Chapter Text
May 2024 marked Draco Malfoy’s life with a stain that even he had not foreseen in his darkest nightmares. During one of his missions, while acting on behalf of the wizarding world, he was noticed by Muggles while casting spells. A lack of preparation and a convergence of fatal circumstances led to him being deemed a dangerous criminal. Under the false documents he carried for the duration of the mission, with the identity of Darius Mayfour assigned to him, he was locked in a Muggle psychiatric hospital, where no one had any right to suspect the presence of a wizard. From the first days of his stay among white walls and metal beds, he constantly repeated that he was a wizard. He demanded the return of his wand, assured them that he would prove his power, that he was, in truth, wealthy and powerful. These words, instead of prompting reflection, only strengthened the staff’s conviction that they were dealing with a patient suffering from dangerous delusional disorders. He was chained to a bed, and then they began administering strong medication. These substances dulled his mind, suppressed his anger, but also imprisoned his magic, as though an invisible Muggle barrier had clung to him. Attempts to reach for spells ended in emptiness; magic did not respond, as if it had renounced its owner. For an entire year, the wizarding world searched for the missing Malfoy. Kidnapping, betrayal, even death were suspected. The Ministry of Magic conducted intensive investigations, but every trail ended as if cut by a knife. No one, neither his friends nor his enemies, would have thought that Draco, head of the Malfoy family, was rotting behind the bars of a Muggle psychiatric hospital, deemed mentally ill and dangerous to those around him.
Only on September 22, 2025, did fate decide to open the door behind which Draco remained imprisoned. That day, a new employee appeared at the hospital, a young Polish woman, Paulina Jagitka. She had recently graduated in psychology and was just beginning her first serious job. Full of energy, with a little stage fright, she arrived in the morning, ready to learn the rhythm of everyday life in a place where, as it seemed to her, the human mind was the greatest mystery. She was being shown around by Sarah Montana, the hospital’s chief psychologist, a woman with a strong gaze and the tired eyes of someone who had spent fifteen years listening to human dramas and colliding with pain that could not be seen on the skin. Sarah knew the corridors and patients of this place like the back of her hand; she knew where anger hid, where melancholy lay, and where dangerous mania lurked. They walked together through long, sterile corridors smelling of disinfectants. Metal doors marked with numbers passed one after another. Sarah spoke in a calm but firm voice, pointing out the next rooms.
— Here we have patients with anxiety disorders, here depressive disorders. Further on, we isolate people who pose a threat. — She explained, stopping from time to time by a small window through which one could look inside. — We deal not only with therapy, but also with these people’s daily functioning. It is hard work, Paulina, requiring patience and a strong psyche.
The new psychologist nodded, absorbing every word. Although she felt excited, she had the impression that this place concealed something more than just illnesses, something dark, hidden behind a mask of routine. Suddenly Sarah stopped and turned toward her, and a flash of warning appeared in her eyes.
— And remember, Paulina… — She began slowly, almost in a whisper, as though she wanted those words to sink deep into the young woman’s heart. — Some patients can be extraordinarily charming. They may say things that stir your imagination. You are young, sensitive. Do not let them get to you. Never fall in love with a patient. It is the worst thing you can do to yourself in this place.
Paulina felt a shiver, though she could not explain why. Her gaze drifted toward the next doors, toward the rooms where human secrets and tragedies were hidden. She did not yet know that behind one of them waited someone she should never have met… and yet their fates were to become inextricably intertwined. Sarah Montana continued down the corridor, the click of her heels echoing off the white, sterile walls. Paulina walked a step behind her, listening carefully to every word of her superior. The familiar, suffocating smell of disinfectants forced its way into her nostrils, so characteristic of hospital spaces, and from behind steel doors, muffled voices of patients could be heard from time to time.
— Good, let us keep going. — Sarah spoke in a professional tone, though there was still a note of warmth in it, the kind she reserved for new employees. — To start with, you will take care of two rooms. That means two patients under your direct psychological care.
Paulina nodded, trying to hide both her excitement and the growing tension.
— It will not be an easy task. — The older woman continued. — Both men suffer from very strong, dangerous delusional disorders.
They stopped in front of the first door. Sarah placed her hand on the cold metal and looked the young psychologist in the eyes.
— Your first patient is Mr. Andrew Merryweather — she began, pronouncing the surname with a slight sigh. — He… claims to be something like a Spider-Man, in short. Do not be frightened by his appearance, he has undergone several plastic surgeries to resemble a spider at least partially. The skin of his face bears traces of painful grafts, and his hands are full of scars from experiments he performed on himself. His family tolerated this obsession until the attacks began. He would bite other men, and sometimes even women, convinced that he was “turning them into his own.”
