Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Potter! Open this door! Why is it even-?” bangbangbang “How could-?” 

Harry rushed toward the insistent knocking and the suspiciously familiar, but frantic and therefore concerning, voice accompanying it. “Malfoy?!” He exclaimed after opening the door, his apprehension, shock, and utter disbelief fighting for control over his tone in a way that resulted in a higher pitch and excess volume. 

“Oh thank Merlin or whatever ancient wizard.” Malfoy’s relieved sigh greeted him like he was a lost asset, a misplaced treasure, and Harry had absolutely no idea how to respond to that. Not that he was given much time to consider before the blond, who was sopping wet for some unfathomable reason, threw himself at Harry’s chest from the step below him. The soggy blond went face first; frigidly cool arms coiled around Harry’s neck and shoulders like they belonged there. He panicked for a second, thinking the man had fainted or collapsed. He continued to be frozen in the moment despite the thought. Until he realised the man’s weight was not not the heavy, jellied mass of someone unconscious. Draco Malfoy, a literally sodding Malfoy, had consciously made the decision to wrap his arms around Harry, to embrace him. 

“Malfoy, why in the bloody Hell are you soaking wet?” Harry asked through his shock. He wriggled awkwardly against the chill fabric as he slouched in a confused and therefore low energy attempt to pry the wet man off him without actually touching Malfoy much at all. The result of which left his arms stuck open at an odd angle, bracketing the man, not hugging him, with Harry’s hands just below either shoulder, hesitating in the air, uncertain of how to proceed further. His brain felt stalled from how overwhelming the contact was in a much broader sense he was unfamiliar with. Malfoy lifted his head and loosened his arms slightly. At first, Harry was relieved he didn’t have to do anything to end the awkward embrace, but he then almost lost his remaining faculties from the warm, ticklish sensation of the blond burrowing his face in the hollow between his throat and shoulder. He inhaled a deep breath that dragged hotly across Harry’s sensitive skin while a few fair whisps of hair loose and dry enough tangled in his stubble. “Oi!” He caught up with the moment his body had leaned into for a fraction of a second that somehow left him on the verge of panting and he leapt back. “So, also, why in the bloody fuck are you here ?” 

The blond seemed irritated by the question and huffed past him, waltzing into Harry’s house like he owned the place. “Well, I don’t remember why I’m wet so you could care a little more. Kreacher?!” 

“Why are you yelling for-” Harry started, his volume rising with his incredulity but the blond cut him off before he could launch into a tirade about the absurdity of Malfoy’s entitled, dripping sashay into Harry’s house. 

“I’m cold, Potter,” he finally drawled in a tone so jarringly familiar, Harry felt a staggering sense of nostalgic relief. Even if the git was speaking to Harry like he was a bit thick, at least he felt like it really was Malfoy now and not some imposter with boundary issues. “Kreacher! I need some dry clothes!” He yelled as if the elf would listen, as if he hollered on a daily basis for Harry’s elf the way Harry himself did. The blond scowled in his direction and swivelled a dismissive hand on a delicate wrist with a flash of violently purple skin that immediately alarmed Harry but also made it clear Malfoy expected him to call the elf since he hadn't yet responded. 

“Kreacher?” Harry called uncertainly, still frowning after the glimpse of what had to be a terrible bruise. Harry was still exceptionally confused about everything concerning this visit but it especially bothered him that Malfoy had even expected a response from Kreacher; maybe the blond thought the elf should hop to because he was a descendant. Admittedly, Harry was much more set on getting answers for the larger mysteries surrounding the man’s sudden and extremely forward resurgence into his life. He needed those answers. He threw some real effort into preparing himself; he had to gather his resolve, quash the flare of his temper, and focus on rational thought so he could make an earnest attempt to interrogate the man. It seemed only reasonable to wait until Malfoy was in dry clothes.  

POP! “Master of the Noble house of Black has called for Kreacher?” 

“Er, yes,” Harry confirmed, still never confident in his interactions with the ancient elf and uncomfortable with any title on a visceral level. “Could you get some dry clothes for our . . . uh- guest?” 

Malfoy scoffed a bit incredulously and narrowed his eyes disdainfully. “Guest? That’s rich.” 

“Is it?” He was at a loss but he could agree Malfoy needed to stop dripping everywhere while Harry tried to determine what the blond was up to. What had happened to make him think this was an acceptable situation? Harry half expected Malfoy to suddenly come to his senses, curse him and storm out of his house in a strop, leaving just as jarringly as he’d arrived. 

“From someone who has all but demanded I move in over the last year-”

“What?!” Harry interrupted intelligently. 

“Don’t act like you don’t move more of my stuff over here every other week, hoping I won’t notice,” the blond said, stoking the fire with his wand. 

“Malfoy, I think you should sit down,” Harry offered, abruptly realising the blond must not be at all well. 

“And get your fine furniture wet?” He glared superciliously at the outdated settee rather more severely than Harry thought was warranted. Even if Harry did hate the claw-footed sofa himself. Though coveted by many who appreciated the intricately carved detail, Harry’s intimate knowledge of the settee’s ability to find his toes in the dark with those very solid feet argued it was the worst piece of furniture still in the house. But the thought that the room would look too strange without it kept him from ridding himself of it. 

