Eye of the Storm

“Alright,” Hermione murmured eventually, her voice barely audible, as though she was scared to make any sound that might disturb the fragile calm, “let’s go to the kitchen so we can talk.”

Ron nodded, but still breathed in her scent a couple more times before blinking his eyes open and stepping away from her embrace.

Draco followed them out of the room, heart heavy, hands still slightly shaky.

They settled around the kitchen table again, both of them sitting opposite him, and Draco caught Ron wiping away a few angry tears. Hermione was fiddling with the hem of her shirt, biting her lip, and sending Ron worried looks.

“I’m sorry,” Ron murmured into the silence.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Hermione quickly put in, covering his hand with hers and squeezing it. “You did what you had to do to make sure he was safe, okay? You were taking care of him.”

He nodded, but his aggrieved frown remained.

“I can take care of him now,” Draco said, feeling awkward and out of place, but still hoping his words would soothe them both somewhat. “I wouldn’t have been able to without your help, but you can leave him to me now. Get some rest. Both of you. You’ve earned it.”

Ron’s eyes found his, questioning, doubtful, but after a moment, he nodded again.

“Are you staying over for dinner?” Hermione asked suddenly. “Or do you not work evenings, or…”

She clearly didn’t want to finish the sentence. It was a Friday, which meant if Draco told them he wasn’t willing to work past regular work hours, he’d leave in just a couple of hours and wouldn’t be back until Monday.

“I’ll stay for dinner,” he assured her. “I won’t let him suffer a moment longer than necessary.”

She closed her eyes and nodded, shoulders sagging with her next exhale.

“What’s your plan now, then?” Ron asked, still somewhat weakly. “How will you get him out of there?”

“Well, I won’t know for sure until I can talk to him in the eye of the storm. But,” he went on before Ron’s face could fully contort with pain, “in essence, I have to help him find the connection with his body. His subconscious may still be able to perceive what his body perceives, but his consciousness is caught in the storm, in the past, and it needs to remember how to return to the present.”

“That sounds… complicated.” Ron bit his nail absent-mindedly, his expression settling into a frown.

“Ron,” Draco murmured, and though the name felt weird in his mouth, the bewildered expression he was rewarded with was well worth the awkwardness. “You can trust me.”

Ron sighed. Rested his hand back on the table. “I know. A-And I do. I just…”

Draco nodded. “You’ll be with him soon. Both of you.” He looked them in the eye in turn. “I trust you, too. I trust you to take care of him once he’s out of there. I can’t pretend to know what kind of care he’ll need while his body and mind recover from the trauma, but I know he’ll be in good hands.”

A ghost of a smile twitched at the corner of Hermione’s lips, and some of the tension finally seemed to leave Ron’s body, his features settling into exhaustion.

“Thank you,” she murmured, and Draco nodded in acknowledgement, not quite sure what to do with the fondness he felt toward her. Toward both of them.

He had no doubt they’d remind Harry how loved and cherished he was. He had a feeling they’d been doing that since they were kids. Perhaps… perhaps they’d even been the first people to truly make Harry feel loved and wanted. That thought certainly put some of his school memories about the trio into perspective.

In fact, knowing Harry had been abused put quite a few things into perspective.

“Right,” he murmured, and stood, heading to the living room.

He was on his way out when Ron murmured, “Let us know when you resurface. We’ll fetch you some water and help you upstairs if you need to.”

“I will, thank you.” He nodded at them one last time and closed the door carefully behind him.

*

The fort looked so peaceful in the dim light that, for a moment, he could almost overlook the soft whimpers that emanated from the far corner of it.

But then the moment passed, and Draco’s heart clenched just imagining Harry curled up between the blankets on his own, defenceless and scared.

Without preamble, he grabbed a beanbag from the other side of the room and quietly placed it a few steps away from the blanketed entrance to Harry’s nook. He knew Harry couldn’t hear any outside noises, but he didn’t want to risk him still sensing the movement around him.

He sank down into it slowly. He much preferred his office chair—and the one he’d conjured upstairs—but he needed to be as close to Harry as possible to make up for the fact there was a physical barrier between them, and, annoyingly, he knew being at the same level as Harry would help the connection.

He breathed in deeply and pointed his wand at the fort.

“Legilimens,” he murmured, pointing in the general direction Harry’s head had been in when they’d left him.

It took him longer than usual to find Harry’s mind, not knowing exactly where to look for it. He breathed calmly through the seconds as he searched. It helped that he’d already entered Harry’s mind twice that day—each person’s mind had a unique feeling to it, its own footprint, and being familiar with Harry’s meant he knew what to look for.