Paulina swallowed, imagining a patient with spider-like dreams and the marks of his own choices on his body.
— Andrew often speaks of his “spider army.” — Sarah added, glancing through the narrow window in the door as if she wanted to make sure the man was not listening. — He can be extremely convincing in that world.
They moved on, and the atmosphere thickened with every step.
— The second patient... — Sarah stopped in front of the next door and sighed heavily. — Is Mr. Darius Mayfour. This man has claimed for over a year that he is a wizard.
Paulina raised her eyebrows, not quite knowing whether the words she had heard were meant as a joke or a fact.
— He believes he possesses a wand. — The older woman’s voice hardened. — In fact, when he was brought here, something like a wooden stick was found on him, which, of course, was confiscated. Besides, it is not only declarations; witnesses claimed that the man had a fit of rage during which he was “throwing something glowing” and making objects move on their own. According to our notes, those were merely fireworks.
Paulina felt a shiver pass down her back.
— You know, they even called an exorcist for him... — Sarah smiled crookedly, a note of irony in her tone. — At first, many people swore that chairs and cabinets moved by themselves. But after an inspection, it turned out those were simply vibrations caused by renovation work on another floor. — The older woman laughed quietly, as though the memory seemed particularly amusing to her. — Mr. Mayfour has been with us for over a year now. — She added, and a note of weariness sounded in her voice, as if the matter was already far too familiar to her. — The first visits with both patients will take place in my presence. For now, they are on strong medication, in large doses, so they will not hurt you. But remember, Paulina, never forget the safety measures. In this place, that is rule number one.
Paulina nodded. Her heart was beating faster than usual, and in her thoughts appeared the first quiet doubt: did she really understand what she was getting herself into? She did not yet know that behind the doors they had just passed hid someone who would change her life forever.
After lunch, when the hospital corridors filled with the sound of trays being moved aside and the quiet murmur of staff preparing patients for their afternoon medication, Sarah Montana decided it was the right moment for Paulina’s first meeting with her charges.
— We will start with Mr. Merryweather — She announced matter-of-factly, walking down the corridor and clicking her heels against the polished linoleum. — He is relatively calm today, and that is always a good sign.
Paulina walked just behind her, trying not to reveal her own nervousness. The sharp smell of disinfectants forced its way into her nostrils, and from behind the doors of the rooms came individual voices, murmurs, whispers, sometimes laughter. The impression was overwhelming, as though each of these rooms concealed its own sealed world. They stood before a heavy door with a small barred window. Sarah knocked twice, then led Paulina inside. The room was modest: a metal bed covered with a thin blanket, a bedside table with a plastic cup, and a chair by the wall. On the windowsill stood an empty plastic jar that might once have served as a vessel for water. On the bed sat a thin man with hollow cheeks. His face, furrowed with scars and unnaturally stretched after plastic procedures, stirred mixed feelings; there was something inhuman in it, as if someone had tried to carve a hybrid out of a man. His eyes were wide open, dark, and his gaze drilled into Paulina’s unfamiliar figure.
— Mr. Merryweather. — Sarah spoke in a polite but firm tone. — This is Paulina Jagitka, the new psychologist on our team. From today, she will also be working with you.
The man tilted his head, and a grimace appeared on his lips, meant to be a smile, but resembling more the baring of fangs by an animal.
— New? — He growled reluctantly. — I do not need new ones. I already have my squad, my army.
Paulina felt her heart quicken, but she forced herself to remain calm.
— I would like to get to know you and talk. — She spoke quietly, but clearly.
Merryweather snorted.
— Talk… — He repeated, as if tasting the word. — And what could you know about life on spider lines, about fighting in the air? You do not look like someone who understands what it is like to have s eyes and eight brothers ready to fight at my command.
Sarah gave Paulina a knowing look. These were Merryweather’s typical delusions, returning like a refrain.
— Mr. Merryweather has an exceptionally vivid imagination. — She commented calmly, though her tone carried the experience of someone who had heard similar words thousands of times. — Please remember, Paulina, never to try to mock him or directly deny his reality. That only provokes him.
The man rested his elbows on his knees and fixed his gaze on Paulina.
— If you want to be part of my army, you must prove your loyalty — he said seriously. — And if not… well, spiders have no mercy for traitors.
Paulina felt a cold shiver run along her spine. But she gathered her courage and nodded, not taking her eyes off the patient. Sarah raised an eyebrow, as if she wanted to say: “you are doing well.” Merryweather, however, suddenly turned toward the wall, as if the entire conversation had lost meaning.