Kreacher appeared holding a neatly folded pile of clothes in an uncanny show of perfect timing; the two men seemed to have reached a stalemate of sorts. Malfoy dripped and sneered for a moment, waiting for Harry to come up with a response he was nonplussed enough by the entire event not to have. Instead, he was glaring, wondering why he’d even thought to care. He convinced himself he hoped the blond would pass out and crumple to the floor in an undignified heap; Harry was rather starting to believe that he was still enough of a prat to deserve it. Kreacher set the neatly folded attire on the side table then crack -ed away before anyone could thank him, as was typical.

Malfoy shrugged off the outer coat that seemed just as drenched as the rest of the blond despite the fact there hadn’t been rain anywhere near. He then crossed his arms low along his waist, grabbing hold of the lower hem of his shirt, then wrenched it and the additionally useless layer of soaking jumper up. Only then did Harry recognise the lumpy and well-worn knit. Before he could choke out the outraged question of what Malfoy was doing wearing one of Harry’s handmade Weasley jumpers, Harry realised the garment in question was pulled up and over wetly matted blond locks. He felt momentarily stunned to find himself faced with a subtly sculpted, softly lithe, pale torso, pebble hard nipples, and a fuzzy trail of blond hair so fine it was nearly translucent before it disappeared into low slung, slate grey denims. 

Harry turned around with shocked quickness after realising he was staring. Why was Malfoy getting naked in his sitting room? He couldn’t possibly be that desperate to get warmed up. Why was he wet and how did he have one of Harry’s sweaters? How did the blond keep coming up with things that completely derailed Harry’s ability to form these questions aloud? He had asked questions, he focused on reviewing the strange volley between them. Harry thought his knees might give out under the stress of the utterly mad situation. He sat down at the desk that faced the window and tried not to listen to the sounds of drenched trousers peeling off the man behind him. 

“Are you actually angry with me?” Harry heard the question a moment after the sounds of dressing had subsided but the tone sounded entirely unfamiliar coming from the man he knew was behind him. He didn’t think his brain could handle actually seeing the sound coming from such an unlikely source. It hadn’t been a challenge; it had been a tone of worry, insecurity, an earnest need for an answer with just a subtle haughty edge over it to express his frustration of having to ask. “I didn’t mean to startle you or . . . Well, I obviously hadn’t intended to show up like this, Harry.” The use of his given name forced him to turn around only to find the equally unbelievable sight of Malfoy tugging on the almost too short sleeve of a pair of Harry’s thick, plaid pyjamas. “I really don’t know how I got so wet but I didn’t think you’d be upset enough over a few damp rugs to hide behind whatever that show was. False modesty or-” 

“False modes-” Harry couldn’t take any more. As benign and nearly demure as the display was, Harry couldn’t take it any longer and had to interrupt, even though he hadn’t thought of anything to say. He raked a hand through his hair then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. What was going on? Was the speech centre of his brain just disintegrating? Was this even really happening? 

“Then why are you so anxious? We can worry about the details later, right? I’m safe; I’m home now, that’s-”

“You’re in my home,” Harry said firmly. “Does that seriously not bother you?” He scoffed disdainfully, for good measure before adding, “Like this could just be explained by anxiety.” It had to be more than that, if he’d lost the plot altogether and was hallucinating during some kind of massive breakdown this would all make slightly more sense. 

“Where is all this coming from, Potter?” Despite his shrewd tone, Malfoy seemed genuinely more concerned about this train of conversation than he had at any other point during this insane visit. “I thought we agreed there was no point in getting an entirely new flat when we both have a family place already. I know I’m not here all the time but-” 

“We haven’t agreed on anything! Ever, I think! Yea, pretty sure. And you’re never here!” Harry exploded, too frustrated, confused and overall stressed to walk on eggshells any longer. “In fact, you’ve never even been here before . . .” Harry trailed off before the blond’s comments could anchor him to reality. He was spinning off into the world of conjecture as soon as the words formed in his mind. Draco had never been here, not since Harry had inherited the place at least. He couldn’t have because of a reinstated and well-maintained Fidelius charm. Without acknowledging any of the complaints and nonsensical rantings of Malfoy’s in the background noise behind his loud thoughts, (was he really going on about having pancakes for breakfast?) he threw a handful of floo powder into the hearth and choked out, “The Den,” across the sooty air. 

“Sure, I figured we’d call on Granger, but I thought you might want to feed me first. Missing as I’ve been, I’d hoped you’d be a little more effusive upon my return,” Malfoy pouted ; it was the only word for it and Harry thought his mind could be breaking. Draco Malfoy was pouting at him like a rebuffed kneazle. 

“Hermione, I need you to come through,” he said into the fire. “Now-ish? Please.” A brief pause so she could bluster and ask if he wanted Ron as well. “No, just you I think,” Harry said after a pause, clearly listening to Hermione on the other end. “Okay, see you in a bit then.” 

“So now do you have time to make me breakfast?” Draco asked with a sense of entitlement that sounded familiar yet somehow very different to Harry. 

“Er, I probably do, and I suppose I could,” Harry acquiesced. He desperately needed something to do while he waited for Hermione and keeping his hands busy was probably a good start. “But you should know it's way past breakfast time.”

“What?” Draco asked, frowning. He briefly tried to remember when he’d eaten last and couldn’t.