When he found the subdued vibration that marked the edge of Harry’s mind, he alerted Harry of his presence again and dove into the well-known darkness.

The nothingness that engulfed him was familiar, and it was easy to breathe through it.

As the seconds passed, faint memories flashed past him. Voices—shouting, scolding, scoffing. Emotions—fear, fury, hatred, loneliness. Glimpses—a small, square TV, a toy soldier, a broken tap.

They pulled him toward them, but Draco was able to resist the pull. Knowing where he was going, and especially having been there before, made it easier to find a different direction to follow; a current that led him through the darkness, not toward the whirling chaos, but toward the depths of the calm within it. All he had to do was hold on to it and allow himself to be carried.

The scenes flashed further and further away from him, and eventually disappeared altogether.

For a moment, there was nothing. The current, as well as all sensorial and emotional input, were gone, and he was surrounded by a suffocating nothingness.

And then a scene materialised around him.

Had Draco not known where he was, he would’ve assumed this was another memory. The scenery was certainly familiar: the carpeted stairs, the doors to the kitchen and living room, the family portraits where Draco now noticed Harry was not once pictured, and the small, seemingly innocent door that led to a cupboard under the stairs.

At first sight, the only difference between this corridor and the one he’d seen earlier was the amount of light. Even though it’d been less than two hours since he’d last been here, it looked like it was night-time. He guessed it made sense Harry’s brain would interpret the darkness of the blanket fort that way.

But the differences, though subtle, were major.

The scene didn’t feel fleeting. When witnessing Harry’s memories, he’d felt like an object tied to the end of a rubber band: every time he was swung in a certain direction, he would reach the farthest point the band would allow and he would pause mid-air just long enough to see, to witness. But eventually, inevitably, the tension of the rubber would pull him back and fling him the opposite way.

There was no impending force waiting to drag him back now. No feeling at the centre of his chest that told him the scene would slip through his fingers in just a few moments; no resistance from the scene itself to fully let him witness it.

And nothing was going on. There were no people around him, no voices, no movements. All Draco could hear were faint whines and low thumps coming from inside the cupboard.

Draco followed the connection with his body for just a moment so he could breathe deeply in and out, easing the tension he knew was mounting up and making it harder to concentrate.

Then, he focused on what he could feel.

The sense of overwhelming fear and unsafety was there, latent in the air, an ever-present pressure coiling around his lungs. An entire ocean of emotion where everything else were ephemeral waves.

Then came the first waves of sadness and loneliness—not crashing against him like they had when Harry had felt actively in danger, but rather lathering him with the foam that tickles the sand in its retreat.

There was another muffled cry, and more emotions reached him—slightly more defined than the ones before.

Guilt. Self-hatred. Frustration.

He listened intently, breathing in and out and focusing on their connection, on feeling what Harry was feeling. Letting himself sink fully into Harry’s emotions.

Bad stupid wrong gross bad bad bad, the thoughts rushed through him suddenly, more an emotion than a coherent string of words. I’m a monster. They’re right not to love me. I want to be good. I just want to be good. But I can’t be good. I was born bad. I was born wrong and I’ll never be right.

Anger-guilt-worthlessness-fear. Bad. Wrong. Scared. No way out. No way out.

The emotions piled up, waves abruptly merging into a tsunami, and, much like earlier, Draco found himself paralysed with fear.

Wrong. Bad. Monster. I ruin everything. This is what I deserve.

Nothing was okay, and nothing would ever be okay.

Draco squeezed his eyes shut. He knew the feeling wasn’t his own, but it felt so real, so everlasting, that he couldn’t help but plop down against the wall by the door and hug his knees close to his chest to be able to think past his sudden, overwhelming need to cower and hide.

He knew he had to let Harry’s emotions flow in and back out of him without piling up; had to talk to the scared boy inside the cupboard, had to be a source of calm and comfort for him.

But he needed a moment. Just a moment to connect with his body and catch his breath.

He was doing just that, breaths coming out raggedly through gritted teeth, when another emotion passed through him. Confusion, mixed with notes of guardedness, diluted the fear and hopelessness just enough that he was able to open his eyes in time to hear the click of the cupboard door.

It opened just a slit, slowly, and Draco’s heart skipped a beat when big, green eyes framed by rounded glasses met his and widened.

Harry’s confusion shifted into a flutter of worry, surprise and curiosity.

“Hello, Harry,” Draco breathed, barely daring to make a sound, to move; to do anything that might spook him.

The surprise coursing through him spiked.

“Who are you?” Harry’s voice was so small. So timid.