— I do not like this change. — He muttered. — My web was perfect, and now someone is meddling with it.
Paulina remained silent, feeling that this was the right moment not to press. She understood one thing: this would not be an easy patient.
— That is enough for today. — Sarah concluded, placing a hand on Paulina’s shoulder and gently guiding her toward the door. — With Mr. Merryweather, patience and consistency are needed. Remember that.
When the door closed behind them, Paulina let out the air from her lungs, which she had not even noticed she had been holding. She did not yet know that the true challenge was waiting for her in the room marked with the name Darius Mayfour. The door to Mr. Merryweather’s room closed with a metallic clang, and Paulina felt relief growing in her chest, though her hands were still slightly damp with tension. For a moment, both women walked down the corridor in silence, wrapped in the smell of disinfectants and the distant, monotonous echo of patients’ voices coming from behind the doors. Wanting to break the silence and at the same time organize her thoughts, Paulina looked at her superior.
— Doctor… — She began cautiously. — Would… would it be worth familiarizing myself with knowledge about arachnids? I mean, perhaps then it would be easier to reach Mr. Merryweather. To understand his world.
At the very thought of spiders, she wanted to recoil instinctively; for as long as she could remember, they had awakened an instinctive fear and disgust in her, but she did not want that to hold her back in her work. Sarah Montana slightly raised an eyebrow and slowed her pace. Her gaze took on a shade in which surprise mingled with something like appreciation.
— That is… an interesting approach — she answered after a moment, clasping her hands behind her back. — Most beginner psychologists would prefer to distance themselves from such threads as quickly as possible, treating them as ordinary delusions. You, however, want to enter his world. That is a good trait. — Paulina breathed out quietly, not hiding that the words had lifted her spirits. — But you must remember. — Sarah added in a sharper tone. — That it is a very thin line. If you go in too deep, you may become part of his delusions. And then, instead of a therapist, you become a victim in his “web.” Do you understand?
— I understand. — Paulina replied at once, though a note of uncertainty trembled in her voice.
They passed more doors, some marked with red warning symbols, others quiet and almost impersonal. The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly.
— Knowledge about arachnids may be useful to you, yes. — The older woman continued, as though she had thought the matter through. — It will show him that you are trying to listen to him, that you treat his world with respect. Sometimes that is the first step toward getting a patient to open up more. But do not delude yourself, Paulina, it will not make him recover. It is only a bridge by which you will be able to reach him. A bridge that can collapse at any moment.
Paulina nodded. Conflicting thoughts swirled in her head, from revulsion at the mere idea of looking through books about spiders to determination to truly give her best for the patient’s sake.
— I will try. — She said quietly, but with a note of resolve. Sarah smiled briefly, with the corner of her mouth.
— Good. That means you have a heart for this work. But be on your guard, Paulina. This place can change a person. And now… — her voice suddenly hardened as they approached the next door. — It is time to meet Mr. Mayfour.
Paulina felt her stomach tighten into a knot. She did not yet know that behind these doors waited not another patient, but the beginning of a story that would change everything. As they approached the next door, Sarah Montana visibly slowed her pace. Her gaze became heavier, as though she were weighing the words that were about to fall.
— I must warn you, Paulina. — She spoke in a low voice full of seriousness. — Mr. Mayfour… has a very strong personal charm.
Paulina frowned, surprised by such a remark.
— Several nurses have already sighed over him. — The older psychologist continued. — He is an extraordinarily intelligent man; besides, from the very first conversation, one can sense that he knows how to observe people and use their weaknesses. As soon as he senses that someone is yielding to him… he will try to use it. — She sighed quietly, as though weary of having to repeat the same warning to new employees. — One of the nurses... — She said with resignation. — Was even caught in sexual contact with him. Of course, she was dismissed immediately. It was a scandal that still echoes through these corridors.
Paulina felt her cheeks gently burn, but she tried to sound matter-of-fact.
— And if… he tried to initiate something similar with me? — She asked cautiously. — How should I push him away without destroying the entire therapeutic process?
Sarah looked at her with slight appreciation, as though the question testified to a professional approach, but in her eyes there also smoldered a note of compassion.
— It is difficult, Paulina. In such situations, the key is to keep a cool head. Firmly interrupt the contact, not with shouting, not with panic, but with a clear, distinct “no.” If he tries to go further, do not hesitate to use the alarm bell. Your safety comes above everything else, even above therapy. A patient who crosses boundaries must be given clear rules. — They walked a few steps, and Sarah added something else, this time in a more confidential tone. — And prepare yourself for one more thing. In our hospital… unfortunately, many patients are caught masturbating. It is more common than you might think. Worse still, sometimes they choose such moments for it so that someone will enter their room: cleaning staff, a doctor, a nurse. It is a form of provocation, sometimes an attempt to draw attention.