“Malfoy,” Harry started slowly, clearly, “you were just outside, you had to have noticed that it was pitch black out there? It’s almost half ten. Er, at night.”

“It didn’t feel that long,” he said distractedly before turning to Harry with earnest confusion, clearly beginning to question the details of this incident. Rather than acknowledge the gaping hole in his short term memory that seemed rather alarming to Harry, Malfoy’s expression stuttered and he spoke in a flat monotone that led Harry to believe he was getting truly unnerved. “I’ve been missing all day?” He rubbed his fresh sleeves over his wrists absent mindedly. 

“I wouldn't know, but yea, I suppose you have been. If you remember it being daytime,” Harry really did try not to sound like a dry, sarcastic arse, but he couldn’t help it. It was a defence mechanism at this point, one he recognized and preferred over the jittery feeling that came with any situation he had no control over, whether it was an unexpected dinner guest with mystery bruises demanding breakfast, a surprise party at the ministry, riding passenger in a car, or a life and death mission with his fellow Aurors. 

“What do you mean, you wouldn’t know? Too busy to care?” Draco obviously tried to feign nonchalance in the interest of being coy. 

It was something Harry found startlingly, strangely intriguing, having never been on the receiving end of such an expression from Malfoy. “Malfoy why-” Harry was flummoxed by the fact that this was Malfoy flirting with him in defence of some kind of insecurity, but he had to know how and why he was even here before he could address that. “How did you get past the Fidelius charm on this house?” 

“By reading your messy scrawl on the back of a bar napkin.”

“What? Who gave it to you?” 

He huffed in annoyance, “You did, you prat.” 

“I’ve been here all day. All weekend actually.”

“Potter, have you lost the plot entirely?” Under the snarky accusation Harry was taken aback when he gauged true fear and even concern under Malfoy’s posh facade. “You broke the Fidelius for me nearly three years ago.” Malfoy’s tone was informative despite the madness of such a declaration. 

Harry felt his mouth gape open, but could do nothing to fix it; it felt like the correct response. He stood abruptly. “So pancakes. And I think some of that fancy mead I got for Christmas,” Harry added stiffly as he turned to head toward the kitchen. “One of us is about to have a very rough night. Honestly, not sure which anymore. D’you want some?” 

“Well, if you’re going to open it, of course I do,” Malfoy said tersely with a haughty air Harry found comfort in because of that same nostalgic familiarity. Then the blond fell in easily behind him as he neared the kitchen stairs and Harry was awash in his discomfiture once more. He felt silver eyes on his back the entire time, certain Malfoy was assessing him. He realised how tense he must look, his shoulders were squared, his hand in his pocket on his wand. He ran his other through the hair on the back of his neck which would not stop prickling up, making his skin shiver enough he felt it might crawl off his spine. 

“You seem like you could really use that drink, Potter,” Malfoy’s coy drawl worked an insidious path that followed the shivers across his back but settled firmly in a low place that made him much more uncomfortable in a very different way. 

“I really could,” Harry confirmed before practically racing down the stairs. He set his magic to work on the pancakes, immediately finding comfort in the routine of cooking. When he turned around thinking of the liquor once again, Malfoy had already grabbed it from its cabinet and poured them both a solid three fingers from the fresh bottle then left it on the table. Harry thought that for the best, fairly sure he’d need more before the night was through. 

Draco settled into the chair at the head of the table, it was slightly wider and taller than the others and his small, pointed body seemed to fold effortlessly into the space, leaving him looking more comfortable than Harry ever had at the head of his own table. “Fancy yourself head of the household, Malfoy?” 

“As if you’ve ever liked this spot,” Draco replied astutely, his certainty not challenging, but simple and absolute. It was spoken with a concise confidence and ease that denoted knowledge Harry knew the blond couldn’t possibly have. 

“That’s fair,” Harry swallowed thickly, not used to or prepared for the way a comfortable and delusionally overfamiliar Malfoy acted. Harry turned back to check on the pancakes as they cooked, preferring to be involved rather than set his magic to all the work. It wasn’t often he could concentrate on the nuances of timing when casting; it always turned out better if he did some cooking manually. 

“What did I miss today?” Malfoy interrupted the near silence with an outrageously sincere casualness considering their circumstances. 

Harry repressed a snort, but only barely. He turned to verify that this was an actual request and the narrowing of Malfoy’s eyes alerted him his rudeness hadn’t gone unnoticed. The blond was very sincerely wondering. “What d’you mean?” 

“Tell me about your day, Potter,” he said slowly, emphasising each word as if Harry didn’t speak English well or was hard of hearing. Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to the pancakes in time to flip it perfectly. Then in a normal tone and with genuine interest Malfoy asked, “What reckless nonsense did you get up to in my absence?” 

Rather than point out again that Malfoy’s absence had been a given up until fifteen minutes ago, and therefore had no effect whatsoever on the course his day had taken, Harry decided to humour the blond, thinking perhaps he could lull the man into a false sense of security. Then maybe he could get on the right track to derail whatever scheme this was when Hermione showed up. “I flew for a couple hours. Wind wasn’t bad.” 

“So you didn’t go to work today?” Draco said and this time it was a challenge. 

“It’s Sunday,” Harry responded stiffly, feeling his shoulders square up again. 