“I’m Draco,” he said without thinking.

The door opened another inch, revealing black, unruly curls and a small scowl.

“Are you hurt?” Harry whispered.

“No,” Draco said quickly—too quickly. “I’m just—I’m just scared.”

It was too overwhelming. He’d expected it, to some degree—had expected Harry’s emotions to be heightened, intense, visceral. He’d known they would take over him like they had when he’d been here before, to the point it’d be hard to remember this wasn’t his reality. He’d been ready to face it. He thought he’d been ready.

“Do you want to hide with me?” Harry asked in a murmur.

Without hesitation, Draco nodded.

Harry gestured at him to come in, and, after peeking into the corridor to make sure they were alone, he stepped back into the cupboard, leaving the door open for Draco to follow.

Barely breathing, Draco crawled in.

He hadn’t expected Harry to trust him so easily. Harry obviously didn’t remember who he was, even though Draco had told him his name every time he’d entered his mind. Perhaps a part of his consciousness did remember—just enough to perceive Draco as safe and harmless.

“Careful when closing the door,” Harry whispered.

Draco closed it as slowly as he could, and what little light had illuminated the corridor vanished, plunging them into a darkness only split by the several slits on the centre of the door that allowed the cupboard to be aired.

He sat down on the floor against the wall opposite Harry, hugging his legs close to his body.

“Better?” Harry whispered.

It was still hard to breathe, and he still felt unsafe on a deep, fundamental level, but Draco hummed. He rubbed his knees, and searched for the connection with his body. That calmed him somewhat. He was okay. He was a professional. He was in control.

“Um…” Harry murmured a moment later. “How did you get into the house?”

A part of Draco wanted to tell Harry the truth. That neither of them were actually here; that this hadn’t been his house for many years. But he had to be careful. Upsetting Harry might do more harm than good right now.

“I was looking for you,” he answered instead—a half-truth.

He couldn’t see Harry’s face, but he could feel the surprise and alarm ricocheting inside the cupboard walls. But even then the sadness and fear remained, permeating his every bone and making his every breath feel too heavy to carry.

“Why?” Harry asked. Confusion mixed with anxiety.

Draco opened his mouth, and hoped with all his might to say the right thing.

“I… felt your fear,” he murmured, “and I wanted to help you.”

Surprise, as well as an intense hope, washed over him. But they were quickly followed by big waves of despair, guilt and a bone-deep shame that knocked the breath out of him.

I don’t deserve help. I’m bad gross wrong stupid.

“I don’t understand.” Harry’s small voice tugged at Draco’s heart.

“That’s okay,” Draco assured him. “All you really need to know right now is I’m your friend and I’m here to help in whatever way I can.”

For a moment, there was silence, and Harry’s emotions shook and twisted in turmoil. They seemed to spike and coil all around his insides when Harry finally said, “I don’t have any friends.”

Draco bit his lip. He wanted so badly for Harry to understand just how loved he was; just how much Ron and Hermione, as well as all his other friends, cared for him. He wanted to tell Harry about his wall full of pictures the kids in his life had made for him. He wanted Harry to know about Hedwig’s Safe Haven—about how loved and trusted he was by pets and customers alike. He wanted him to know about his giant adoptive family full of eccentric redheads who would jump head-first into any shenanigan if he so much as wiggled his eyebrows at them.

He wanted to tell Harry that he appreciated him, too. That he regretted never smiling back when they’d crossed paths before.

Instead, Draco settled for a hesitant, “Well… we could always change that. If you wanted to.”

Don’t deserve, don’t deserve, don’t deserve. Bad. Unworthy. Wrong.

“Why?” Harry’s voice shook.

Draco silently cursed himself. He couldn’t help but feel he was going about this all wrong, pushing Harry further into the spiral of fear and shame.

No. These weren’t his own emotions talking. He felt he was doing everything wrong because Harry felt he was doing everything wrong.

He searched for the line of connection with his body. Breathed deeply in and out, gathering his thoughts. And then he tried again.

“Because I’m scared too,” he admitted.

Hope. Surprise. Concern.

“Why?” Harry asked again. Merlin, he was at the age when that question just bubbled out of him, wasn’t he?

Why was he scared? Because he desperately wanted to help Harry, but he didn’t know how to go about it. How to talk to the traumatised child sitting with him in the dark and tell him he needed to leave his cupboard behind and return to his adult, overly-confident, slightly infuriating, cherished, happy self.

Because he wasn’t sure what would happen afterwards—wasn’t sure if Harry would be upset Draco had witnessed such personal memories, or if he’d continue to smile at him when he walked past.

