oh." Of course, he wouldn't know what to say. He just stood there, stupidly unsure what to do with himself.

"How are your parents?" Draco cringed at himself. Neville flinched. Draco immediately regretted his question. "Fuck, you don't have to answer that.", Draco face palmed himself. 'I have no right to ask.'

Neville bit his lip as if he were slowly getting angry and defensive. Draco had no idea what went on in his mind, but he understood that there was a lot of rage underneath all that fear. There often was. In this case, Draco supposed it was justified. "As if you don't already know."

Draco looked down. "I didn't mean to -," he shook his head before rephrasing. "Sorry, you're right."

Neville closed his eyes for a moment, then stomped forward. Anyone who said Neville didn't belong in Gryffindor was blind and an idiot. There he was, barely fifteen and already standing up to the same person he had been terrified to talk to just a minute ago. "Your aunt is a monster." He was breathing heavily. He opened his mouth and then, finally, spat at Draco. "She cursed and tortured them. They went MAD." He seemed to completely have forgotten about Draco's state because he wasn't holding back anymore. Perhaps, because this was about his parents and not himself. Neville had always been brave in front of adversaries. Even against peer pressure. It only depended on whom he was protecting.

A second later, Neville walked to Draco's table where another version of the Daily prophet lay and threw it on his bed. "And now You Know Who is back! Your stupid family can deny it all you want, I'll never believe these lies! Harry would never lie about this! You're probably already following them, aren't you! I should get rid of you right now!"

Draco looked at the paper, mildly surprised at the clear malice in Longbottom's tone, and needed a moment to remember what had happened in their fifth year. Right... The dark Lord had just returned last year, how could he forget. "You won't."

Neville fumed. He pulled out his wand and pointed it at Draco's throat as if that were an insult. Or even remotely threatening. Draco didn't even flinch. Hoping that Neville would actually hex him, disappointed that he knew it wouldn't end like this. Draco wasn't that lucky. "What makes you think I won't use the cruciatus on you, huh? I could do it, I SHOULD do it! Don't provoke me!"

Draco's eyes narrowed down on the tip of Longbottom's wand. "You're nothing like my aunt. And the cruciatus only works if you mean it." It was why Draco had never managed to use that curse properly. That's why the Dark Lord had insisted he'd be taught.

Neville hesitated, glancing at the wand that was clearly in Draco's reach. "I'm not a coward. I will curse you."

"You are many things, Longbottom. A coward is not one of them."

Neville's hand twitched downwards in shocked surprise. "Wha-"

"Neither were your parents. You are perhaps the bravest person I ever met." Draco paused thoughtfully. "Besides Potter, naturally."

Had Neville not already been shocked, Draco guessed he was now. "I... what?" He stared at Draco like he'd grown a second head. It must have been that very moment that he noticed the haunted look in Draco's eyes. "Wait... is this a ruse? Are you panning something?"

Draco chuckled humourlessly and shook his head. "And make it this obvious? That might work on Goyle, but you? You're not an idiot." Draco looked away, outside the window. "If you want to properly curse me, we learned all three unforgivable curses under that fake professor Moody.", he waved at Neville to go ahead. "Killing me would be more efficient. But I guess that's a mercy I don't deserve, is it?"

Neville finally put his wand down. It hang disappointingly useless in the air. "You want me to kill you?" He was pale. Not half as pale as Draco was, but close enough. Draco looked him up and down. He supposed he couldn't expect so much from a fifteen year old.

So, he remained silent. It slowly dawned on him that Voldemort was out there. History was going to repeat itself. Draco would go through hell again. He didn't have the heart to question why this was happening. It must be revenge, or some divine punishment that was finally put upon him. He was too caught up in the realisation to question it all.

For a moment, there was silence, then, Neville put his wand away. "You said... you were here because of a panic attack." Of course, the stupid, forgiving man would sit down on Draco's bed. "What's that about?" How quickly they bounced back, those fair, righteous heroes.

Draco gruntled. "I had a dream about the future.", he said honestly and send Neville a glance. The man looked at him with worry now, his anger disappeared into nowhere. Draco wondered how he would take it. "Or rather, I am currently dreaming of the past. I put wrong ingredients in my food. I can't eat, I can't sleep, I can't think and I feel hollow. I hear voices in my head and see blood on my hands." Draco wondered if that would amuse Longbottom. A part of Draco hoped it would.