“I didn’t ask what day of the week it is, Potter.” 

“Yea, alright, I went in. Just for a couple hours,” Harry admitted petulantly, too aware he felt particularly called out. He put the flat cake on a plate and smeared some chocolate hazelnut spread on it automatically before realising he should give the first one to his guest . He sighed and turned to levitate it to the other man anyway. If he had a problem with chocolate hazelnut spread then that would just be another strike against him. Harry immediately started the next one so he could seem more preoccupied than he was. 

“To do the paperwork you’re too busy to get to during the week? This is why I think you’re apt to burnout.” Harry knew his face reflected how incredulous he felt from such an assessment and was unfortunately a bit stunned from the perceptive insight; the former observation of course, not the latter. Malfoy put a gooey but precisely cut bite onto his fork. “I don’t understand why you won’t entertain the notion of requesting a secretary.” Harry wanted to immediately explode into a tirade of none-of-your-bloody-business-you-swishy-bleached-out-prat, but had to turn brusquely back to the hob when Malfoy licked the excess chocolate from his fork. 

“I’m fine, Malfoy,” he said sternly, deciding to focus on the overly concerning fact that the blond had learned his work habits somehow instead of the ridiculous suggestion of making someone else do his job for him. He peeked to see the blond chewing his bite with eyes closed and he smirked. He should have known Malfoy would appreciate the sweet condiment on his pancake.

“Alright. We won’t talk about work,” Draco said shortly as if it were a concession he was used to moving on from. “Did you go to that spot near Dulwich or treat yourself and go all the way out to Dartmoor?” 

“Ottery St. Catchpole actually,” Harry replied coolly, alarmed that the blond knew two of his favourite places to fly and that switching the topic instantly made his arms feel less tense. He looked back to see Draco swallow his food, eyes still closed, pale throat working langourously before he opened his eyes to see Harry watching. The blond smirked in response before going back to his plate to cut up another perfect bite. “And how is everyone at the Burrow? How is Victoire’s visit going?” 

“She left last weekend,” Harry answered honestly out of sheer and acute surprise. He flipped his own pancake, brow furrowed. Why would Malfoy know she'd even been visiting? 

“Wait, what-”  Draco asked, his perfect brows drawing close together in consternation. “What day is it?” The blond attempted to recall the last date he remembered; he frowned, trying desperately to know which day had been yesterday. 

“Now you ask? After I already told you it’s Sunday?” Harry asked as reply, concerned for the lack of short term memory the blond was displaying in addition to his disconcerting knowledge. 

“No, the date, Potter?” Draco insisted, his panic rising the more self aware he became.  

It took Harry a moment to remember actually, he tended to live in the past dates of all the paperwork he obsessed over yet could never get ahead of. He plated his own cake as he answered, but realised he had no appetite; he’d really only been cooking for the other man and the distraction it provided. 

“I’ve been gone for two weeks…” Draco wilted a little in the chair, drawing his legs up more and sitting back, securely bracing himself behind the arm rests. 

Harry sat down in the seat off to Draco’s side, only because it was closest to the stove. He knocked back the last of his drink as an excuse to not look at the pure devastation on the blond’s face. Hermione stepped out of the floo as his glass hit the table. 

Malfoy smiled at her sudden appearance, a small, comfortable thing that was immediately hidden by a sip of his mostly still full glass. 

“Why is Malfoy here?” Hermione froze with her hand on her wand the second she saw him. 

“Oh thank God, you can see him,” Harry leaned back in his chair, more relieved than he would’ve thought from the confirmation he hadn’t realised he’d been awaiting. 

“Was there really a possibility I wouldn’t?” she questioned, surprise and concern lifting her brow with equal force. 

“I thought maybe, yea,” Harry shrugged with his voice as much as he did with his shoulders. “Apparently, he thinks he’s been basically living here for over a year.” 

“Granger knows this,” Draco said, allowing his obvious concern for Potter’s mental state to bleed through his haughty tone. 

“I do?” she turned to him, a perplexed sort of interest lighting up her features from behind a shrewd frown. 

“He’s been like this the whole time,” Harry said, running his fingers through what felt like exceptionally erratic hair. “Weirdly confident, but also strangely insecure.”

“Potter!” Draco turned pink starting from his neck, feeling uncomfortably vulnerable facing this conversation the other two were having about him directly in front of him. He stabbed a bite onto his fork for good measure. 

It was a strangely enjoyable thing for Harry to watch. “I’ve never seen him like this,” he continued as though he hadn’t been interrupted, still unsettled by all that had happened and all that had been said since the blond’s arrival. 

“Well, of course not, I’ve never shown up soaking wet, having lost two weeks of my life,” Draco replied defensively in a brittle drawl, tossing his utensil onto his plate with a clatter before pushing what was left of it away, sparing an additional, pointed glare for Potter’s untouched pancake. 

“Also there’s that,” Harry added in a commentary he knew wasn’t entirely necessary in a clipped tone dry enough to cause Malfoy to frown.

“Interesting,” Hermione said, as if she were about to solve the issue already. 

“Granger, tell him he’s being dense, or else something is very wrong with him,” Draco said in a comfortable, familiar tone that seemed to momentarily stun Hermione. “You know how much better he responds when we both agree on something,” he reminded her. He didn’t understand why she seemed shocked by everything he said since the moment she saw him. 