“Because I feel… helpless,” Draco murmured, almost without thinking.

The faintest hint of confusion ran through him.

“That’s a big word,” Harry murmured. “I don’t know what it means.”

“Oh.” Draco frowned. “It means… vulnerable. Defenceless. Like you don’t know how to help yourself.”

Even through the ocean of sadness and trauma, the smallest tickle of amusement sparked in his chest.

“You talk like a grownup,” Harry said curiously.

Puzzled, Draco opened his mouth, ready to state the obvious: he was a grownup.

But then he paused.

He was twenty-seven. He knew that for a fact.

He didn’t feel twenty-seven.

“I…” he murmured, and for the first time since the corridor had materialised around him, he listened to his voice. Truly listened to it, and noticed the pitch wasn’t right.

He rubbed his thighs. Wiggled his toes. Nothing felt different. But then, falteringly, he brought a hand to his cheek and his eyes widened.

The usual scratch of his stubble wasn’t there.

“I’m…” He didn’t even have to think about it. It just poured out of him. “I’m seven.”

“Me too,” Harry’s voice reached him through the haze of confusion that was definitely Draco’s own, “and I don’t sound like a grownup.”

It all clicked into place, then. Why Harry had trusted him so easily. Why he’d immediately offered to let him into the cupboard.

There was something Harry felt he needed more than an adult who cared about him.

Harry needed someone his age who understood.

“Can I ask why you’re scared?” Draco tried to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

Confusion. Anxiety. Defensiveness.

“How do you know I’m scared?” Harry asked.

“Well, because you’re hiding,” Draco chuckled. “But… also because I can feel what you feel.”

He crossed his fingers and begged that it wasn’t too soon to give Harry this information.

Surprise. Alarm. Distrust.

“People can’t do that.”

“Some can,” Draco said casually, hoping this version of Harry believed him. He’d probably exhibited accidental magic by this age, but there was always a chance the trauma had delayed its manifestation…

Harry’s distrust grew, but, thankfully, so did his curiosity.

“Prove it, then.”

“Okay, fair enough,” Draco mumbled. “Let’s see… think really, really hard about something. Something specific a stranger couldn’t possibly know.”

Harry huffed, but didn’t reply. A wave of concentration passed through Draco, and a moment later the thoughts came rushing in.

Last week… stole… slices of ham… fridge.

“You stole ham from the fridge last week,” Draco said.

Harry’s surprise ricocheted off the cramped walls around them.

“How many?” he asked in a thin voice, and his thoughts rippled in the air around them: three, three, three.

“Three,” Draco murmured.

“How did you do that?!” Harry whispered urgently at the same time as his alarm and awe exploded around them.

“I’m a wizard,” Draco murmured. And then, hoping against all hope Harry would believe him, “And so are you.”

For a few moments, there was nothing but pure emotion. Excitement and disbelief flurried around Harry’s shame and guilt, merging together into a wave of denial and hopelessness that threatened to knock the air from Draco’s lungs.

“Hey, you don’t have to believe me,” Draco murmured in his softest voice. “Haven’t you ever done… things? Things you couldn’t explain? Things that almost felt… magical?”

Harry’s interest spiked, twirling around with curiosity.

“Like… make my hair grow back overnight?” he asked in a small voice, and Draco let out a silent sigh of relief.

“Yes! Exactly,” he encouraged.

“I’m…” Harry mulled over the idea. “A wizard?”

“You’re an outstanding wizard,” Draco corrected him, and something new sparked within Harry. Something Draco hadn’t witnessed him feeling up until now.

An unnamed warmth seemed to slowly, pleasingly wash over him, soothing his nerves like a balm. There was longing there, too, and the tiniest hint of pride that vanished so quickly Draco almost missed it.

It was the first of Harry’s emotions that seemed to counter the guilt and shame, instead of merging with them or distracting Harry from them for but a second.

But just as quickly as it had blossomed and spread, the trickling sensation diluted in his veins and disappeared, leaving behind an emptiness that was quickly filled with sorrow.

When Harry didn’t reply, Draco spoke softly into the silence. “Do you want to talk about why you’re sad?”

Draco couldn’t see him, but given his unease and hesitancy, he could practically feel Harry fidgeting and biting his lip.

“It’s okay if it’s hard to talk about,” Draco murmured. “Just know I’m here to listen.”

Harry whimpered as his emotions soared.

Distress. Frustration. I want to. I really want to. I just don’t know how.

