Title: for want of rest
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco, references to past Harry/Ginny
Summary: After he suffers two weeks of dreadful nightmares after the final battle, it is decided that Harry must go to a rehabilitation program for post-war stress.
Rating: (very soft) R
Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The first three lines are taken directly from Deathly Hallows. These three lines are not my own words.
Warning(s): A distinct presence of ellipses and chest monsters. Also, hurt/comfort.
Deathly Hallows compliant? EWE
Word Count: ~5,100
Author's Notes: Many thanks to my loveliest beta. who_la_hoop, I really hope you like this; I tried to incorporate as many of the things you asked for as possible.
As Harry looked at her, he lowered his hand absentmindedly and touched the lightning scar on his forehead.
"I know he will."
The scar had not pained Harry for nineteen years. All was well.
Harry woke up, sheets tangled around him -- suffocating, almost. He could feel the sweat, beading on his forehead, pooling in the hollow of his throat, could taste his morning breath. "Our Victoire," he muttered, gagging on the words.
In the morning, he told Professor McGonagall that he'd had another nightmare. In the two weeks since the final battle, they'd become more and more frequent, and, after a week of suffering, he'd told Hermione, who'd told McGonagall, who'd told him to tell her immediately when he suffered another. McGonagall wasn't as easy to talk to as Dumbledore, wasn't as open as Lupin or as jovial as Tonks . She wasn't nearly the comrade Sirius was, or the clown Fred had been, but she was someone, an authority figure in a world where Harry felt he'd had as much authority as he could ever want in a lifetime. There was a certain presence about her that both reassured Harry and made him feel anxious -- he wasn't sure whether this was good or bad.
After he reported this latest dream to McGonagall (he didn't tell her all the details -- the details were strange. He just told her it was of a horrifying future that made him feel rather sick to his stomach), she sat in silence for a moment, her prim, aloof expression intimidating him only just a little bit. After tapping her index fingers together twice, she spoke: "Mr. Potter."
"Might I interest you in a post-war rehabilitation program of sorts, for several of the needier witches and wizards closest to you in age?"
Harry considered this. "It would help stop my nightmares?" So the last one hadn't been conventional, exactly, but it was a nightmare nonetheless. He and Ginny had discussed their past relationship immediately after the final battle, and discovered that neither of them particularly felt as if they could get back into their relationship -- not after everything that had happened, anyway (Harry was mostly just thankful that she hadn't ended things due to his bisexuality. Granted, he didn't know for sure that she knew about it, but he figured Hermione, or maybe Ron, must have told her). In fact...
He was jolted out of his reverie by McGonagall speaking again. "Yes, Mr. Potter. I do believe it would."
Harry nodded, decisive. "Yes. I'd be quite interested."
He was less interested when he discovered that neither Ron nor Hermione would be in this program. They would, apparently, not be suited for it: they hadn't been as affected by the war as Harry. "But Macmillan has?" Harry asked them, privately, packing the day before he was to set off for this rehabilitation thing.
"Oh, Harry," Hermione said as she hugged him, explaining that although the three of them had been together through many of the same things, Harry had been through more, and there were really all sorts of different wounds, weren't there, and he shouldn't go about saying such things when the others might be in tons more need than Harry himself.
Thankfully, Ron snorted at this, too. But he did side with Hermione on other counts: "She's right, you know. We got off pretty well, considering some of the people at Hogwarts. Look at Neville; he was tortured."
"So were you," Harry told Hermione.
"Yes, well," she said, and she wouldn't say any more when he asked.
And then the time came for him to leave. Ron clapped him on the back and slipped him a sampler of Weasley Wizard Wheezes, "conveniently shrunk for pocket carrying," telling Harry that he was probably going to be working with George for awhile now. Hermione kissed him on one cheek and told him he'd be rid of those dreams in no time, and reminded him to study for his NEWTs (Harry wasn't sure he planned on making them up). Harry took out the portkey McGonagall had given him, to take him to the 'undisclosed location' of the program.
"'Bye, Ron, Hermione," he said, after an awkward moment of not being able to think of anything to say.
"Goodbye, Harry," they both echoed, and Hermione added, "oh and Harry, do be careful!" right before he felt that familiar tug.
He landed in a well-kept garden, right next to a fountain. "Where is this?" he asked a sour-looking blonde witch who he vaguely remembered from Astronomy back in school.
