The 12 Step Program for a Recovering Death Eater, and his mildly irritating, completely absurd friend who seems to have broken Harry Potter.

Summary: Draco doesn't believe in 12 Step programs, or any form of structured recovery attempts at all really, (because what is he bloody supposed to be recovering from exactly?) but it's apart of his sentence to pay for his part in the war. He's given 12 steps. Theo revises them. Things get slightly off course when one of the steps includes apologizing to those he's wronged, one very obvious past 'wrong' being Hermione Granger, who decidedly ignores his efforts, but he can't move on to the next bloody step until she acknowledges it, and well... basically, Draco's fucked really, which is ironically the first step, admitting that he is truly, completely fucked.

A/N: This will be a most likely be 12 chapters (one for each step), depending on how deep I want to get into the story.

Step 1: I'm Fucked

Hermione felt something burning on the side of her face, not actual burning, her hair wasn't on fire or anything, but the type of burning that tingles and demands your attention relentlessly until you give in and search for its source; which is exactly what she did... the ever curious student that she was, and what she found wasn't so much dangerous, as it was unsettling.

She glanced across the table to see Harry, completely oblivious to their small audience, hunched over his parchment and textbooks, which was an unsettling sight in it of itself, but he seemed to be trying harder this year, their do-over year, as it were; though Hermione wondered if he wasn't simply using school as a distraction from deciding to not join Ron in Auror training, or his not-so-uncomplicated blooming, yet fizzling in uncertainty of a relationship with Ginny... but more on that later, there's something much more pressing at hand, and much more... well, like she already hinted at— unsettling.

Behind Harry's right shoulder, approximately four library racks away, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, a book held so tightly in his grasp that Hermione could make out his white knuckles from where she sat near the back window, was Draco Malfoy, and standing next to him a very impatient, very bored looking Theo Nott, leaning against one the shelves, whispering something to him, and immediately rolling his eyes when Draco clipped a short response back. She couldn't hear them of course, nor did she really care to, but when Draco's gaze turned from Theo and sharpened in on her, she realized the burning feeling she felt, that tingling sensation of something being, well not quite right, like sitting to close to a fire on a winter night, was coming from his slate grey eyes focused solely on her.

Perhaps she should start by rehashing their not so delicate, not so uneventful, terribly horrific past, but honestly who has the time? Not to mention she wouldn't want to put anyone through that kind of torture, herself included. No, perhaps it was better to just skip to the part where Draco Malfoy's trial ended with him being sentenced to return to Hogwarts for his final year, to undergo mandatory evaluations of his character on a monthly check-in basis, required, but not limited to attending muggle events (it was also highly advised he spend time studying muggle history as well as befriend a few), and some other painless requirements that Hermione hadn't thought important to pay much attention to, as there were several other Death Eaters in the room, the least of her concern being the spoiled prat who bullied her relentlessly, though she definitely wasn't holding a grudge, she hardly thought of him at all...

But the most surprising of his punishments wasn't necessarily that he wasn't sent to Azkaban, but why the Wizengamot found some semblance of mercy in their usual overly political, overly unjust, entirely outdated (in Hermione's opinion at least) way of thinking. The why could be summed up in two words: Harry Potter, which if you haven't been paying attention, is her best friend. Oh, and the savior of the Wizarding World, but she felt that he was getting tired of hearing it (like he needed to be reminded). Anyway, it was what Harry said at Draco's trial, Hermione thought, that allowed the Wizengamot to be as swayed in their judgement... which now that Hermione was considering it, may have been a political strategy as well- can't have the government disagreeing with The Boy Who Lived (and saved their arses on multiple occasions even when they disregarded him and considered him a criminal) and all that... selfishly she pondered if perhaps Harry would mind allowing her to have him speak on further issues she thought needed to be adjusted in the magical world, but the thought vanished just as quickly, because—

Hermione glanced up.

Yes, Merlin... he was still starring at her.

Theo was whisper shouting, gesturing wildly with one hand towards her. Hermione continued to ignore them as she re-read the same line in her book for the fifth time, okay, maybe the sixth and wait— bullocks, this wasn't even the right chapter she was meant to review—

She felt it before she saw it, a small black, leather-bound book landing with a 'thunk' on the table right in between her and Harry's respective work spaces, and very rudely landing further on her side, on top of her book to be exact, the book with the line she had been trying to read for the past—

"A gift presented, sent with his deepest regards, Sir Malfoy, house of pretentious and sectarian beliefs, though teetering the path of redemption, mind you."