Draco silently nodded in understanding. Perhaps if he gave Harry a few more seconds…

I can’t tell him. He’ll realise I’m bad. He’ll hate me. He should hate me. I’m wrong inside selfish gross. Harry’s rushing thoughts became louder and louder, the pressure coiling around his lungs making it hard to breathe, to think.

“You know,” Draco said quickly, trying to breathe through it, to sound calm and composed, “when I was… er—a few months ago, I scratched my knee while I was playing with the peacocks in the garden.”

A spark of curiosity thrummed faintly amidst the pain.

“You have peacocks?”

Draco hummed. “Plenty of them. I like chasing them, although it wouldn’t be the first time they ended up chasing me instead.” Now that was a fun thing to remember. He sighed. “But this one time I fell while I was running and I scratched my knee. Pretty badly. I still have a scar.”

He noticed with relief that the distraction made Harry’s distress ebb ever so slightly.

“It hurt a lot. And I got really scared because there was so much blood. So I ran back home crying and calling out for my mother. But I ran into my father instead.” He paused, closing his eyes for a moment.

“What happened then?” Harry asked in a murmur.

“He… he noticed I’d gotten my new clothes dirty.” Draco’s voice shook slightly.

It’d been so long ago… and he’d endured so much worse throughout his life. His father’s complete lack of compassion for his child self was hardly something that crossed his mind these days.

But here, inside Harry’s mind, with the fear and vulnerability of a terrified child overtaking him, he almost teared up when he added, “And he… he yelled at me. I wanted so badly to be held and to be told everything was okay. My mother would always sing me this one song when I got hurt and would hold me close while she healed me, you know? And she never let go until I felt safe and calm. But he didn’t hold me. He didn’t use a calm voice to let me know everything was going to be okay. He just yelled at me to get changed because some guests would be arriving soon and mocked me for enjoying playing outside.” He gulped. “I still really wish he’d held me instead.”

Draco had to pause to take a deep breath, and not just because of how vividly he was remembering his father’s disdainful words. Harry’s emotions were turning heavier, more restless—so much so a sob built up at the back of his throat, tears threatening to spill.

Can’t… want… NEED… don’t deserve. I don’t deserve it, don’t deserve it, don’t deserve—

“What are you thinking?” Draco asked in his softest voice, focusing on breathing in and out. In and out.

Harry’s emotions flared.

“No one’s ever held me when I was s-scared.” Harry’s voice broke at the same time the tears finally spilled down Draco’s cheeks.

He wanted nothing more than to pull Harry into his arms, and he had to close his eyes for a second to keep his own explosion of emotions at bay.

He’d known already; the memories he’d witnessed had given him enough clues to draw that conclusion. But to have it confirmed by the scared, traumatised, sobbing child sitting in the dark cupboard with him, and to feel within the confines of his chest all the worthlessness and shame that soaked Harry’s every word, was just too much to bear.

As Harry’s emotions poured out of him and flooded the small space around them, Draco recognised something else within them. Something Harry himself was unable to name, to tell apart from the waves upon waves of sadness-shame-guilt-longing-grief that threatened to suffocate him.

An ache. A profound, oppressive emptiness that radiated from his chest to his limbs, and that seemed to expand, and expand, and expand until it felt like it might swallow him whole.

Through what little light penetrated the cupboard through the slits, Draco could barely make out the movement of Harry’s arms around himself. He wouldn’t have understood what Harry was doing if he hadn’t seen it before.

Harry was rubbing his shoulders. Soothing himself—holding himself. Trying, the best way he could, to mitigate even a fraction of the intolerable ache.

Because if he didn’t, he just didn’t know how he’d be able to survive another moment of this.

Something inside Draco burned—a feeling that came from himself, and not from Harry.

Rage.

Rage at the mere thought that a kid so young would be neglected so mercilessly. That Harry didn’t even know how to ask for comfort when he needed it. That he’d resigned himself to comforting himself when he was scared and upset.

Taking a deep, steadying breath through the connection with his body, Draco wiped the tears from his cheeks and asked, gently, “Can I hug you?”

The shiver that ran through Harry was both physical and emotional. Draco felt it to his core—felt the longing magnifying impossibly, twisting and turning uncomfortably around a prison of shame, of fear, of can’t, can’t, can’t—

Harry sniffled, and then, brokenly, he whispered, “Boys don’t hug.”

Don’t deserve, don’t deserve, don’t deserve—

Something twisted inside Draco; another feeling of his own. A memory. He’d just arrived at King’s Cross on the first day of Christmas holidays in his first year at Hogwarts. It’d been the longest he’d ever been apart from his parents, and he’d jumped right into his mother’s arms with a gleeful scream. And then his father, calmly but sternly, had grabbed his shoulder and dislodged Draco from his mother’s embrace and said, simply, “You’re too old for that, Draco. Be a man and greet your mother appropriately.”