"Confiscated from Death Eaters," she said, glumly, picking a thread out of the sleeves of her robes. "Somewhere in Wales."
"I see," Harry said, after a moment's pause. "Er. Who else is here?"
"You're just the third," she said, not looking up at all as she picked beneath a nail. "Davis is here, too."
"Roger Davies, you mean?" Harry asked, wishing that she would stop focusing on everything but him -- it wasn't that he wanted the attention; he just wanted... well. The attention.
"No. Tracey Davis, Slytherin, our year."
Harry was just about to voice his shock at Slytherins being part of this rehabilitation program when three other people portkeyed in, one after another. These three (Ginny, Neville, Ernie Macmillan) were the three he'd known would be there, and he immediately turned to talk to Ginny. Ernie greeted the blonde witch with a regal nod of his head ("Lisa Turpin") and set off exploring the surroundings while Neville took a closer look at the flowers closest by. The blonde witch (Lisa?) was still poking dispiritedly at her robes, and the Davis-who-wasn't-Davies was nowhere to be seen.
Harry was somewhat surprised at most of the current ensemble, but nothing could have prepared him for the rest: Anthony Goldstein was somewhat surprising mostly because Harry hardly knew him, and Susan Bones probably had just as much of a right to be there as Ernie, but the last person to show...
The last person to show shocked Harry into silence, right in the middle of the story he was telling Ginny about Ron and a Chudley Cannons poster.
Harry hardly had time to protest before Professor Flitwick Apparated into the garden with a box and a witch Harry vaguely recognised in tow. "Gather around, gather around!" Flitwick said, as loudly as he could, and everyone gathered. Once everyone was there, Flitwick cleared his throat and spoke: "All of you are here today because of some sort of post-traumatic reactions to something that occurred during the war. Some of you were tortured, some of you were not. Some people who were tortured are at other such programs, and some find no need to do anything of the sort. This particular program is intended to aid you in your return to full functionality, no matter how exactly this functionality is impaired.
"Miss Clearwater has just received her Healers license from St. Mungo's, and will be here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until such a time as she is replaced or this program is disbanded. Any questions or complaints may be directed at her, or at the Ministry employee or Hogwarts professor that will be visiting on a daily basis in order to help with the process. You will be sharing rooms with one other person here. Rooms will be decided by the Sorting Hat immediately, and no discussion is to be had about this."
Flitwick actually went on, but Harry couldn't attend to what he was saying anymore. This was something else he had noticed since the war: his attention span was brief, and almost uncontrollably so. It seemed ridiculous to mention, though -- he'd never been the absolute best person in the world at focusing on things (not like Hermione, anyway) that hadn't captivated him from the start, and, really, lack of attention wasn't something that could be fixed by anyone else... was it?
And then, suddenly, Flitwick clapped his hands, startling Harry into wakefulness. "Let the Sorting begin!" the professor said, the attempt at humour failing miserably on his audience.
The Sorting Hat descended upon Harry's head for the third time in his life. This time, instead of discussing the merits of Gryffindor and Slytherin, instead of presenting a sword, it seemed to be scanning his mind, riding lower on his head than it had ever done before. Harry sat, sensing an eternity passing by as the Hat made its observations (later, he would find out it was only actually five minutes), and when it loosened its hold, he tipped it in his hand and passed it on to Lisa Turpin.
Once it had finished with everyone, Flitwick donned the Sorting Hat and seemed to have a hurried conversation with it. He whispered some things to Penelope, who wrote them down, her face completely blank the entire time. Eventually, Flitwick placed the Hat back into its box and cleared his throat. The murmurs of some people surrounding Harry died down, and everyone looked expectantly down at the professor.
"Roommate pairs are as follows," he said, firmly. "Lisa Turpin and Ginevra Weasley. Susan Bones and Tracey Davis. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Anthony Goldstein and Neville Longbottom. Ernie Macmillan is best-suited to a room of his own." As voices rose in protest about him, Flitwick lifted his hands. "This is final."
Everyone fell quiet. Flitwick continued: "You are to spend the day with your roommate. Get to know them. If you knew them well in school, get to know them better. If you didn't know them at all, introduce yourself. Mr. Macmillan, you're to get to know the ghost of the Manor. No, don't protest!" (for Ernie had started making a case against this) "and at the end of the day, you're to introduce your roommate to everyone else as if it's the first time they've met. I --"
Anthony Goldstein interjected, quietly: "I did a lot of stuff like this at a Muggle summer camp"
Flitwick didn't show any signs of hearing. "-- until the end of the day. Dismissed!"