Neville Longbottom's eyes widened with each word. "You... what do you mean, wrong ingredients? Do you mistake sugar with salt?"

Draco caught the attempt at humour for what it was. "Something like that."

That made Neville perk up. "What, so you like... have food poisoning or something?" Draco wouldn't be here, if his problems could be solved with a simple tincture. "On occasion."

"On occasion.", Neville repeated that. "I don't understand." When Draco didn't elaborate, Neville cleared his throat awkwardly. He looked at the linen of the bedsheets and then faced Draco again. "I didn't even expect you to answer me." He sounded more confused than horrified.

Draco shrugged. "I suppose I hoped it would amuse you." And that really was the truth. Draco wanted Longbottom to make fun of him. See him for the pathetic excuse of the man that he was. Draco used to make made fun of him. Him who was so much braver than Draco would ever be. He liked the irony. The humiliation. Craved it, like he craved the poison. Draco sighed. That only made him even more pathetic.

The silence then stretched between them into minutes. Neville was about to say something else, when an old woman walked into the room, clearly searching for her grandson. She was smaller than Longbottom, and wider. But Draco remembered the hat from their third year when Longbottom had magicked that boggart into Professor Snape dressed as his grandmother. It was easy to figure out who she was. They had the same eyes and round cheeks, though Draco knew Neville's would harden into those of a courageous warrior. Not that she wasn't one herself.

"Malfoy." She had scanned his pale figure once, then glared his way. After that single glance, she ignored him and turned back to her grandson. "Neville, come on. We've stayed long enough. We can come back tomorrow. No need to waste any more time."

Nervously, Longbottom looked at his grandmother, then Draco.

Draco knew exactly who she meant with 'wasting time'. "Curse me tomorrow?", Draco asked Neville quietly, knowing he wouldn't. But it was a nice thought regardless.

"I..."

Neville's grandmother looked between them, a little perplexed at the exchange, but then dragged her grandson out the room. Draco could hear her chastising Neville for even talking to a Malfoy. 'Solid point.', Draco thought to himself and curled up once more.

...

For some reason, the talk with Neville helped. Much less the talking-about-his-problems part and more the calling-Neville-brave one.

Lucius managed to convince the healers for two more days that Draco needed medical attention, before they finally believed him. It turned out that Draco was physically refusing to keep himself alive. Shocking, he knew.

The fact that he hadn't eaten had been almost a joke for them until this point. Because technically, it started the day he came here. But when Draco kept refusing nourishment after nearly four whole days and the healer checked if Draco might have just been living off on snacks behind their backs, they realised that he had begun to lose weight.
The behaviour was too sudden to be believable, he knew that, but when they then checked his pulse and found it too weak, tried to force food down his throat only to have him vomit it back up, they accepted that this was serious.

Draco tried, he really did. The problem was that what they forced down his throat had been too much at once, and at other times they left him alone. Draco didn't trust himself to eat alone. With his parents and Sarah by his side, he felt somewhat assured that he wouldn't accidentally poison himself. The isolation in this private room, however, took that away from him. The irony.
None of the healers seemed to understand that, though. They were petty and angry, because of how much he was keeping them from their other patients. They didn't say it in so many words, as they were actually concerned for him, but he could read it from their eyes.

Two days, before he was released, Neville visited him one last time. "You don't look well.", he said. He seemed nervous and unsure once again. As if afraid he had imagined their previous conversation. Or that Draco was back to being himself. Draco twitched a smile at the opening, and waved him inside. Neville sighed in relief and sat down on his bed. "I'm sorry about the other day.", he said. "You're not your aunt and -"

"No. I'm exactly like her.", Draco replied, then frowned. "Well... minus the obsession with the Dark Lord, I suppose. And minus getting off on the cruciatus curse. And the -"

"I just said you're not like her.", Neville frowned.

Draco raised an eyebrow. He couldn't be serious! "Say, did you hit your head, Longbottom? I've done nothing but bully you since first grade. I'm not EXACTLY like her. But I'm her kind. In every sense there is."

"That's true." Neville talked slowly.

"Then stop trying to apologise." Honestly, nothing was more irritating than these hero types who thought they were responsible for EVERYTHING.