“You know,” Draco told Harry, “my father used to say the same thing. Did your uncle also tell you that?”

After a moment, Harry hummed, so lowly Draco almost didn’t hear him.

“But your aunt hugs your cousin sometimes, doesn’t she?”

Another pause, then Harry hummed again.

“I think they’re wrong,” Draco went on. “My father and your uncle. I think boys do hug sometimes. And maybe neither of them would be so angry all the time if they asked for hugs when they needed them, too, don’t you think?”

He barely caught a glimpse of Harry’s shrug.

There was another sniffle, a hiccup, and then Harry rubbed his arms again, aching. Fresh tears welling in his eyes.

“Do you want to try?” Draco murmured, fighting to keep his voice steady through the wave of renewed sadness and fear. “We can always stop if you don’t like it.”

Tears streamed down his face again, but he ignored them, focusing on Harry. Hope and expectation trying to break through the barrier of fear.

It felt like an eternity had passed before Harry’s small voice reached him through the rush of emotion.

“O-okay.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile minutely to himself. Oh, he was so, so proud of Harry.

“Okay,” he repeated, and felt the floor around him with his hands.

The mattress Harry was sitting on was just an inch away from his feet, and there were clothes and objects scattered on and around it. He itched to pull his wand out and cast Lumos.

“Is there a lightbulb in here?”

There was some rustling, as though Harry was shaking his head against the wall.

“I-I’ve tried it, but it’s not working,” Harry said. Then, so low Draco almost didn’t hear him, “Last time the light bulb broke they didn’t change it for months.”

It took everything in Draco not to curse. It made sense Harry couldn’t turn on the light inside his own mind when the blanket fort was so dark inside, and Draco desperately wished he could turn on the fairy lights.

“That’s okay, I’ll just be careful,” he reassured Harry. He inched closer to him, slowly, Harry’s nerves making his hands shake somewhat.

When his hand found Harry’s leg, he sat down again and scooted closer to him, albeit leaving some space between them still.

Then, very slowly, he lifted a hand and rested it clumsily on Harry’s shoulder.

There was a small whimper, Harry’s emotions stirring.

“Is this okay?” Draco whispered.

Through ragged breaths, Harry hummed.

“Okay.” Draco let a few moments go by without moving, then rubbed Harry’s shoulder gently. “Would you like me to come any closer?”

“I—I don’t know how,” Harry mumbled tearfully.

“You don’t know how?” Draco echoed delicately.

“H-How to hug.”

He bit his lip. A part of him wished it was Ron or Hermione in here—or anyone who knew even an ounce about this sort of physical intimacy. This part of him—the part of him that was his father’s son, guarded, distant, cold—wanted to admit to Harry that he didn’t know how to hug either. That he had no idea what he was doing; that he was fumbling in the dark, and not just in the literal sense.

He almost pushed the thought away. Almost blamed his self-doubt on Harry’s own feelings of self-doubt.

“I’m not sure myself either,” he admitted instead, hating the way his voice broke; the way a small nook within his heart broke with grief when he realised he didn’t remember how his mother used to hold him anymore. “Do you want to learn together?”

He saw Harry nod through the reflection on his hair.

Heart racing from his own nerves and Harry’s, Draco scooted slightly closer. He had no idea what he was doing, but Harry trusted him, and so, with a confidence he definitely didn’t feel, he said, “Okay, how about you drape your legs over my lap? Then you can rest your head on my shoulder if you want?”

He was half-expecting Harry to back away, or to freeze and need some extra reassurance. But it seemed as though a dam was breaking inside of Harry, the need for comfort finally cracking through the fear, and Harry turned to him and passed his legs over Draco’s.

Draco didn’t have to think about it—he opened his arms and held Harry close, helping him rest his head against his shoulder.

For a moment, neither of them moved. Harry’s emotions seemed to come to a standstill, a withheld breath, and all Draco could hear was the thrumming of his own rebellious heart.

But then the moment passed, and Harry’s hands curled into fists around his jumper as a wretched, wet sob escaped him, and his emotions rushed.

Draco spread his hands on Harry’s back and held him closer, as close as he possibly could as Harry burst into tears, clinging to Draco—to his chest, his waist, his back—with a desperation that threatened to break Draco’s heart.

Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go, his mind screamed, growing almost desperate as an indescribable relief, mixed with too many emotions to tell apart, stampeded through his body—a body too small to hold them all in.