Harry turned to Malfoy, to see the other boy looking steadily at him. "Right, Potter," he said, reluctantly. "Let's do this."
First, they unpacked. Malfoy had a lot less than Harry'd expected him to have: his one trunk wasn't even completely full. But Harry didn't ask about this. Even though he probably should have, due to the assignment and all, he couldn't really bring himself to do it.
Once he was unpacked, Harry sat on his bed, settling against the wall. Malfoy was already on the one chair in the room, looking rather askance at it all. They sat in silence for a moment, before Malfoy turned to Harry. "What's your favourite colour?" he asked, roughly.
Harry was startled. "What?"
"You heard the assignment." This was said dully, evenly, uncaringly, and it inflamed Harry, though he couldn't place exactly why (the fact that it was Malfoy probably had more than a little to do with it).
"That's a brilliant reason to feign interest."
"I'm not feigning," Malfoy said, and Harry's head shot up. "I'm not at all interested."
Harry seethed, but said nothing. He counted to ten, slowly, as calmly as he could manage, and then counted again. After probably a minute, he said, "Blue."
"Blue is my favourite colour."
Harry learned almost absolutely nothing about anyone else that night, except for maybe that Ginny had a birthmark on the back of her right thigh that embarrassed her greatly. He tried not to dwell on the fact that, were it a few months earlier, this fact would interest him greatly. For the most part, save for when he was rhythmically reciting what he had learned of Malfoy (which really wasn't much that he hadn't already observed from under the Invisibility Cloak in sixth year, but no one here would know that, now, would they), he focused more on his hands and on a conspicuous crack in the wall.
And then Penelope Clearwater said something, interrupting Ernie Macmillan mid-sentence: "And now, before we break for the night, I'd like everyone to state the reason why they're here."
Everyone shuffled around, recalcitrant. Malfoy opened his mouth to speak (no doubt protesting this), but Penelope shot him a quelling look.
Lisa Turpin spoke up. "I was tortured," she said, mumbling, and then said it again more clearly once Anthony put his hand on her arm. "I was tortured, and I can't get over that."
A chorus of 'me, too's came: Susan, Neville, Ernie, Anthony... Ginny. Ernie spoke further: "I am constantly aroused," he said.
Someone (Susan?) snorted, but immediately stifled it. "Sorry," she said, her voice choked. "Go on."
"I meant aroused as in nervous," Ernie said, petulantly, and now that he mentioned it, Harry could see a tremor to his movements, a twitchy quality to his movements. "I can't take sudden movements, or, or, or anything like that."
"I was forced to torture," Malfoy said, suddenly, quietly. "I can't live with that."
Davis shrugged, inclining her neck. "I was bitten and almost raped by one of Fenrir's ilk," she said, also quietly (Harry could just make out bite marks if he squinted. He could also see Draco out of the corner of his eye, looking suddenly furious and putting a concerned hand on Davis' shoulder). "But I killed him before he could."
Harry suddenly felt inadequate; all he had were nightmares, and some of them couldn't even be called nightmares by anyone but him. Still, though, his time had come, and he couldn't very well not speak. "I have nightmares," he said, simply, after a moment's hesitation, and was almost surprised at the nod of understanding that went throughout the group.
"Very good," Penelope said, after a minute of silence. "I feel now is a good time for everyone to go to bed. However, this is not an order -- there is no real lights-out here, though we prefer you be in your rooms before midnight -- so you may stay up if you wish."
Harry headed immediately off to bed after telling Ginny goodnight, and smiling distractedly at her when she kissed him on the cheek and said, "Sweet dreams, Harry."
The voice came at Harry from what seemed like a hundred twisted miles away, through stark landscapes and empty eyes, through a hissing sort of laugh and a snakelike face, through red eyes and a cruel wand and the hood of a Dementor slowly falling back to reveal...
Harry jerked awake. "What the fuck, Malfoy?" he demanded, shoving his glasses on to see the other boy standing askance, staring directly down at him.
"You were flailing about in bed and waking me up," Malfoy said, looking dubiously on. "If you're going to have nightmares, can you have them quietly? Some of us have a hard enough time falling asleep as it is."