“Do you think we’re friends, Malfoy?” Hermione asked frostily, empirically. 

“Well, perhaps- I’d never dare to label what we-,” Draco stammered, off put. 

It was abruptly, painfully clear to Harry that Draco had thought exactly that. He had believed it and was dismayed, and somehow even absurdly disheartened, to hear that Hermione didn’t feel the same way. 

“I accepted your overly polite, but properly chastised apology, after your trial with as much decorum as I could manage while attempting to block the face of your insane aunt from haunting my field of vision when I looked at you,” she informed him in a coldly clinical tone. 

“Hermione-” Harry hated the way it obviously hurt the blond to hear such a thing; it was apparent in the wince he barely concealed and the tragic, thin line he pressed his lips into. This was not the boy after that trial. Whatever had happened to him since then, today, or the entirety of the last two weeks left no room for doubt; this was a man who’d lived beyond that, as they all had. As Harry knew Hermione had, he recognized her ruthlessness for the insecurity it was. She didn’t understand what was going on here and couldn’t see that this was a man who believed he had changed, and so his world was different. Unfortunately, Harry knew it wasn’t the real world. 

“Do you remember that day? Do you remember your stiff, shallow sounding apology?” She asked callously, having spared Harry only a cursory look for his interruption.  

“Yes, I do. That is, unfortunately, also how I remember it. I mean-” He huffed lightly, but it was one of the most frustrated, dramatic sounds Harry had heard in a long time. The side of Harry’s mouth pinched downward against his tense jaw in response. 

Draco saw the expression and felt a brief, sharp flare of anxiety from not knowing how to interpret the look from the other man, “I meant the apology, but I-” he paused again, to take a shallow, but otherwise controlled breath. With the recognition that something was off, he felt like he came back to himself a little, his previous and adamant denial failing like a shield he’d suddenly realised wasn’t working anyhow. “There aren’t words for what I put us all through,” he said feeling helpless that he was reliving the memory, not understanding why they were making him. “Nor are there any to adequately describe how I felt trapped in that moment, nor how it can’t possibly compare to what you . . .” He pulled himself up out of his internal torment, wondering how and why his memories felt raw in a traumatising way then continued determinedly, “but you know- Well, I’ve already told-” The incredulous shift in Hermione’s dour expression stopped him in his tracks, derailing his train of thought and resolve. “It was only after- I mean years later, we . . .” His voice faltered and trailed off when her even and disapproving expression didn’t hint at softening. 

“Then you wisely never spoke to me again,” she finished plainly, as if he hadn’t rambled in a very uncharacteristically nervous way and Draco was oddly grateful. “You rightfully avoided me with a downcast expression any time we’ve passed each other in the Ministry hallways or Diagon Alley or any other time since. Until tonight.” She added shortly, crossing her arms, wand still in hand. 

“I- no, we- at the ministry- And all the lunches-” Draco tried to remind her, starting to feel a cold sense of dread that something was very wrong. 

“We’ve never had lunch together.” He feared the hurt he couldn’t help but feel showed on his face. Still, she dug further into the wound he didn’t understand, “You’ve never lived here either.” 

“But Potter and I-” Draco started, aware that the chances Harry and Granger both lost the same plot were slim. He hoped he wouldn’t panic, but it felt inevitable already. He focused on breathing. 

“And Harry has certainly never told you where here even is. So I suggest you fess up to whatever scheme this is a part of, beginning with how you got past the Fidelius charm.” 

Halfway through her accusation, Malfoy had turned to Harry, as if for some social clue, some guidance; he looked at Harry as if he trusted him, as if he knew Harry would help him. It was like Malfoy was used to looking to him when things got messy and it made Harry uncomfortable in an entirely different sense, his chest accepted the look as if it had been a bludger. He felt winded. “You look exhausted, Malfoy,” Harry responded awkwardly when the blond’s mouth opened and closed once, but he merely clutched his hands tightly against one another in his lap rather than speak. He spared Hermione one last covertly superior look of disdain that suggested she should be ashamed of accusing him, but said nothing. The expression reminded Harry of an ice sculpture; fragile and only good for show. “Why don’t we finish this conversation tomorrow, Hermione? It’s late.” 

She looked gobsmacked, but had obviously heard the rawness to his voice that he wished wasn’t there. She turned toward the floo, but not without an overly concerned, blatantly suspicious glance at Malfoy before addressing Harry, “Be careful, Harry. We don’t know what this is.” 

“Apparently neither does he.”

“You can’t be sure-” Malfoy’s mouth twitched down at the corner like he wanted to grimace, but repressed the expression in the face of her wary, accusing tone. 

“Goodnight, Hermione,” Harry responded evenly. 

She huffed something that sounded nothing like goodnight, but left through emerald flames regardless. 

“Thank you for that, Potter,” Malfoy told Harry quietly, still staring at the neatly folded, pale fingers he held carefully still in his lap like small, wounded animals. 

