Eye of the Storm

It wasn’t until he’d downed a glass of cold water, lain down for a half hour and admitted to himself he needed a Pain Potion—we’re out of those, but I can bring you some Ibuprofen, Hermione had said, and Draco had been in too much pain to care—that his headache began to ebb.

She and Ron had quickly prepared a guest bedroom for Draco close to Harry’s own. And although they’d been caring and mostly silent so as not to disturb him, Draco could feel them shuffling restlessly around him and sharing impatient looks.

He tried to focus on his breathing. He still hadn’t quite managed to turn his shallow, panicked breaths into deep and calming ones, even if his heart rate had thankfully decreased.

“Draco,” Hermione said eventually in a low voice, “can I talk to you?”

He nodded, but didn’t open his eyes.

“Okay,” she said. “I don’t want to rush you, because I know you need to recover. But I do want you to know I’ve brought you the legal documents that declare Ron and me Harry’s health representatives should something happen to him. I know what you saw in Harry’s mind is confidential, but… you can tell us. The documents are on the bedside table.”

“Okay,” Draco rasped out. “I will take a look as soon as I can.”

“Thank you. And…” She hesitated. “We were wondering if it’d be a good idea to give Harry a Sleeping Draught so he can get some rest, since it seems like this process is going to take a while. We’d like to know your opinion—my research has been frustratingly contradictory on whether it’d be helpful or damaging in the state he’s in.”

Draco shook his head, grimacing when the movement made it pound again.

“He needs to rest, but a potion won’t help him. It’d just make him look peaceful on the outside while his mind tortured him in his dreams.”

Hermione sighed. “I was scared you’d say that.”

“He’ll get to sleep soon,” Draco reassured her. With effort, he cracked his eyes open and blinked furiously until his eyes adjusted to the light. The curtains had been thrown wide open, and the early afternoon sun reflected on the white walls made his temples sting.

Hermione sighed. “I really hope you’re right.”

“Feeling any better?” asked Ron, who was leaning heavily on the doorframe, a fresh glass of cold water in hand.

“Getting there,” Draco said. “How is he?”

“Not getting there,” Ron murmured as he made his slow way to Draco’s bedside, clearly hating every word. Draco couldn’t blame him—he hated them too. “Did you check out those documents? Can you tell us what’s going on?”

With a grunt, Draco sat up and grabbed the papers. They were, indeed, reports from St. Mungo’s that stated they were both legally entitled to Harry’s medical information should he be unable to consent on his own.

Exactly why they’d planned ahead for this sort of situation was lost to Draco, but he decided to go along with it and be grateful he could tell them what Harry was going through.

“He’s not reliving the war,” he said, deciding it was best to get right to the point. “He’s reliving his abusive childhood.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione murmured.

“Shit,” Ron gritted out. “Crap. We should’ve guessed.”

“You knew about it, then,” Draco said. Admittedly, he was relieved that he wouldn’t have to handle their burst of emotions at finding out their best friend’s childhood had been extremely traumatic. He was already having trouble keeping his own emotions about it in check.

“We don’t know everything,” Hermione said. “Harry never went into too much detail about it.”

“But we know enough,” Ron finished for her. “We’ve seen enough. It was bad. Really bad. His aunt and uncle starving him and locking him up in a cupboard levels of bad. This one time, Fred, George and I had to pull out some bars from his window because his deranged uncle had—”

“Wait.” Draco frowned. “Say that again?”

“Um, which bit?”

“The cupboard,” Draco said urgently, “was it the one under the stairs?”

“It was,” Hermione answered for him. “That’s where they made him sleep until he was almost eleven. Why?”

“In his memories, Harry kept trying to run to the cupboard under the stairs, but in the first one the door didn’t budge, and in the second one the scene shifted into another memory as soon as he got to the door, so he never really made it in. And he wasn’t even close to the cupboard in the last memory I saw.”

“What does that mean?” Ron asked.

“I’m not entirely sure yet,” Draco said, “but I have a feeling it was not a coincidence.”