Hermione was certain her mouth was forming a sentence though for the life of her no sound was produced. She glanced from the book, eyes narrowed in confusion, then brought her attention to Theodore Nott, who was hovering behind Harry's chair, leaning forward, only an inch from Harry's now half-turned form. She watched, still in a daze, as Theo dropped his chin to look down at him, his expression had not changed from its usual look of disinterest in all things mundane, though the there was something ebbing behind his eyes that Hermione thought favored a similar look of mischief that of the Weasley twins, and then the corner of his lip twitched upward on one side.

"Potter."

The brief appearance of whatever she had believed she saw completely gone the moment he returned his attention to her.

"Disregard my interruption, and my existence as a whole if you must," Theo waved his land loftily, taking a step back, "I'm only delivering what Draco considered to be above his ability to withstand a conversation amongst those who find him disagreeable, meaning the two of you in case you were unaware... reducing my extensive set of useless skills to that of which a lowly owl could do, but I digress." He took another step to turn, tossing a casual, but hardly earnest, 'happy studying', over his shoulder.

Harry was still staring after him when Hermione glanced back down to run her fingers over the book, but Harry caught her fingers before she could.

Hermione frowned.

"Honestly, Harry? I'm certain if Malfoy intended to harm me he wouldn't do it in the middle of the day with several witnesses."

"You're right." Harry shook his head, sighing as he let go of her hand. "Habit I suppose..."

Hermione forced a small smile on her face, just to reassure him, though she could feel that familiar swelling in her chest for him; the one that reminded her that he was still struggling to adjust to their new normal. He hadn't been acting himself lately. Paranoia seemed to linger in them both in the months following the final battle, though Hermione was still logical first and foremost, and secondly curious; so she didn't hesitate to pull the book closer, replacing it with the one she had been struggling to concentrate on and searched the binding for a title.

"Odd." Hermione noted, turning it over in her hand to find there was nothing to indicate a title at all.

"What is it?" Harry, now just as intrigued, leaned across the table, smudging whatever he had been working no moments ago and getting ink all over his white Oxford. Had Hermione not been so interested in the book's contents she would have pointed out, instead she opened the front cover.

"I'm not sure it didn't have a-" A cold shiver creeped down her spine as her eyes took in the jagged loops of cursive writing, but it wasn't the form of the letters that caused her breath to become lodged deep within her throat, but what they spelled out. She swallowed the sudden remnants of fear she had hoped she would never feel again, never be reminded of again, and turned the book towards Harry. "This is Bellatrix Lestrange's personal journal."

"What?!" Harry was flipping wildly through the pages now and had it been any other book, she would have promptly yanked it back, but she was only able to blink as Harry scanned the pages, probably expecting something to leap out of the pages, or his soul to get sucked into it or something. "But why would he possibly think to give you this? Some sort of sick joke?"

"I-I'm not sure..." She bit her bottom lip nervously, the anxious fear finally simmering inside her. Bellatrix was gone. The war was over. You're safe at Hogwarts. Harry didn't die and you are going to have a normal school year for once. Facts. Repeating facts helped her in times like these, like a mantra of sorts. It worked only half the time, the other half- where she was stuck in her nightmares- well, that was a different case entirely; one she ignored, or tried to. She reached her arm across the table. "Let me take a closer look."

Hesitantly, Harry handed it over to her.

"Whatever he's playing at I don't think I'm going to like it."

Hermione paused for a moment, hearing his long sigh reminded her all too well of something, like deja vu, sixth year to be exact; except there was no tilted edge of certainty in his voice, but rather a weariness she couldn't miss. His suspicions of Malfoy then were far more aggressive, relentless even, so much so Hermione wanted to avoid her best friend just to not hear about his theories of Draco being a Death Eater, though he was right then.

Bellatrix's journal was really no journal at all, and it took Hermione a moment to consider the madwoman who had tortured her with the person who wrote in this journal. The entires were more of notes, instead of strings in her consciousness (thank goodness); notes on curses (all dark magic, no surprise there), but it still didn't explain what could possibly drive Draco Malfoy to give it to her. Eventually, she had enough trying to piece the puzzle together, as it made her remember things, certain things, that she tried desperately to escape in her nightmares and she really preferred to not invite them into the library with her at that moment, or anywhere, ever. She shut the book, shoving it in her bag.

"What? That's it?"

She shifted through her notes and replaced her previous text before her. She sighed, "What would you have me do, Harry?"

Harry said nothing, causing her to lift her gaze to his, finding him narrowing his eyes at her as if she had just grown another head.

"What?"

"Nothing..."

"No. Go on, then. You clearly disagree."

"Well, it's just-" he shifted in his seat, "-you actually. I'd imagine you reacting, a bit, i don't know, differently?"

"And how is it i'm supposed to be reacting, Harry?"

He shrugged, "Report it to McGonagall? Stalking him down and force him to tell you why he gave it to you? I don't know, something Hermione Granger like."