“It’s nothing,” Harry stood abruptly and dragged his hand through his hair again. First, a soaking wet hug and now the blond was thanking him with sincerity Harry found discomfitingly welcome, like he’d been waiting his whole life for the blond to say something so genuine. He wasn’t sure he could take much more alteration to reality as he knew it. His was a world where Malfoy quietly hid a latent hate on the rare occasion they passed one another in public. It was an existence in which Harry hadn’t bothered to do more than hand the blond his wand back after his trial and subsequently they hadn’t spoken more than each other's surnames in passing beyond that day. 

Harry hadn’t felt that hot rush of juvenile hate just from seeing the other man for years. His misguided obsession of his school days was long past; whenever they’d seen one another briefly he noted only an intense curiosity still existed within him that he could quash and suppress rather effectively without too much effort. At most, he’d listened to rumours about the man intently because how could he not? 

“If you remembered me, or us, rather,” the blond added haltingly, “it would be nothing. But to be told I’ve just dropped in on your life, without preamble. . . I’m sure your defence to Granger was more than you think I deserve.” Draco paused for a thoughtful, reserved moment and reconsidered the interaction with Granger. He allowed his pleasant surprise to surface in his features before adding, “I’m surprised she didn’t hit me.”

Resisting the urge to point out that he and Hermione weren’t the ones with a faulty memory, Harry responded, “Me too, actually. And Malfoy, if you’re telling the truth about this, it feels like you’re as much a victim of whatever is happening as anyone else. We'll figure it out tomorrow. You don’t deserve the wrath of Hermione in such a state.” Already needing to keep a close eye on this mystery, Harry offered, “You can sleep here tonight.”

“And if I’m lying?” Draco challenged haughtily, refusing to even acknowledge the hospitality, concerned that this confusing version of Potter was pitying him. 

“You better not be, because I’ll find out,” he replied warningly, and familiar fire settled in Draco’s guts, but all he knew from it was relief; Potter still wouldn’t be pitying him in his suddenly shifting perception of an uncertain world. “Goodnight, Malfoy.” For good measure, the other man sent the kitchen to clean itself without incantation or wand in hand. The caustic burning intensified and rose to Draco’s chest to meet the familiar, desperate itch to retaliate to the braggart’s challenge even though he knew he couldn’t compare. 

“Goodnight, Harry,” Draco said quietly instead, repressing the very strong urge to follow the other man to their bed. He fell asleep wondering if maybe the version of Harry he remembered existed somewhere that was elsewhere. He had lovely dreams of finding his Harry, but knew he would be waking up miserable, still fighting a fluid feeling of distortion that started plaguing his every memory.

Chapter Text

When Harry woke up the following morning, he stared at his ceiling for a long moment of contemplation. He often did under normal circumstances, getting out of bed was difficult unless he confronted himself with everything he had to do. These were certainly not normal circumstances, though. He spent the half hour or so obsessing about Draco Malfoy for the first time in years. Even that wasn’t the same; the blond was different. Harry reminded himself Malfoy was likely under the influence of some weird bungled potion or botched obliviate. He’d seen enough of them to know most people recovered their faculties and went back to being their previous selves. Malfoy didn’t not seem like himself though, still a ponce, bit more of a tart. Yet, he was still disturbingly similar. 

If Harry hadn’t hallucinated the entire evening, Draco Malfoy was still somewhere in his house, since the wards hadn’t alerted him to any departure. Draco Malfoy could be still sleeping, he could be already up making himself a little brekkie. He could be reading and drinking tea in the parlour. Like Harry, he too could still be laying in bed wondering what the bloody Hell was going on and debating whether he should be trying to convince himself to take a shower instead of obsessing.  

Harry’s legs found movement abruptly at the thought; he swung himself out of bed with a huff. He skipped showering, deciding he’d feel less unsettled when he knew what the blond was up to. He checked the guest room Malfoy had been in, Regulus’ room, to find the plaid pyjamas neatly folded on the corner of a perfectly made bed with the Weasley jumper similarly cared for. He noted the air was fresher and the place seemed lighter, or maybe just cleaner. Smells were definitely coming from the warmed, humid air still wafting from the adjacent washroom, scents not at all typical for the intrinsically still musty house. He rolled his eyes but was smirking at the blond’s activities when he swung around the door frame to the empty sitting room. After checking the parlour as well, and still not finding him, Harry figured he was either snooping somewhere more out of the way or in the kitchen. For conflicting reasons he felt neither scenario should even be possible, particularly the latter. Regardless, he headed toward the stairs. 

“If Granger and I aren’t friends, how do I know her house with the Weasel is the Den?” Draco posited as if it were a challenge just as Harry descended into the kitchen. The fire was roaring and the blond was leaning against the mantle, one hand idly tapping the grout clean while the other held his tea close. 

Harry tried not to feel like he was losing the plot, but failed after taking in the way Malfoy looked in dry jeans. He seemed completely ready to start his day aside from being barefoot. His hair was precisely combed and parted so his fringe held a little swoop that Harry found both ridiculous and attractive and told himself it was mostly the former. 

Harry was still in his pyjamas because instead of spending time primping and preening, he’d planned on cooking after locating the blond and not much else beyond that. “I thought about it for a long time last night,” Harry started to answer while Malfoy smirked under the obvious assessment and following admission, but Harry kept from rising to the bait. Of course he’d stayed up all night thinking about the prat and their current predicament; what the bloody Hell else was going to have his attention? He immediately set about accio -ing ingredients for hot cereal and continued speaking. “It seems like a purposeful way to ingratiate you, also probably why you showed up wearing one of my Weasley jumpers, even if I don’t know how you have one.” 