He took a few sips of the cold water, Ron and Hermione watching him intently.

“Throughout his memories,” he explained, reasoning out loud, “Harry felt extremely unsafe. Like his very life was threatened, which is a common way to feel when you’re going through child abuse.” He gulped. “There were other emotions, like guilt and anger, but unsafety was the most all-encompassing one. His urge to hide from the abuse was ceaseless.”

“And you think he wanted to hide from it in the cupboard?” Ron frowned. “Even though it was his aunt and uncle who locked him there in the first place as part of the abuse?”

Draco nodded slowly. “Even if he was forced into that cupboard, chances are it eventually became his safe space. Or at least the closest he was to having a safe space at all.”

He swallowed back the revulsion and outrage that threatened to take over him. Harry didn’t need him to be angry on his behalf right now. Harry needed him to focus on getting him out of there.

“Okay, so in his mind he feels like he’s outside the cupboard when he wants to be inside,” Hermione said. “So, theoretically, guiding him into it would help, right?”

“Can you even do that?” Ron asked Draco.

Draco frowned, trying to make sense of it all. Harry felt unsafe, vulnerable, and helpless to the abuse he was reliving—that much was to be expected, considering the effects of the curse. And the key to breaking the curse was to get to the eye of the storm: to get past the memories and reach Harry’s consciousness. Draco had done that, except he hadn’t been able to talk to Harry there. Instead, he’d found himself frozen and falling; caught, quite literally, in a storm of emotion and sensation.

It’d felt like everything at once, overwhelming and overpowering. But above everything else, there’d been light, noises, and a cold breeze surrounding him from every side. Things that realistically weren’t all that scary, but that to him—to Harry—had felt extremely triggering and paralysing.

“Malfoy?”

Hermione and Ron were looking at him intently, awaiting a reply.

He jumped to his feet, unable to sit still any longer.

“I need to think,” he snapped, and strode to the corridor. He needed to pace, and he needed to do it at a safe distance from Ron and Hermione and their worried, worn out, guilt-inducing faces.

Noises, light, and a breeze. They were all things that had been present throughout the memories as well. The first memory had started with thundering steps—steps that had meant impending danger. Then, in the second memory, one of the first things Draco had felt had been the open window behind his back. He’d thought nothing of it; after all, Harry’s family had simply been airing the kitchen to get rid of the smell of burning toast. If anything, the open window was among the least relevant elements in the scene, right?

And the light—the light that’d blinded him in the eye of the hurricane had been bright and yellow like sunlight. The exact same kind of brightness that had hurt his eyes when diving into the third memory.

Light, noises, and a breeze. All of them sensorial elements that had had a strong, tangible presence both during the memories and within Harry’s consciousness.

He came to a halt in the middle of the corridor, and his eyes immediately travelled to Harry’s room. The door had been left open so they could hear any changes in Harry’s behaviour, and Draco’s breath hitched.

The window in Harry’s room was wide open, and so were the curtains, letting in the sunlight and the breeze of the spring afternoon. And the floors—the floors in Harry’s house were made of old wood that creaked and echoed noisily with every step.

Which was exactly what they did as Ron and Hermione approached him from behind.

“You know how to help him, don’t you?” Hermione asked softly.

Draco’s eyes caught in the sinuous waving of the curtains in Harry’s room.

“I think I do.”

He slowly turned to them.

“I’ll explain, but first, I need you to do exactly as I say.” When they nodded, he went on, “I need you to take off your shoes.”

Hesitantly, they complied, and he removed his too, setting them carefully aside.

“Malfoy, what—” Ron started, but Draco raised a hand and he fell silent.

“Wait for me downstairs,” he murmured. “If my theory is correct, any noises we make within Harry’s earshot will merge into his memories.”

Their eyes widened, and Ron reached for Hermione’s hand and clutched it close to him, eyes flying to the bed, where only Harry’s legs were visible from this angle.