Neville bit his lip, irritated by Draco's tone. "Look, I know we're not exactly friends. But... I've never seen anyone suffer quite like you have these past few days. I overheard the healers. They say you won't eat. Is it, because you don't trust yourself?"

Draco blinked. "Never seen someone suffer like me? Your parents are in this hospital."

Neville scowled, but forced himself to relax. "You know that's different!"

"Yes, it's worse!" No, Neville COULDN'T be serious! How could he even compare those things?

Neville stared at him. "Why are you like this? I'm trying to help!"

"Help? With what?"

"You're not feeling well."

"Obviously! What do you expect! I travelled back in time.", Draco finally snapped. He knew he sounded bonkers. He knew he sounded like he was mental and perhaps he was. He ended up in St. Mungo's for a reason.

Neville paused, as if he didn't even manage to doubt him. "You travelled in time? Like... with a time turner?"

Oh, right. They were still in the magic world. And time turners were rare, but not exactly a myth.
Draco bridged his nose with his hand. "I don't know how. All I know is that the war was over and now everyone is alive again, and - urgh."

Neville perked up, eyes wide, seemingly astounded. "How did it end?" He paused. "The war." It was this moment that Draco remembered that this was the year that the ministry denied there would be a war to begin with. But Neville Longbottom had always known how to pick the right side. So this whole thing didn't seem to surprise him. If anything, it seemed to clear up Neville's confusion and added to Draco's own. Neville truly was amazing.

Draco closed his eyes a bit shaken to be believed so easily. "He died."

There was a pause. "Who?"

"Everyone." That's how it felt like. "Most of them anyway. Even the winners lose more than they gain in war. And I -" Draco grabbed his left arm. He might as well tell him everything. "Potter died. And was revived. And then he won and the Dark Lord died and didn't come back."

Neville opened his mouth. "You call him Dark Lord. You are one of the Death Eaters, aren't you?"

The phrasing made Draco flinch. "I was."

Neville hissed in a breath and it was clear that there was anger there, too. Hatred, even. When he looked at Draco, his expression was once again forced to stay calm. "So, you have another chance. What will you do with it? Which side will you pick this time?" The real question should have been 'Are you still a Death eater?' But Neville didn't ask him that.

It felt almost like a punch to the face. Draco had't even considered that he had a choice. Slowly, he sat up. "Am I allowed to pick the good side after everything I did?"

To his surprise, Neville smiled. It was wry and surprised, despite it all. It put Draco on edge. "I was convinced, you'd pick the winning side." Neville considered him another moment, while Draco needed a moment to hear the emphasis on 'winning' and differentiate it from the 'good' side. What Draco heard was 'I didn't think you had a perception of morale.'
Neville played with the blanket. "You said it yourself. The dreams are real to you. Whether or not you travelled in time, I think in the end, it's up to you to decide what you wanna do with it. And I think you already know what that is." Neville hesitated, but then patted him on the shoulder.

"Why do you have such faith in me?" It really didn't make sense.

Neville stilled. "Well, if I'm wrong about you, I can embarrass you with the fact that you called me brave."

"I don't think that's much of a compliment, really." Being brave might as well get you killed.

"Then I'll embarrass you with the fact that your idea of an insult is to call me the bravest man you've ever met." Neville grinned anyway. He paused. "I have talked to you twice in this hospital now, Malfoy. This version of you, you wouldn't make that up. You're too proud for that. But if you did..." He paused, as if he tried to find a reason why Draco would lie about it all. Why he would put himself in such a spot. Draco had to admit, that sounded even less likely than the time travel argument. "I don't see what you would gain from this." He stood up, without waiting for an answer. "See you in school, Malfoy." With that, he left. And he left Draco with a lot to think about.

The next day, Draco stared at his food and actually managed to eat more than three bites. It even had some taste this time. He had ended up here, because he had been sure he couldn't make amends. But Neville was right. Now that he was back, he had options. He could pick a side and make sure not to make the same mistakes again. He could help them win. He could make the right decisions. Fear made his head swim, but maybe, for once, his life could be good for something that wasn't killing and torturing his peers. Maybe he could save people. Surely not like Potter or Longbottom did. But maybe he could save them from himself.