Paulina felt a cold shiver run down her back.
— What should I do in such a situation? — She asked quietly.
Sarah shrugged, as if the matter were an obvious part of the job.
— Always check first. Before you enter, crack the door open, knock, give the patient a few seconds. If you notice… that he is engaged in the activity, close the door and wait. You can come back later, when he is calmer. And if the provocation is blatant, then you record it in the documentation. It is unpleasant, I know, but it is part of this work.
Paulina listened in silence, trying to remember every word. On the one hand, she was grateful for the honesty; on the other, she felt the weight of the experiences the older woman was speaking about.
— Most importantly. — Sarah summed up, stopping in front of the door with the name Darius Mayfour. — Never let a patient pull you into his game. However charming he may seem.
Paulina took a deep breath. This was to be her first meeting with a man whose existence, until now, had been only an entry in a file for her. She did not yet know that in a moment she would look into the eyes of someone who was no ordinary patient, and that from this meeting, an entirely new story would begin. The heavy door of the room marked with the name Darius Mayfour opened with a quiet creak. Inside, semi-darkness reigned; only one window admitted the pale light of a September afternoon. The room was almost ascetic: a metal bed, a chair, a table, and bare walls whose whiteness seemed even colder in the contrasting light. Paulina entered carefully behind Sarah Montana, trying not to draw attention to herself. Her heart was beating faster, her hands were cold, and questions swirled in her mind: “What does he look like? Is he truly that dangerous? Is it true that he can enchant people with a single glance?” By the window, with his back to them, stood a man. It was immediately apparent that he was extraordinarily tall; his silhouette stood out with confidence and pride, as though, despite months of confinement, he still maintained an aristocratic posture. His shoulders were broad, his back straight, and the way he held his hands clasped behind him betrayed cold control.
— You are almost late, Doctor. — He spoke suddenly, not turning his head. His voice was deep, calm, but underlaid with a note of irony. Then he took a distinct, deeper breath. — Have you changed your perfume?
Paulina felt something tighten in her throat. “But he has not even looked!” He had not turned his head, and yet he had immediately sensed the scent. And she knew perfectly well what he could smell: the characteristic mixture of her favorite perfume, fruity and warm, like a mystery that could not easily be deciphered. Sarah Montana crossed her arms over her chest and cleared her throat.
— Mr. Mayfour, today I am not alone. — She said in a matter-of-fact tone, without a shadow of emotion.
The man slowly turned away from the window. The light fell on his face, noble, sharply outlined, with a shadow of fatigue and the pallor of someone who had spent long months locked away. His eyes, pale grey and penetrating, settled on the young woman standing beside Sarah. Paulina felt him measure her with his gaze from head to toe. She was plump, she did not fit into the canon of idealized beauty that often appeared in magazines or advertisements. And yet there was sincerity and warmth lurking in her green eyes, and in her slight smile an uncertainty that, paradoxically, gave her charm. “She is not my type.” Draco thought, narrowing his eyes slightly. “And yet… there is something different about her. She is not playing with a mask. She is not afraid to enter the room, though she feels fear. And she smells different from all the rest... that scent... Sweet, and yet heavy. Strangely familiar. Merlin, what is happening here?” Paulina swallowed and gathered her courage.
— My name is Paulina Jagitka. — She introduced herself calmly, though inside everything in her trembled. — From today, I will be handling your therapy, together with Doctor Montana.
Sarah nodded, emphasizing her words.
— Yes, Mr. Mayfour. — She added, standing beside the young psychologist. — Paulina has been with us since today. She will be conducting regular meetings with you, of course under my supervision at the beginning.
Draco lifted his chin slightly, and his gaze returned to Paulina once more. “New. Young. She does not yet know what she is taking on. I sense hesitation in her eyes, but also… something else. She does not look at me like a madman. Not like a dangerous patient who must be kept on medication. She looks as though she is trying to understand. And that is precisely what is most dangerous.” A shadow of a smile appeared on his lips, not mocking, not cold, but mysterious, as though even then he was planning how to play this game of chess. “Perhaps… thanks to her, I will finally get out of here.” The thought appeared in Draco’s mind like a flash, quick, intrusive, and at the same time tempting. He saw before him a young woman whose gaze was not indifferent. It did not conceal hostility or ostentatious fear. On the contrary, he noticed in her eyes a delicate warmth, underlaid with uncertainty, which set her apart from the rest of the staff.