Harry glared at him. "Malfoy..." he said, warningly.
"So do whatever it is that calms you down and sleep," Malfoy said testily. He sank back onto his bed. "And shut the hell up, regardless, because mine only come when I'm awake."
"Your what?" Harry asked, tentatively.
"My nightmares," Malfoy said, and rolled over. End of discussion.
The days fell into a familiar sort of pattern almost disturbingly quickly. They would start, really, when Malfoy woke Harry up from a nightmare (usually saying something like, 'can you shut the fuck up already?'), causing Harry to lie awake for much of the rest of the night, hands folded right underneath his heart, willing himself to fall asleep, and to sleep properly. His thoughts tormented him during these few, dark hours -- he thought increasingly about meeting Dumbledore when he was dead (if that had really happened at all), about all the 'what-ifs' -- what if he hadn't managed to get rid of all the Horcruxes, what if Neville hadn't been able to cut the head off Nagini, what if he had failed, what if Ron and Hermione had died.
(By the second week, Harry was beginning to fancy that he knew what Malfoy knew about nightmares coming when he was awake, though he'd never admit it.)
Finally, after hours of tossing and turning in the quietest way Harry could manage, he would start to smell breakfast and head out to eat (he was always first. The skittish Tracey Davis was always second). He usually finished before Malfoy woke up, and would go back to dress quickly and then return to the table to keep Ginny -- and everyone else -- company. After breakfast, Penelope and whichever professor or Ministry official was there would guide them through something distinctly like a class, usually geared toward some sort of Ministry job or passing NEWTs exams retroactively, but sometimes it was something like 'Crafting Your Own Charms' (which Harry was surprised to find enthralling). After this class, they would break for lunch, and then whoever was there for the day would split them into groups for what Penelope liked to call 'team-building exercises' for 'encouraging your rehabilitation'. Harry never really could figure out what the point in turning a bed sheet over while they were all standing on it was, but, then again, he hadn't been listening all that well when it was explained.
After 'trust-building', they'd break again, and some would go to dinner while some went to their rooms, and still others went outside to work in the gardens or fly around the house and generally wind down. Days would conclude with a meeting, lasting anywhere from half an hour to two hours long, discussing issues they had concerning the war and how they were getting over their trials and traumas. And then, they went off: some to bed, some to the kitchens, some to the rooftop or gardens again to do god only knew what. Harry took to going to bed: his nightmares seemed to strike at roughly the same time every night, and, considering he woke very early every morning and didn't go back to sleep again, an early bedtime seemed most conducive to keeping some kind of regular sleep schedule.
The nightmares, of course, were another matter entirely. The what-ifs Harry couldn't help but think about at three and four o'clock every morning came alive in these dreams, and he watched his friends die, in new and equally horrific ways every night. The only nights he didn't dream about this, he dreamed about futures he decidedly didn't want: living with the mermaids at the bottom of the lake near Hogwarts, asphyxiating on a pumpkin pasty, living alone forever, living with people he didn't or couldn't love in the way they deserved, being forced to live with Professor Binns for ten years and learning History of Magic for ten hours every day of each of those years...
And every night, just as the nightmares or undesired futures were getting to the point where he almost couldn't stand it anymore, he'd wake up to Malfoy shaking him, or pulling his covers off, or staring at him, or (most often), telling him to 'wake up already, stop having nightmares, and let me get some bloody sleep'.
After three weeks of this, Harry began to find it distinctly comforting, although he wouldn't admit it to anyone. He'd hardly even admit it to himself.
Each time Malfoy woke him up, he seemed a little more resigned, a little less annoyed at the noise Harry was making, a little softer in regards to all of Harry's problems.
And then, one night, Malfoy started talking.
Harry was still asleep when Malfoy started, but he woke up in the middle of, "God, Potter, I'm so glad you're asleep, because it would probably kill both of us -- of mortification, probably -- to know that I'm telling you these things when you're asleep, but I can't really talk to anyone else here... Not that I can talk to you, but you're asleep, so it won't kill me to say these things. I'm really worried about Tracey, Potter. She doesn't seem to be getting any better. I'm pretty sure you didn't know her in school, but she was always a quiet, shy girl, for a Slytherin, and she put her all into things that mattered to her, and she always had this, this vibrancy about her. And now she's dull, and I don't want to do about it. And everyone else here... I don't know if you've noticed -- probably not, because you don't seem to be able to pay much attention to anything around here at all -- but Macmillan, didn't he used to be really obnoxious and stuffy in school? I got the sense that he liked to boss people around a lot last year, but now... now he can hardly talk to anyone without freaking out. And everyone else -- they were all tortured, and, Potter, I could have done it, if I'd been at school, and I don't know how I've managed to live with everything I've done so far, and I don't know that I'll be able to continue doing so..."