After a moment of hesitation, Hermione tugged Ron toward the stairs with slow and careful steps.

Allowing himself a small sigh of relief, Draco centered himself and tiptoed as carefully as he could into Harry’s bedroom. He kept close to the walls, knowing wooden floors creaked less around the edges, and closed the window and curtains slowly. He cast a light-repelling charm around the window for good measure, so that less light would make it through the glass.

Slowly, reluctantly, he turned to look at Harry, and his heart sped up so violently it felt like it might burst. Harry was trembling and whimpering and pulling at his hair in much the same way he’d been when Draco had arrived, but knowing exactly what he was going through made it somehow more unbearable to watch.

A part of him wanted to bolt back into his chair and dive right into Harry’s mind, Ron and Hermione be damned. But that wouldn’t do him nor Harry any good.

So instead, loathe as he was to leave Harry’s side, he tiptoed back out and joined Ron and Hermione in the kitchen.

*

When he stepped into the room, Hermione was fumbling around with teacups and teaspoons, setting them on the table somewhat shakily while the tea finished brewing, and Ron was biting his nails almost compulsively, eyes fixed on the table. As soon as they noticed him, though, their eyes snapped up and fixed on him, anxious and impatient.

Suppressing a sigh, he decided it was once again best to get straight to the point.

“I’ve closed the windows and drawn the curtains in his room because I’ve realised the sensations his body is feeling may be affecting the traumatic memories he’s reliving. It’s essentially the same process that makes us incorporate the things happening around us in our sleep into our dreams.”

He pulled a chair out and sat down as they watched him in silent expectation. He realised a beat too late that they were expecting him to continue talking, and just as he was about to do just that, Ron asked, “Okay, so what’s the next step? Closing the windows and taking our shoes off isn’t going to undo the curse, is it?”

“It isn’t,” Draco agreed. He turned to Hermione, who was still standing up. “And you were right. The way to help Harry is to guide his consciousness into the cupboard. The curse he’s under… most manuals describe it as a storm, a hurricane. The worst memories of your life”—he made a whirling motion with his arm, finger pointed up—“spiral around you, pulling you toward them in a never-ending frenzy and making you relive them chaotically, erratically. And your consciousness becomes trapped in the eye of the storm, unable to find the connection with your body that’ll allow you to escape.”

Hermione paled, and Ron frowned, but they listened intently as he explained.

“When I was in Harry’s mind, I was pulled into several of his childhood memories with him, but I eventually managed to get to the eye of the storm, where I expected to be able to communicate with him. I found he was overtaken by every single emotion he was reexperiencing; that much was to be expected. But I also found he was surrounded by a current of light, wind, and indecipherable noises surrounding him from every side that were disorienting and paralysing him.”

“The sensations his body was experiencing,” Hermione finished for him.

“Precisely.”

“So now that you’ve removed the external stimuli, do you think you’d be able to talk to him in the eye of the storm?” she asked, pouring their tea and sitting down opposite Ron.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I think there’s more to it than that. He felt very exposed and vulnerable, both in his memories and in his consciousness; like there was too much open space around him, too much room for anyone to catch him off-guard from any side and hurt him. He wanted to get into his cupboard because he was in desperate need of a closed and cramped space to hide in. Somewhere he could feel some semblance of safety and control.”

While they took this in, Draco blew on his tea and took a tentative sip, careful not to burn his tongue.

“So…” Ron hesitated, seeming perplexed. “When you say you want to guide him into the cupboard, you mean you quite literally want to put his body in a cupboard.”

The mental image of trying to shove Harry’s writhing body into a cupboard made him want to laugh. Or cry. Or both.

“It doesn’t have to be a cupboard,” he assured them, suppressing a shiver, “but yes, that’s what I’m suggesting. He needs to be somewhere his body can feel safe and at rest. And for him, right now, that’s any small space we can find where he’ll feel protected on all sides as well as comfortable.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a loaded look, and Draco took another nervous sip of his tea to hide his awkwardness. He couldn’t begin to decipher what they were thinking, but they seemed to understand one another, because a second later she nodded and they both turned to him with renewed hope and determination.