— Paulina Jagitka. — He repeated slowly, as though tasting her name on his tongue. — It sounds foreign… not English. Where are you from? — He asked in a polite, almost conversational tone, though a subtle note of challenge sounded in his voice.
Paulina lifted her chin, trying to sound confident, even though she felt the weight of his gaze, pale, piercing, as if it were penetrating into the depths of herself.
— From Poland. — She replied calmly. — But I do not think that is relevant in the context of our conversation.
A barely visible shadow of a smile appeared on Draco’s lips.
— On the contrary. — He threw back. — Every detail is relevant, Miss Psychologist. Especially for someone trying to… recognize an opponent on the chessboard.
His gesture was subtle, barely noticeable. He slid his hand along the metal windowsill, brushing the cold surface with his fingers as though testing her reaction to small, insignificant movements. Paulina felt that he was analyzing her every gesture, her way of breathing, even the way she nervously tightened her hands around her notebook.
— So we are opponents? — She asked, wanting to divert attention somewhat from her own nervousness.
— Of course. — He answered without hesitation. — You want to change me and I have not the slightest desire to change. It is a classic game.
Paulina did not have time to react, because at that moment Sarah Montana interjected in a sharp tone, as if she wanted to cut the invisible thread that had begun to tie itself between the patient and her charge.
— Mr. Mayfour. — She cut in. — Miss Jagitka is here to help you. Please do not treat therapy like a game.
Draco slowly turned his head toward Sarah, and then back to Paulina. The smile on his face did not disappear; on the contrary, it intensified, though it remained subtle.
— In that case, please forgive me, Doctor. — He replied with feigned politeness. — I have the impression that it is not I who treat this like a game, but all of you. Only I am the one standing on the side of the pawn that has no right to move.
Paulina felt a strange pang in her heart. His words were sharp, but they sounded painfully true. His intelligence emanated from every sentence, and his gaze… hypnotized. She could not look away, as though an invisible force held her in check. “Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.” She thought, and she already knew that this therapy would be unlike any other. Draco, to them Darius Mayfour, raised an eyebrow slightly, not taking his eyes off Paulina.
— Since this is not a game... — He said slowly, as though weighing every word. — Then why does every conversation look like an interrogation? You ask, I answer. You write, I explain myself. And if I try to ask a question… — He paused, shrugging. — Then you call it manipulation.
Sarah Montana straightened, and routine firmness sounded in her voice.
— Mr. Mayfour, therapeutic conversations are governed by their own rules. We must take care of structure and safety. — She replied. — This is not about interrogation. It is about your well-being.
Draco gave a quiet snort, though it was not a sign of amusement.
— My well-being? — He repeated mockingly. — In that case, please tell me, Doctor, is taking away from a man everything that makes him himself, his freedom, identity, even objects that have value to him, also care for his well-being?
Paulina felt her heart accelerate. There was not only anger in those words, there was despair and the pride of someone who would never become accustomed to the role of prisoner.
— I understand that this is difficult. — She spoke gently, before she managed to stop the impulse. — But that is precisely why I am here. I would like us to… try to communicate.
Draco shifted his gaze to her. His pale eyes narrowed, as if he were examining how much sincerity there was in her voice, and how much learned, professional empathy.
— So the new psychologist is not afraid to talk to a monster? — He asked coldly, though a shadow of a provoking smile danced at the corners of his mouth.
— We are not here to call anyone a monster. — Sarah Montana cut in sharply, immediately taking the initiative. — Miss Jagitka will have sessions with you, but in my presence, and please remember that I set the boundaries of these meetings.
Draco tilted his head back, and his gaze darkened for a moment. Then, however, he glanced again at Paulina, as if her presence were an interesting variation in the monotonous sequence of days.
— In that case… I await our next conversation. — He murmured, and in his voice sounded a note that Paulina could not decipher: a promise, a challenge, or a warning?
Sarah Montana decided it was the right moment to end the meeting.
— That is enough for today. — She said firmly, taking Paulina lightly by the elbow and guiding her toward the door.
Paulina followed her, but as the metal doors closed with a heavy clang, she allowed herself one last brief glance through the narrow gap. Draco was still standing upright by the window, and his eyes, pale and cold, followed her until the very end. The corridor suddenly seemed brighter, though the air in it was thick with the smell of disinfection. Paulina remained silent, feeling that she had to calm her own breathing. Sarah looked at her out of the corner of her eye.
— And what are your impressions? — She asked, this time without a trace of irony. Paulina hesitated.
— He is… different. Intelligent. Too intelligent to treat like an ordinary patient. It is… overwhelming.
Sarah nodded, as though she had expected exactly that.