Here he trailed off, and Harry (who was loathe to open his eyes and interrupt Malfoy; what he was saying bore hearing) could just picture him sitting on his bed, staring at his feet and his knotted hands, hair falling over his eyes, looking for all the world like someone who had lost everything and didn't know what to do with this loss.
And then Malfoy started speaking again, this time more angrily. "God. Potter, I'm even worried about you, and thank god you won't hear me say this, because I hate admitting it, even to myself, but you look so bloody lost all the time, and all those nightmares you have that keep both of us awake...I can't help but know that some of that is stuff that I did. And that shouldn't bother me, considering our history and all, but sometimes I, I just want to be able to take back some of the things I've said and done, if only for my own peace of mind. And then there's me, and I hardly belong here, because I didn't get hurt. I did the hurting, but it kills me that I gave into him so easily -- you know I love to fight, and I know I love to fight, and I could have at least fought him, but..." Harry heard a rustle, and he imagined that Malfoy was cocking his head. "You're usually tossing and turning and screaming by now and oh my god, why am I talking to someone I've never really liked, while they're asleep about everything that's bugging me?"
Harry, in his infinite stupor, found this a good time to mumble, "'mnot asleep."
Malfoy froze, the fingers he'd been drumming on the side of his bed this entire time pausing mid-drum. "You've been listening?"
"Mhmm," Harry said, eloquently, still very tired, shocked that he hadn't had a nightmare yet.
Malfoy was incensed. "How could you lie and just, just listen to all my secrets like that, and, and..."
"You were talking to me," Harry said logically, finally waking up enough to open his eyes and look at the other boy.
Malfoy was livid: his face was bright red, he was scowling furiously, and one of his hands was in a fist. "You dare."
"What the fuck, Malfoy," Harry said, swinging his legs over the edge of his bed and sitting up. "There was always a chance that I'd hear, considering, oh, I don't know, that you were talking out loud to me?"
His fist still clenched, Malfoy stood abruptly, and for a second, Harry was certain that Malfoy was about to hit him. But then the moment passed, and Malfoy sat down, deflated, muttering something along the lines of, "I can't deal with hurting people any more."'
And Harry sat, shocked, until Malfoy lay down, sighing, turning his back to him. "Not a word," he said, finally, and Harry waited for him to say something else before he realised that Malfoy was actually asleep.
A week later, Harry was having another tormented dream. This one, however, didn't have the same tell-tale signs most of his nightmares did: there was another body (hard, planed, a little too skinny) so closed to his he could feel the other's heartbeat, and there was a mouth on his mouth and a thigh against his half-hard cock, and he was just opening his eyes to a very light head of hair when Malfoy shook him awake, saying, "Fuck, Potter, can't you be quieter about your nightmares?"
Harry swallowed hard, and swallowed again, because his throat was suddenly very dry. He said, "Actually, that one wasn't a nightmare," after a rather long hesitation, and sat only long enough to notice that Malfoy was blushing of all things before standing abruptly and saying, "Going for a shower."
He pushed the door open before Malfoy could respond.
The shower was hot, hotter than it should have been (Harry needed cold, really, but the warm felt so nice), and Harry leaned against a tiled corner, his head falling forward as he took his cock in his soapy hands, pulling and tugging with a vigour he hadn't had since before the final battle. The last time he'd had a wank like this, it had been Ginny in his thoughts, but considering this now didn't get him any farther toward getting off, so he settled on an anonymous body: the body from his dream. Thin lips surrounded his cock, in his fantasy, and whoever it was had a very talented tongue, and Harry was just getting up the courage to identify this fantasy (blond hair, shadowy lashes, if only he could see the eyes) when his hand slipped, and he felt himself coming, water washing the tell-tale signs of his wank away as soon as they spotted the shower tiles, water washing away the last vestiges of his memory of this dream-spawned mystery boy.