“Of course I have it; I wear it almost every day. You let me keep it after . . .” He turned from the boiling water to see Malfoy blush a furiously vivid, yet somehow still delicately pale pink. He then began twisting his thumb through the hole sewn into a sleeve to give the wearer something to hold onto. It was Harry's shirt and was a dark blue that had never looked half as good on him. It also looked twice as muggle and out of place with the blond wearing it. Malfoy seemed to straighten himself before curtly pulling out a chair and sitting down primly before finishing the statement with a huff. “Well, the first time I stayed the night.” 

Harry shifted his weight anxiously from one foot to the other as he realised Malfoy was presumably remembering the first night they’d had sex. A memory Harry didn’t share because it hadn’t ever happened. He briefly wondered if Malfoy thought him good in bed, then tore a hand over his fringe, roughly expelling a sigh. “Okay, well, someone’s had to have done this to you.” He couldn’t even pretend to have an idea of who because the very idea anyone would think to use Draco Malfoy to get to him felt like the kind of barrier to logic that he, as a mostly sane man, could not overcome. “If the point was to get you close to me, then it worked, you’re here, in my home. Now we just have to wait for the other shoe to drop. If the plan continues to play out, it should bring the means: you, back full circle to the end, or at least to a motive.” 

“So you’ll just be sitting around waiting for me to betray you somehow with false memories?” Draco asked, alarmed and offended in equal measure. “Delightful,” he then deadpanned. 

Harry smirked; he couldn’t help it. “I don’t think it’s a very good evil plan either, but I also don’t see how this is meant to hurt me .” That thought had been a reoccurring stressor to the stream of consciousness type ruminations he'd had last night. He had also come to the conclusion that when Malfoy regained his memories, he’d be mortified. 

“It’s obviously not,” Draco said, arms crossing over his chest to hold one another, sleeves pulled down tightly to his palms, hiding the still unexplained bruises Harry’d seen there last night. 

“Who would want to hurt you this way?” Harry asked, thinking it was a lot of trouble just to embarrass Draco Malfoy, even if it was probably to a crippling degree. It just wasn’t enough motivation; there were easier ways to hurt ex-death eaters. Harry had dealt with enough vigilantism in the months following the trials to know that. 

Malfoy scoffed dramatically, but it wasn’t superior or disdainful, it was a defeated, hapless noise and it made Harry uncomfortable in his skin. “If every good memory I have of myself for the last four and a half years has only been implanted to ingratiate me to you then I imagine you’d be hard pressed to find someone who wouldn’t want to hurt me.” 

“I thought you said it had been three since we- since the false memories started?” 

“I said it was three since you had me over for the first time.” 

“Why do your memories extend so far beyond that?” 

“Did you think we met again for the first time and then proceeded straight to your home? Ridiculous, Potter. It took well over a year of groundwork.”

Harry felt his cheeks warm. “Er- right. So who would want to hurt you like this?” Harry prodded, primarily with curious confusion despite the strange, watery sensation in his guts that felt disconcertingly like pity. If Malfoy thought he’d spent that much time becoming a better person only to have Harry rip it away overnight . . . Harry couldn’t imagine how devastating that would be. 

“It’s a very creative and personal Hell,” he drawled, oddly flat as he once again sat down at the table, this time in the chair closest to the hearth. 

Harry barely refrained from wincing; he hadn’t ever thought he’d be Malfoy’s Hell. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Never mind, it clearly doesn’t matter,” Malfoy folded his hands on his lap again and looked away from Harry and into the fire. He could tell the blond was trying to shut him out, withdrawing like he had with Hermione. Harry abruptly couldn’t hold back any longer. 

Suddenly, Potter’s enraged face was obscuring most of Draco’s vision. He didn’t flinch, though his heart raced the way it always did when Potter got mad. Before the urge to grab the man in an equally heated, yet very opposite kind of embrace, could overwhelm him, the bespectacled git had grabbed his arms and forced his sleeves up just above his wrists, despite the handy little thumb guards he’d been fidgeting with. 

“What about this?” he challenged, holding above a bruise so purple it was nearly black.  “Doesn’t this matter?” He demanded to know, yet gave no room for Draco to respond. Instead, he rushed into his next thought, “Whoever did this had you confined for quite possibly two entire weeks by your own unreliable recollection. You were trapped, so now I’m feeling sorry for an antagonist from my developmental years. All of it matters.” 

Draco had felt his eyes go wide when Potter’s hot hands had closed around his wrists and his groin reacted with what felt like instinct, but he didn’t want anything like this. He didn’t want to have mysterious bruises. He didn’t want Potter’s mistrust. He hated feeling like a victim and he hated that Potter thought himself just as victimised. “Let go of me. Some saviour you are, always allowing your temper to run over anyone in your way, friend, foe, or victim.” 

Harry stepped back as if slapped and though his jaw remained tightly clenched, his expression turned even again after the initial shock. Draco knew Potter’s emotional instability had always been a source of insecurity. He knew it had been a low blow, an easy punch, all the petty things Draco needed at that moment to get Potter’s irresistible intensity away from him. 