— That is precisely why you must be careful. — She said quietly. — He tests everyone who enters his room. With a word, a look, a gesture. It will be no different with you. And if you give him even a little space, he will try to use it.
Paulina listened, but she still had before her eyes those pale eyes and the voice in which pride and rebellion trembled at the same time. She felt that this therapy would be the greatest challenge of her career. As both women passed the next turns of the corridors, Paulina finally dared to speak. There was a slight note of amusement in her voice, though it was clearly underlaid with tension.
— Well… for my first job and my first patients, you certainly did not choose anything easy for me. — She stated half-jokingly, adding a quiet laugh that was meant to defuse the atmosphere. Sarah Montana turned her face toward her, and a shadow of a smile appeared on her lips.
— If you manage with them, you will manage with most. — She replied calmly, with the certainty characteristic of experienced mentors. — That is why I always follow the principle that it is better to throw someone into deep water. Then I know at once whether they can cope or not.
Paulina lightly bit her lip.
— So I am… an experiment?
Sarah laughed briefly.
— Call it a test, rather. I saw how you looked at Merryweather. You did not look away, though most new ones cannot withstand his delusions about the “spider army.” And I saw how you reacted to Mayfour. You did not panic, even though he tried to test you. That is a good sign.
Paulina sighed quietly, feeling her shoulders slowly relax.
— It was… harder than I thought. His gaze… is like… hypnosis.
— I know. — Sarah replied in a tone that carried a note of warning. — That is exactly his strength. But also the greatest trap. Remember: you are not his friend, you are not a victim of his charm. You are his therapist. And you must remember that every second.
Paulina nodded. She felt her superior’s words sink deep into her.
— Until the end of the week, I will be with you at every visit. — Sarah added, slowing her step to look the young woman straight in the eyes. — But from next week, you will manage on your own. Of course, we will consult; without that, it will not work. You can always come to me with a question or doubt.
Paulina felt fear mingle with excitement inside her. She was fresh out of university, and already someone was giving her such an enormous challenge and… trust.
— Thank you. — She said sincerely. — I will try not to disappoint you.
Sarah nodded, and in her gaze appeared something Paulina had not expected: a shadow of pride.
— I believe you will manage. — She said. — But remember, Paulina. It is not only the patients who test you. You also test yourself.
When they reached the door leading to the psychologists’ office, Paulina had the impression that the world around her had changed its shade. She already knew it would not be an ordinary job. This place would put her to the test, and she herself had to decide who she would truly become at the end of this road.
♦
The door closed with a metallic slam, and the echo of its sound spread through the empty room. Draco still stood by the window, upright, with his hands clasped behind his back. In the air, there still lingered a delicate scent of perfume, sweet, exotic, fruity, and at the same time heavy and unsettling. It smelled of her. The new one. The one who had dared to look him straight in the eyes, not like at a sick man, but like at a human being. “Paulina Jagitka.” He repeated her name in his thoughts, tasting the foreignness of its sound. “A Polish woman. Unassuming, plump, too soft in her movements, too sincere in her gaze. And precisely for that reason, so dangerous. Something new. And novelty in this place… is the only thing that can still save me from madness.” He turned away from the window and sat on the hard bed. The metal creaked under his weight. He rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, head bowed. “Over a year. Over a year in this Muggle prison. I barely remember the first months… Only emptiness. Those medicines of theirs... dulling, strong, as if someone had sucked the magic and thoughts out of me. And then… then they changed the dosage. They called it a ‘reward’ for good behavior. Pathetic.” He closed his eyes, and memories came on their own. The common room, stinking of sweat and disinfectant. A television hanging under the ceiling, patients with empty gazes gathered around it. At first, he paid no attention to those flickering images. Muggle films were nothing more than background noise to him. Until one day… A film about children at Hogwarts. Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. At first, he thought it was another delusion, a hallucination caused by the medication. But the images were too coherent, too real. His world. His people. Names, spells, events. Muggles sat staring at the screen, moved by a story that, for him, was reality. “Our story. Sold as entertainment.” Later, he learned that it was not only films, that books existed. An entire series, and that they were everywhere. Muggles read them to children at bedtime, memorized names and events that had truly taken place. Thanks to the weakness of several nurses, those naive ones, easy to manipulate, he obtained all the volumes. He read them at night, hiding from the watchful eyes of the guards. He discovered that the Ministry of Magic must have covered up an enormous leak. Someone, somewhere, had written down the entire story, and the Muggle world had swallowed it like a young adult fairy tale. “That is why no one believed me when I said I was Draco Malfoy.” His thought was bitter, heavy as lead. “Because the Muggles already had a Malfoy. A character from a book. From a film. A fictional hero. And me? I am, to them, a madman who believed in fairy tales.” He remembered that day. The first attack of fury. The book had fallen from his hands, and he himself had fallen into a rage he could not control. He threw chairs, shouted, begged for his wand, for proof. He shouted that all of it was true. The staff called it a “psychotic episode.” Before he lost consciousness after another dose of medication, he was taken to isolation, a room without windows, lined with soft walls so he could not hurt himself. He breathed deeply, trying to calm his pulsing temples.