“We can use the blanket fort,” Hermione said. “Harry always says he built it for the kids to play, but he also hides in there sometimes. Mostly when he’s feeling sad or overwhelmed. It’s divided into sections on the inside, so it should be small enough to work.”

Unexpected relief washed over him, and for the first time since he’d stepped into Grimmauld Place, Draco felt a tentative smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

“That sounds… perfect,” he exhaled.

“There’s only one issue,” Ron put in from behind his teacup, bursting their bubble before it had even finished taking shape. “Carrying him downstairs is going to be hell for him. And probably for us as well.”

Hermione sighed. “I know. Hopefully it’ll be worth it.”

“I can try to make it better,” Draco said. “It’ll still be distressing for him, but I can ease into his mind while you carry him and explain what’s going on. It might help reduce his fear, even if he can’t control his body and mind’s survival reaction.”

“Okay. Thank you, Draco.” Hermione smiled at him, and it made his heart swell with pride and, to his surprise, appreciation toward her.

Ron set down his cup and stood, dragging back his chair. “Let’s do this, then. And thanks, Malfoy,” he added belatedly, and although he didn’t smile, Draco could tell he was just as genuine as Hermione.

Gryffindors, he thought to himself, but as much as he would’ve liked to, he couldn’t avoid the annoying truth that he liked their approval. Liked them, even if he would never say it out loud.

Before heading upstairs, they drew the living room curtains, and Draco cast the same light-repelling spell he’d cast on the bedroom windows. They closed every door in the living room except the one leading to the hall where the stairs were and cast Muffliato around the blanket fort to prevent any noises from disturbing Harry.

Then, they approached the soft-looking structure.

“I was thinking we could settle Harry in this nook over here,” Hermione said, lifting a blanket corner to reveal a small entrance at the corner of the fort. Draco crouched to look inside, and couldn’t help but agree with her.

The entrance led to a small space with no access to the rest of the fort, covered in a white, fluffy blanket—or perhaps a carpet—and several cushions. There was a string of fairy lights inside, as well as a couple of spare blankets and a round, octopus stuffed toy. There was just enough space for a couple of adults to sit down inside, cast Lumos, and read a book together. And there was definitely enough space for someone to lie down comfortably and stretch their arms and legs if they needed to.

It looked like the perfect place to cocoon and hide during a bad trauma day.

“Perfect,” Draco murmured. And then, although he felt everything but ready to face what was to come, “Let’s do this.”

*

The logistics of carrying Harry downstairs were… complicated, to say the least. Because Draco would be casting Legilimens on him while walking behind him down the stairs, it was up to Ron and Hermione to move Harry, and it soon became clear neither of them wanted to touch Harry for fear of hurting him, and much less grab and move Harry around.

“We could levitate him?” Ron suggested in a thin voice, and even though the mere idea made Draco want to laugh-cry, all the alternatives seemed so cruel that they reluctantly decided to go through with it.

“Wait until I give you the go ahead,” Draco whispered, wand already pointed at Harry.

They nodded, and, taking a steadying breath, Draco murmured, “Legilimens.”

Once again, he felt around for the edges of Harry’s mind and dipped in gently. He stayed close to the surface, though, not wanting to get sucked into the storm again.

Once he felt anchored to the spot he was in, he said, in his gentlest voice, Harry, it’s me again, Healer Draco Malfoy.

He waited, but there came no reply. He used his connection with his body to breathe in and out, steadily.

You’re safe, he spoke softly. You’re with Ron, Hermione, and me. I know you’re scared, but we’re going to help you out of there. But in order to do that, we need to move your body to somewhere you’ll feel safer. We’re going to move you now, okay?

There was, again, no reply. Still, Draco thought he could feel a faint wave of an indistinct emotion grazing him, like the minute ripple that makes laps at the shore of a tranquil lake.