She understood what he was saying. She did. But after living through what they have, any reminder of it only caused her pain, and reminded her of how little things- like receiving a book from Malfoy- mattered in the grand scheme of it all. It felt significantly unimportant and if Malfoy got some twisted fulfillment out of bothering her still, then so be it, but she was done trying to force her opinions on people who clearly had no intention of actively listening to her and wanting to grow from her insight. (No, she wasn't thinking of Ronald Weasley. She wasn't thinking of how many times she tried to explain to him the importance of finishing school and how helpful it would be for him when he went to Auror training. And no, she really didn't think she wanted to be an auror or work for the Ministry at all, in fact she hadn't a clue, but she knew she wanted something different, something meaningful. And no, she hadn't stopped loving him, but long distance relationships were hardly something she wanted to focus on and maybe it would be better for them to learn who they are separately before getting into anything too serious right after such a traumatic experience. But no matter how many times she tried to explain these things Ron never listened. She learned that it wasn't because he was stubborn, but that he was seeking certainty, stability, after everything he lost. He wanted to move forward and he already knew he was, or so he said, and he wanted to be with Hermione, but if she's so unsure then, yea, maybe they shouldn't be a couple after all. Hermione knew Ron wanted to be adored, doted on, lavished with compliments, and showered with certainties that Hermione just couldn't give. Not yet. Maybe not ever? She didn't really know. Honestly, everything between her and Ron felt wrong and it had been starring her in the face ever since they kissed. Them being apart only gave her the excuse she needed to ask for space. They just didn't fit. Or at least this version of her didn't fit into what Ron wanted, needed, whatever...)

So, yes, Hermione understood what Harry was saying. The old Hermione, pre-watching people she loved died - pre-altering her parents minds to forget her - pre-war - pre-everything sad and misfortunate, that Hermione would have demanded answers from Malfoy, and at the very least informed McGonagall of the sketchy journal, but not this Hermione. This Hermione felt heavy with sorrow, and really she just wanted to get through the day with out being reminded that she was different, that Harry was too, that everything, everything was different.

Harry seemed to take the hint that he had forced her into her own mind, retreating there. He spent a lot of time letting her retreat, but staying too, like he knew she just needed a moment. His observation skills heightening where her emotions were concerned apparently.

"I'm sure it was just a way to get under your skin. Probably nothing." Harry said after a bit longer silence. "Just let me know if he tries anything, I don't know, Malfoy-like? Yea?"

Hermione nodded, forcing another reassuring smile on her face before they both returned to their studies.

It occurred to Draco early on (directly after the very first sentence leaving their instructors mouth to be exact, and by 'their' he means himself and Theo, his best mate and absolute maverick of a person, who most likely didn't need to be here, well he probably did, but no one was requiring him to, but he was here because, well, because Draco was, and probably had nothing else to do? Draco wasn't sure. And he would never openly tell him, but he was fucking glad that he was, here with him that is... but as he was saying; it occurred to him immediately that the recovery steps were designed for people who had an addiction, and Draco Malfoy, as reformed as he was attempting to be, could not remember ever being addicted to anything in his entire life. He despised things mostly, so isn't that the opposite of being addicted? Unless he was addicted to his own misery, which he was not... and, really, could someone really be made to consider how to suddenly just fucking love life?

No. The answer was no and Draco was already despising their instructor, and the stupid fucking process as a whole really— his vindication that is. Vindication— fucking waste of time. Draco knew what his problem was and it had been solved, well, mostly...

The problem, you ask? Well, the obvious being of course: the fucking Tyrant Overlord who invaded his fucking home and used him as a puppet in his very short rise to attempt to take over the world (I mean, seriously? You couldn't handle one fucking teenage boy?) and truthfully, Potter was probably a part of his problem as well, no not probably, definitely, but Draco could hardly despise him as much as he wanted to, not anymore, not after he spoke on his behalf and his mothers— fucking tosser— albeit the tosser who rid him of his first problem, Voldemort.

So, really, Draco didn't need to be here. He didn't. And the first string words out of the instructors mouth confirmed it.

"As you grow and the inevitability of life forces you to change along with it, you will always ask yourself what is my purpose, why am I here, who do I want to be, and what will my legacy be; and by the end of this 12 step process I have no doubt in my mind that you will come to terms with the path that's meant for you, that has always been meant for you... you only need the courage to take the first step."

Draco wondered if he could throw himself out the window. It was a long fall. He'd die quick. But then he remembered that Theo would probably follow him, because well, that's just Theo and he didn't want to be responsible for his death, and decided he'd have to endure the next hour and half, silencing his suicidal temptations for now.