Of course, when he went back into their room, pyjamas slightly clinging to his still-damp skin, Harry realised who this person was. He didn't want to think about how, or why, or since when had Malfoy had been in his dreams like that, but as Harry looked down on the now-sleeping form, he felt a flutter of something he hadn't felt since Ginny.
The next morning (after one particularly awful nightmare where his chest monster came out and devoured everyone), Harry almost couldn't remember the night before.
Ginny left that day: Penelope deemed her 'properly rehabilitated', and so she kissed Harry and Neville on their cheeks before packing her bags and going, looking a good deal lighter than she had when she arrived. Harry chastised himself for not noticing sooner how affected she'd been and how much better she'd been becoming, and then again for not making more of an effort to help her. That night, he fell asleep and dreamed, again, that the two of them were married, and this time that he was slowly eating their children, limb by limb. The next morning, the only thing that could make him feel better was the fact that he seemed better able to focus on everything, and that everyone else was looking less troubled, no matter how small these improvements were from the beginning of the program.
Three days later, Harry woke up during a nightmare (this was one that he was rapidly beginning to classify as 'generic': Hermione was being slowly tortured to death by Bellatrix, and Harry couldn't move, couldn't do anything about it) without Malfoy's assistance. He was surprised, frankly, and looked over: the other boy was tossing and turning in his own bed, clearly asleep, and clearly troubled.
To hell with it, Harry thought. Here's someone I can help, someone I can make up for ignoring Ginny's problems with. So he put his hand on Malfoy's forehead, and took a deep breath before shaking him awake.
Malfoy jerked, and his eyes opened wide. They narrowed almost immediately. "Potter," he hissed.
"Malfoy," Harry said, as evenly as he could manage. "You were having a nightmare."
"So, you were," Harry swallowed. This was proving surprisingly hard to say. "You were right to be worried about everyone, but I was slow on catching onto it, and now I'm worried about everyone, and you're here, so I thought maybe I could help you get over your…your trauma." He prepared himself for Malfoy to laugh in his face.
Malfoy didn't. He looked thoughtful, then angry again. "It took you long enough to notice there are other people around you, Potter," he said, scornfully.
Harry took a deep breath. He was determined not to get incensed. "At least I've let myself notice," he said finally.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Malfoy asked, sitting up fast enough that Harry had to shoot back to avoid colliding with him.
"I - nothing, I just --"
"Is this your hero complex?" Malfoy asked, his voice a shade too terse to be properly curious.
"You've been talking to Hermione?" Harry asked, shooting him a glance.
This, for some reason, seemed to mollify Malfoy. "No," he said. "Weasley. The girl one. Had a lot to say. Talking seemed to keep her from thumping me."
Harry was startled into laughter. "Yeah," he said at last. "I guess this is my saving-people thing."
"It's about time," said Malfoy, and Harry took umbrage at this.
"I said before that --"
"Yes, I know what you said," Malfoy returned, his temper flaring enough to match Harry's. They stared at each other then, warily and unmoving, clenching and unclenching fists, tensions mounting as neither looked away. Suddenly, Harry couldn't take it any longer, and he blinked, and leaned ever-so-slightly forward (to what end, he couldn't tell), and --
And Malfoy was there, and they were kissing, and it was wholly startling, and Harry pulled back after a split second. "Yeah," he said again. "I'm going to. To help everyone else here. That is, if I can."
Malfoy smirked at this. "I'd like to see you try." He added something else, though, as Harry started forming fists again: "I mean, you can probably pull it off. Maybe. But I'd be better at it."
"Oh, yeah?" Harry asked, beginning to see some sort of pattern here. "Maybe I'll just help you first." And he leaned in again, and caught Malfoy's mouth in another kiss, and this time, Malfoy was kissing back, and back, and back, and pulling Harry down onto his bed, mostly on top of him, and saying something along the lines of, "I don't need your help, Potter," but his words were cut off when Harry canted his hips against Malfoy's.
Harry fell asleep again that night, after he and Malfoy had both washed themselves off and changed pyjama bottoms, and, for once, his sleep was dreamless.
post-fic A/N: Everyone in the ‘program’ in this fic is suffering some vague permutation of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Although I botched the proper causes and symptoms a bit too much for it to properly qualify as PTSD for all the characters in this, PTSD is very real.