Draco wanted nothing more than to never let go. It didn’t matter that the only thing hurting Harry was his own afflicted mind: in that moment, he just wanted to hold Harry close enough to bury him within his skin, where he’d be safe from his family and the entire world.

He sank slightly into the mattress, and buried his hand in Harry’s hair to keep him close to the crook of his neck as he leaned back against the wall. His head was spinning, rushing—Harry’s own overwhelming emotions mixing with his own—and he once again searched for his connection with his body, drawing some reassurance from its unwavering presence.

He’d almost managed to catch his breath when he noticed Harry’s emotions shifting. As he cried and clutched Draco’s jumper, something grew within his chest. Something heavy and murky that tarnished Harry’s relief and quickly—way too quickly—overclouded it.

Shame.

“I—I’m sorry,” Harry stammered suddenly between hiccups.

Not enough, not enough, not enough, said his emotions, desperate, needy.

It ached. Knowing he was being held, but still needing more, more, more. It ached almost as much as the terrible, terrible fear that it might be over too soon and leave him feeling more fragile and isolated than ever before.

“There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Draco murmured, holding Harry tightly and stroking his hair. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. I won’t let go.”

Harry’s whole body jerked with each hitched breath, his tears dampening Draco’s throat and mixing with Draco’s own as they rolled down his jaw.

“You’re doing so good,” he kept saying. “You’re so good, Harry.”

Harry shook, clutching at Draco’s back, hiding his face further. He tried to mumble something, but he could barely breathe through the sobs—let alone speak.

He didn’t need to, though. His emotions were loud enough for Draco to understand.

Monster. Freak. Gross wrong bad. Bad bad bad bad bad—

“You’re good. You’re so good, Harry,” Draco repeated like a mantra, heart threatening to break. “You’re so incredibly good.”

Gross monster freak bad bad bad.

Harry shook and shook in his arms.

“Did your family call you a monster?” Draco asked cautiously, raking his fingers through Harry’s hair and gently untangling his knots.

Heaving, Harry nodded into his throat.

“Because you made some mistakes?”

“B-Bec-cause I-I’-m bad,” Harry managed, legs curling against Draco’s chest as he made himself impossibly smaller.

It was hard to breathe through Harry’s emotions, but Draco’s voice somehow didn’t waver as he murmured, “But when your cousin makes mistakes they don’t tell him he’s bad, do they?”

Hesitantly, Harry shook his head.

“Making mistakes doesn’t make us bad, or monsters, you know?” He stroked Harry’s wet cheek gently with a thumb. “Do you know what it makes us?”

Harry’s nose smeared wetness across the curve of Draco’s neck as he shook his head again.

“It makes us human.”

Bad bad bad bad bad bad bad—

“Do you want to know how I know?” Draco asked after a few moments.

A tiny nod. Draco squeezed Harry closer to himself.

“Because I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” he murmured. “And some of them were small, but some were really, really big.”

Harry’s hitched breaths slowed down somewhat, the rush of emotions abating just enough to let him fully breathe in.

“Yeah?” Harry exhaled, voice so small it was barely even there.

“Yeah.” He slid his hand down to rub between Harry’s shoulder blades, and tried his hardest not to dwell on the feeling of Harry’s bony spine under his touch. “And for a long time, I believed I was a monster as well. But that was until I realised something.”

Harry’s flurrying feelings seemed to finally come to a rest, like waves letting up enough for the sand grains to sink and settle.

Weeping into his collar, his shaky fists loosening ever so slightly, Harry mumbled, “What did you realise?”

“I realised,” Draco said, stroking Harry’s hair lightly, “that we can always make a different choice. Sometimes we get so caught up in everything that’s wrong with us that we forget we have a choice. We forget we’re not helpless. Remember the word I said earlier? Helpless?”

Harry sniffled, but nodded with a small hum.

“Well, we’re not helpless,” Draco said. “We can feel like we are, especially if the people around us have taught us to only see the worst in us. But we are who we choose to be. You are who you choose to be, Harry. Not who they see in you.”

Harry wiped his nose with his sleeve, and Draco could feel him taking in his words. He waited patiently, holding Harry close and resting his cheek on the crown of Harry’s head.

“I…” Harry murmured after a moment. “I can choose to be good?”

Draco hummed. “You can.”

“How?” Harry asked urgently, lifting his head from Draco’s shoulder.

A part of him wanted to admit that he was still trying to figure out that part himself. A part of him found having to be the one to explain goodness to Harry Potter a sick joke from the universe.