He was high. He could tell by the way he was no longer concerned with the long drop below them from where they lounged on one of the secret rooftops on one of the half rebuilt towers. It was a perfect night, weather-wise, warm out, but a perfect breeze to keep them from sweating through their school uniform. Theo had brought him here their first night returning to Hogwarts. Draco didn't question how he found it, or how it always seemed to be vacant whenever they seemed to need it to blow off a few hours, or (more often) couldn't sleep. The half destroyed rooftop, for lack of a better word, could also be described at a balcony with no railings. It was always thrilling, Draco thought, laying near the ledge and letting his foot dangle dangerously close. Above them stretched a million stars and it was nice. Really nice. Much better than being in a stuffy common room filled with people who wanted him to die a sudden death, or murder him themselves. He didn't blame them. Not really. He'd fucked up, a lot. Speaking of fucking up...

"What's this?" Draco asked, passing Theo's preferred form of therapy (a joint - don't ask what herbs were in it - Theo wouldn't tell you and Draco was almost certain it was because he probably didn't know or care to know - and just fucking smoke it or don't Draco, it's entirely your choice) to Theo as he shoved a piece of parchment towards him. He glazed over Theo's neatly written notes on the back of what Draco recognized as the pamphlet they received from their instructor earlier that day.

"A necessary revision." Theo explained casually, leaning backwards until he was laying flat once more, bringing the joint to his lips and exhaling.

Draco smirked, scanning over the improved 12 step program that they had been forced to listen to earlier by their instructor, let's call him Sullivan, because Draco really didn't remember and he probably wouldn't anytime soon. Sullivan had gone over the 12 steps for them, but Theo's were put into a language Draco could actually understand. It didn't make it any less unbearable, thinking of the torture he would have to be put through, logging all the shitty interactions and his progress, but Recovery, or whatever...

Theo's Fucking 12 Steps: A Revision

Step 1: I'm Fucked

Step 2: There Might Be a Way Out Of This Fucking Mess

Step 3: Decide to Level the Fuck Up

Step 4: Take a good hard look at how fucked up I am

Step 5: Tell someone else about all the fucked up stuff i've been through

Step 6: Prepare to stop being such a fuck up

Step 7: Try to stop acting so fucked up

Step 8: Make a list of everyone I fucked over

Step 9: Swallow my fucking pride and tell them I really fucked up, except when doing so would fuck them harder

Step 10: Keep an eye on my fucked up thinking and behavior

Step 11: Chill the fuck out Sometimes

Step 12: Help the next poor fucker that walks through the door

"Step 4 doesn't seem difficult as I accomplish it on a daily basis." Draco noted, continuing down the list. Theo hummed in response, passing the joint back to him. "You know what this revised list tells me?"

"I'm eager to find out."

Draco laughed, as Theo sounded anything but eager. That was the only part of being high that Draco didn't like. He really didn't have control over the shit that came out of his mouth and his brain seemed to think more than necessarily comfortable for him.

"It tells me," Draco took a drag, coughed a little and handed the last bit of the blunt back for Theo to finish off. "That you were actually paying attention to the fucking nonsense that idiot Sullivan was saying. You would have had to have some idea what he was inferring with his 12 step bollocks, unless..." Draco turned to Theo, who only tilted his head to the side opening one eye to acknowledge him. "...you've already been through this bullshit and forgot to tell me you were sent to recovery."

"Wouldn't you like to know."

Draco leaned back to lay next to him, bringing the list of steps with him to continue going over them. "I prefer when you keep your mystery bits to yourself. For the most part. You know, unless you're internally considering jumping off this ledge right now, then definitely tell me so I can prepare your eulogy."

Theo scoffed, "Unlikely."

Draco frowned up at the sky, "Which part? You jumping off the ledge or my ability to write you a fucking brilliant eulogy? Because I assure you, it will be so good that you'll wish you were still alive to hear it."

"I was referring to the concept as a whole, specifically funerals, and the absurdity of having one." Theo tilted his head to look at his friend's less than understanding expression. "Tell me, Draco... who do you expect your brilliant words to fall on? Hm?" When Draco said nothing Theo brought his arm behind his head to stare up at the stars once more, releasing an amused sigh. "My point is made."

Draco turned away too, considering his words and for the life of him Draco honestly couldn't think of one person who would come to Theo's funeral. Which then, being the selfish wanker that he was, made him think of his own, and really would anyone besides Theo and his mother show? Maybe she'd bring a house elf.

"Fuck funerals."

"Fuck funerals." Theo murmured with the blunt now hanging from his lips.

"Who needs to be remembered anyway? What's the point?"

Just as he said this a rush of wind brushed over them, bringing Theo's revised steps to firmly slap him in the face, and it should have been obvious to Draco, but at the time it wasn't - his eyes being forced to read Step 1... I'm fucked.

Irony is never funny. Irony is usually the truth, but altered in a way you're forced to recognize it as such and Draco was a firm believer in not recognizing much of anything if he could help it.