Without retreating from Harry’s mind, he searched for his body through his connection and raised a thumb. He was close enough to the surface that he retained some of his body’s senses, and he heard Ron and Hermione rustling and getting into position.

He also heard Ron murmur, “Wingardium Leviosa,” as well as the pained moan that erupted from Harry’s throat just as another—stronger—wave of emotion reached Draco. An emotion that was clearly, and almost palpably, panic.

It’s okay. It’s Ron. He’s taking you to safety. You’re safe in his hands. He won’t hurt you.

He repeated the words like a mantra even as wave after wave of alarm and confusion made their way toward him. He heard the creaking of the wood as they manoeuvred Harry’s body in the air, and then a hand grasped his upper arm lightly.

“Draco,” Hermione murmured, “let’s go.”

Not without effort, he stood up.

Sight was the hardest sense to retain while in someone else’s mind, but he focused on his connection with his body and tentatively took a step forward, watching as Ron pulled Harry’s convulsing body toward the corridor, his hand firm but gentle around Harry’s ankle.

I’m here. I won’t let you get hurt. We’re going to get you to safety so I can help you through this, okay?

Another tentative step. Hermione didn’t let go of him, guiding him steadily to the door and then toward the stairs behind Ron and Harry.

I know this is scary, but it won’t last long. We’re just moving you downstairs to your blanket fort. It’s a really cool fort, you know? I bet the kids love it. I can’t wait for you to be okay so you can tell me all about it.

Harry’s emotions became louder as they walked. Fear, pain, confusion. Fight. Fight fight fight fight stop don’t touch me. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t—

There was a loud bang close to them.

“Shit,” Ron muttered, and Draco was barely able to catch a glimpse of him trying to seize Harry’s fist, which was waving blindly in the air and seemed to have just hit the handrail.

Harry kicked and cried out and flooded Draco’s consciousness with terror, but just when Draco was beginning to feel his own panic rise, Ron managed to catch Harry’s ankle again and began descending the stairs.

Draco didn’t know how, but eventually, through cries and grunts and desperate attempts to soothe the panic soaring in Harry’s increasingly unsettled mind, they made it to the living room.

We’re almost there, Draco said, his tone somehow still soft. It’s almost over. You’re being so strong, Harry. You shouldn’t have to be, but you are, and I’m proud of you.

Ron let go of Harry a safe distance away from the fort and from anything else Harry’s wild fists might break. For a second, none of them knew how to proceed, but then Ron stepped behind Harry’s head, squared his shoulders, and murmured, almost inaudibly over Harry’s cries, “I’m really sorry about this, mate.”

With a wince, he grabbed Harry’s shoulders, turned him in the air until he was floating flat on his back, and hugged his best friend making sure to keep his arms glued to his body.

Harry’s screams as Ron crawled into the nook and tugged Harry in with him were so spine-chilling Draco felt his eyes well up even as he tried to remain a source of calm inside Harry’s panicked mind.

Getting Harry to settle down was, if possible, even more complicated than moving him had been. Ron swaddled Harry tightly like a baby, helped him into a foetal position and then removed the levitating spell. But, far from relaxing, Harry tossed and kicked and sobbed.

They tried to hold his legs still, but it just made his panic rocket until it was making Draco dizzy.

In the end, they had to step out of the nook, cast several strengthening spells on the blanket fort so it could stand Harry’s thrashing, and wait for him to settle down on his own.

When, after several minutes that felt like hours, Harry’s wails finally weakened and seemed like they were turning back into frail and quiet sobs, they ended the spell and stood still, holding their breath. Not yet daring to believe it’d worked.

Draco trained his eyes on the dimly lit floor, hating that they’d had to cause Harry so much pain to be able to help him. Hating that he was glad he hadn’t had to witness Harry’s memories with him during those awful, panicked minutes.

When he looked back up, Ron was in Hermione’s arms, sobbing silently into her shoulder while she held him close.

Draco quickly looked away, heart breaking for him. For all of them.