But when he opened his mouth, he found none of that truly mattered. The words seemed to flow out of him on their own accord.

“Well, I think you have to start by being good to yourself,” he said. “Be kind to yourself; say nice words to yourself. For example, you could tell yourself, I’m good. I’m allowed to make mistakes. I still deserve good things when I make mistakes.”

Harry’s head propped back on his shoulder, lightly, and Draco held him close again.

“And then, once you’ve learnt to be kind to yourself, you can have open and honest conversations with yourself. Like a friend. Friends can always talk with one another when they need it, and friends always listen. You can listen to yourself about the kind of person you want to be, and you can trust yourself to do what feels right for you.”

Harry sniffled again. Mumbled, “That sounds really hard.”

“That’s okay!” Draco assured him. “Sometimes it can be scary to take a first step if you’re thinking about the whole journey ahead. It can make you feel blocked. But you don’t have to think about the whole journey right now. You just have to take the first step.”

“What’s… the first step?” Harry asked, uncertain, but hopeful.

“Well,” Draco murmured. “Can you notice any sensations in your body? Is there anything you could do to make you feel better right now?”

Harry hesitated, uncertainty edging closer to despair. He shook his head.

“I’m just tired,” he said in a tiny voice.

“Okay,” Draco acquiesced. “And what do we do when we’re tired?”

“We… sleep?” Harry asked.

“We do. And going to sleep when we feel tired is an act of kindness toward ourselves,” Draco said. “Because when you sleep, you recharge, and you wake up feeling stronger and happier.”

Harry clutched at his waist. His whole body tensed up, fear and unsafety spiking, and Draco could swear Harry was physically cowering further away from the cupboard door when he mumbled, brokenly, “But I can’t sleep.”

They’ll come looking for me. They’ll hurt me. Can’t, can’t, can’t—

“I’m here,” Draco murmured. And, even though he knew he couldn’t stay in Harry’s mind while he slept, he added, “I’ll watch over you. And I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Do you promise?”

He wiped Harry’s cheek with a thumb again and said, “I promise.”

A second went by, and then Harry nodded, though he didn’t move. Draco gave him a few more seconds, and then, cautiously, he shifted his weight, keeping Harry close as he manoeuvred their bodies until they were lying down on the mattress.

“Do you have a blanket?” he asked softly. Harry stretched, reached behind his back, and handed one to him. It was thin and felt greasy to the touch, and Draco couldn’t help but compare it to the soft, fluffy surface of the blanket fort, or to the clean and warm blanket Ron had cocooned Harry in to keep him safe and comfortable.

He covered them both with it, and then lay on his back and pulled Harry close so that his cheek was resting on his shoulder, his curls brushing Draco’s jaw.

“Is this okay?” he asked, and Harry hummed, although he squirmed slightly closer, draping his leg and arm over Draco.

“I don’t know if I’ll fall asleep,” Harry said after a moment, a lump of worry forming in his throat.

“That’s fine. Even if you don’t sleep, just lying down and closing your eyes helps your body rest and feel better. And if you don’t fall asleep, you can always tell me and we can do something else, okay?”

Harry mulled over his words, twisting them into knots inside him even as he whispered, “Okay.”

Draco suppressed a sigh of relief. His own worry was weaving with Harry’s in his chest and making it hard to breathe, but he willed his muscles to relax and played with Harry’s hair to hopefully soothe them both somewhat.

He hoped against all hope Harry would fall asleep. He’d need all the energy he could gather to find his way back to his body. But Harry’s emotions were still piling up, rushing, and Draco could feel the way his muscles tensed every time he tried to relax them.

Not two minutes had gone by when Harry spoke again, his voice barely a whisper.

“Can you sing it to me? The song your mum sang to you?”

Harry’s anxiety spiked, as though he was terrified to ask; to be pushed away or mocked.

“I… I can’t remember it well,” Draco said, because it was true—but also because he didn’t think he could bear to remember. Didn’t think he could bear to acknowledge his own inner child and the sorrow that part of him had kept carefully locked away for so long.

Still, Harry needed him, and so, quickly, Draco added, “But I can try if you want me to.”

Harry nodded vehemently, clinging to Draco more tightly.

And so Draco tried. Staring blindly into the darkness, he clumsily hummed what parts of the melody he could remember, and as the lyrics started to flood his mind, so tears flooded his eyes and slid freely down his cheeks.

But, somehow, his voice remained steady, and he went on, and on, until, at last, Harry’s exhaustion got the better of him and his feelings settled into the blissful peace of sleep, and Draco was left alone with nothing to hold on to but his own messy grief.