— Pathetic… — He whispered into the empty room. His voice bounced off the walls. — The world they made out of our reality, they sold like a toy. And I am rotting here. — He raised his head and looked at the door, as if he could still see her silhouette behind it. A warm smile, nervousness, and yet courage. — Paulina Jagitka. — He repeated aloud, almost like a spell. — Perhaps you are my chance. Perhaps thanks to you, I will finally get out of here.
He smiled bitterly, lying down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. “I will play this game. Let them think it is only therapy. And I will find a way out in it.”
♦
The psychologists’ office was located in a side wing of the hospital, away from the patients’ rooms, where the sounds of closing doors and echoes of screams did not reach so clearly. The interior was austere, but friendlier than the rest of the building: a sturdy desk, several armchairs, shelves full of binders and documentation. In the window, instead of bars, hung an ordinary cream-colored blind. For Paulina, it was like a breath, a substitute for normality after a heavy day. She sat at the desk, with two thick patient files before her. She still felt on her skin the echo of that gaze, the pale eyes of Mr. Mayfour, which seemed to pierce her through. She still remembered Mr. Merryweather’s grimace, his “web” in which he wanted to catch her. “They really did not choose easy first patients for me...” She thought with a slight, nervous laugh. She opened the first file, Andrew Merryweather’s. On top lay a photograph: an emaciated face, furrowed with scars, with stretched, unnatural skin after plastic surgeries. Paulina involuntarily felt a pang in her stomach, but she forced herself to turn the next pages. Medical history: obsession with spiders, self-harm in the name of “transformation,” attacks of aggression, biting other patients, delusions about a “spider army.” “Spider army…” She thought with disgust, because she herself had hated spiders since childhood. “I must reach for literature, learn the symbolism, the behavior of arachnids. Perhaps thanks to that I will be able to establish a thread of understanding. If I enter his world, perhaps he will feel that someone is truly listening to him.” She wrote that thought in her notebook, though the very idea of leafing through books about spiders made her shiver. Then she reached for the second file, Darius Mayfour’s. The very thickness of the records suggested that this patient required exceptional attention. The photograph inside showed a tall, handsome man with aristocratic features and a cold gaze. In the documentation it was written: Delusional disorder — patient claims he is a wizard. Attempts to manipulate staff. Personal charm. High intelligence quotient. Tendency toward violent outbursts of anger. Extraordinary incidents — alleged “throwing of luminous objects.” Paulina raised her eyebrows as she read further notes. An exorcist called during one of his attacks. Rumors about “moving objects.” Then an addition in the documentation: “Phenomena explained — vibrations caused by renovation on the floor above.” A note in a doctor’s hand, as though someone had found a logical explanation with relief. “But are we sure…?” A quiet, dangerous thought appeared in her head. She shook her head, trying to drive it away.
— The patient is not a miracle worker. — She said to herself under her breath, as if she had to speak the words aloud in order to believe them.
And yet she felt the weight of his gaze even now, when she was alone. His words, his tone, the way he had immediately sensed the scent of her perfume… As though he read her more than she should allow. She closed her eyes for a moment, organizing her thoughts. “A plan. I need a plan. For Merryweather: try to learn his world. Understand, not mock, not deny, but also not allow him to pull her into his web. Build a bridge, and then, step by step, try to restore his contact with reality. For Mayfour… here the matter was more difficult. Intelligence and personal charm meant that ordinary techniques might prove insufficient. I must be vigilant. Clear boundaries, firmness, consistency. And distance.” Because she felt that the smallest hesitation could be used. She sighed, closing both files.
— It will not be easy. — She whispered to herself. — But perhaps that is exactly why I am here.
She knew this was the beginning. And deep in her heart, she felt that one of these patients would change her life more than she was ready to admit. Paulina moved through the next pages of Darius Mayfour’s file. The notes were extensive: dates, incident reports, doctors’ recommendations, and among them short, chaotic notes written in different handwriting. She stopped at one addition, scribbled as if in haste: “He calls himself Draco Malfoy. He wants to be addressed that way. Claims that Darius Mayfour is only an alias for a mission among Muggles.” Paulina froze. She ran her fingers over the ink, as though she wanted to make sure she was seeing correctly. Draco Malfoy. Her heart beat faster. That name was too familiar, too rooted in her own memories to pass over it as if nothing had happened. Of course she knew who Draco Malfoy was. She had read the entire Harry Potter series, more than once or twice. She had watched all the films, many times, breathless. She was a fan, a huge one, perhaps even an obsessive one in her teenage years. Posters, quotes, her own notes and fanfics. Draco Malfoy, the Slytherin with the cold gaze, was for her an exceptional figure, ambiguous, tragic, fascinating. She lifted her eyes from the file and looked toward the wardrobe standing by the wall. From its doors protruded a fragment of green-and-silver fabric. Her scarf, a gift from a friend from years ago, once bought in a merchandise shop. With the Slytherin crest embroidered on it, a proud serpent surrounded by silver. Beside it, on a hanger, hung an old denim jacket. She still remembered how she had worn it in high school, with a Hogwarts pin on her chest. An involuntary, uncertain smile appeared on her lips.
“This is impossible.” She thought feverishly. “It is only a coincidence. After all, it is fiction. Books. Films. Characters created for children and teenagers.” And yet deep inside she felt a strange pressure, as if someone had suddenly opened a door that had remained closed for years.
“He says Darius Mayfour is only an alias for a mission among Muggles.” She repeated in her thoughts. That word, Muggles, was like a blow straight to the heart. It did not exist outside Rowling’s books. And he used it with conviction. Paulina sank heavily against the back of the armchair, closing her eyes for a moment. Her mind buzzed. “This may be only a delusion, a classic example of transferring literature into the world of one’s own illness. That would even be logical. The patient read the books, watched the films, identified with the character…” But immediately another, much more dangerous thought appeared in her head. “And if it is not only a delusion?” For a moment, she stared blankly at the scarf in the wardrobe. The green and silver material seemed to call to her, reminding her of her youthful fascination, of the fact that she had always been “a Slytherin at heart.”
— Draco Malfoy… — She whispered quietly, tasting the name so well known from the pages of books and cinema screens. She felt her hands tremble slightly, and chaos grew in her head. She was a psychologist, a professional, and yet now she had to face not only a patient, but also her own memories, dreams, fantasies from years ago. “Who are you really, Mr. Mayfour?” She asked in her thoughts. “And why does your story sound more familiar than it should?”
♦
The evening was cold, and silence reigned in Paulina’s apartment, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock standing on the dresser. The light of the lamp spread warmly through the living room, but it brought no relief. Paulina sat on the sofa, a mug of tea in her hands, and her thoughts stubbornly returned to the events of the day. “Darius Mayfour. Or rather… Draco Malfoy.” She sighed quietly, setting the mug on the table. She rested her head against the backrest and closed her eyes, but images immediately returned: a tall silhouette standing by the window, a confident, aristocratic posture, that voice, so calm and at the same time piercing, and a gaze that was difficult to ignore.
— I never stopped being a fan… — She whispered to herself with a bitter smile. — I always wanted to meet Malfoy in real life. And here we are… the universe sends me a patient who not only closely resembles the book description, but also… — She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. — …his date of birth is exactly the same as Draco Malfoy’s in the books... It's so...
A sigh escaped her lips of its own accord, heavy and full of thought. She stood up, walked to the wardrobe, and opened it, as though searching for confirmation of her own thoughts. On the hanger hung the green-and-silver scarf with the Slytherin crest. She ran her fingers over the embroidered serpent, and memories of her teenage years returned with full force: evenings spent reading books under a blanket, dreams of being, if only for a moment, in that world, of truly meeting those heroes. Now, however, reality was different. More complicated. She sat back down, took a notebook, and began writing down her thoughts. “Both patients suffer from the same type of delusional disorder. Such disorders do not appear without reason. They are an escape from reality. An escape from something the mind cannot cope with. Conclusion? Both Merryweather and Malf.... Mayfour must have lived through something that broke their lives, something that made them retreat into a world of delusions.” She rested the pen on the page, tapping it thoughtfully. “My task is to reach that point. The source of the pain. I must make each of them feel heard and understood. Only then will it be possible to work through it. Only then can I help them.” She closed the notebook, pressing it to her chest. Her eyes wandered toward the dark window, in which her face was reflected, tired but determined.
— I have to try. — She said quietly, as though making a promise to herself. — Because if not me, then who?
In her head, those eyes appeared again, pale, hypnotic, full of pride and rebellion. And the question that gave her no peace.
“Who are you really, Mr. Mayfour? Who are you really?”