“I need you to tell me everything. Anything you think about me,” Potter at least had the decency to grimace at the command before continuing as if he hadn’t. “The things you think about this situation and your memories could be clues. Any of it could lead us to an answer, but having you clam up in my kitchen just because things get awkward or uncomfortable won’t help either of us.” 

Potter’s response was everything Draco knew it could be: articulate, considerate, pragmatic, and reassuring. However, Draco resented it. It was probably the first time he’d spoken so evenly and earnestly to Draco since his arrival. With a painful clench near his ribs, he realised it was actually probably the first time ever. 

“Please tell me, why is this your personalised hell and not mine?” 

“Me being here is your personal Hell?” Draco rose to the opportunity to be justly offended.

“No, it’s not. That’s what I’m wondering. If this is about me, why isn’t this my hell?” 

“Maybe they didn’t know what your hell looks like?” 

“But they knew yours?” 

Draco shrugged remembering awkward, detailed moments between the two of them that showed how transparently Draco had wanted what he thought he’d finally gotten. Memories of early interactions between the two young men flooded his mind, stammering frustration and growling threats masking sexual tension. He shrugged, “maybe it was easier to figure what mine would be.” 

Harry responded with a different tact, effortlessly recognizing the defensive deference for what it was. “What I don't understand is how anyone could possibly think this would work. Did they think I would believe I’d lost the plot and accept your version of things? They had to have known I would verify something like that and not trust it blindly.”

“ I knew you were a suspicious prat long before we started dating,” Malfoy drawled. Harry repressed the urge to ask what else the blond knew about him before the false memories started; he would have time for it later and they would be needing a lot of it. “Whoever this is doesn’t know you as well as they think they do.” 

“That’s nothing new,” Potter said bitterly and the tone didn’t seem to sync with Draco’s recent memories, but instead reminded him of the boy he knew at school. He plated the food and Draco’s serving landed itself in front of him with only a little bit too much force. “So, are you actually going to tell me what you remember from just before showing up on my stoop or are you working on a detailed essay?” 

“I wouldn’t do homework for you, Potter. That’s taking things a bit far.” 

Harry shrugged his shoulders a bit, struggling not to show how amusing he found the remark. Pretty sure he was failing, he chose to say nothing more and instead took a large bite then stared expectantly at Draco while he chewed, determined not to grin. 

The blond sighed, “I don’t remember anything. For a fortnight there's nothing; I remember you telling me you couldn’t believe Victoire only had two weeks left at the burrow before Bill and Fluer would be taking her home.” Malfoy’s features softened in a way Harry had never seen and he forgot he was supposed to be chewing. “You are so smitten by her sass,” he laughed and Harry was shocked by the genuine way he seemed to reflect on any one of the dozens of memories Harry himself had of playing with the tenacious toddler. He always spent more time at the burrow when someone’s kid was there. Little Freddie had him wrapped around his pinky even worse than Victoire and knew it. Teddy had learned a long time ago that Harry was willing to play any game and lose with dignity. 

Malfoy seemed to come back to himself with an air of disappointment that Harry thought was meant to hide the very real pain that abruptly pinched his angular features. “That had been a Sunday as well I think. That whole weekend seems . . . muddy,” he almost trailed off completely before a short, brisk shake and a reinforced poshness to his voice. “I know for certain my last day of work was a Friday and I left on time because I’m not a workaholic,” he said pointedly while recovering the kind of calm demeanour mostly innocent suspects had in Harry's experience of interrogations. It was a show that concerned Harry; it seemed all too real to the blond and also contained a worrisome amount of accuracy. 

“The bruises?” 

“Well, I’m not one for bondage so I assume I was held captive,” he drawled. “Aren’t you the detective type here?”

“I figured that, Malfoy, I meant for you to tell me how you got them or who gave them to you.”

“I first noticed them when I was knocking on your door. My sleeve slipped. I wasn’t worried about them; all I wanted was to be here and dry.” 

“How are they? Did you-?”

“Kreacher gave me the bruise salve. They hurt much less, thank you.” He ate a bite of food to signal he felt through with the pitiable line of questioning. 

“Has anyone threatened you lately?” 

“Not outside the sporadic death eater fan mail.” 

“Any that stand out or reoccur?”

“Most tend to rely on similar themes,” he answered in a clipped, still defencive tone.  

“Any you’ve saved?” 

“Does that mean you want to see my scrapbook?” He asked brightly. 

“You didn’t,” Harry deadpanned. 

“No, I didn’t, but I wish I had after seeing your face at just the thought.” 

“Git.” 

Draco smiled genuinely before collecting himself again, and making steady, unwavering eye contact. “Though many of the letters are seared onto my brain forever, the answer is no; I have not saved any of them.” He could tell Draco was lying but Harry decided to let him, for now at any rate. He at least believed that the blond truly thought letters were a dead end. “However, I still have the quills I’ve used to respond to most of them, very high quality pieces equipped with a bit of memory. If you think it would be helpful, you could review them, although I’d much prefer it if you didn’t.” 

Harry remembered to close his mouth again and then managed to form an inadequate response, just for clarification, “You responded to people who sent you hateful letters and threatened you?” 

“Of course I did,” he replied, haughty disdain carrying his response proudly, as if he couldn’t have been expected to do anything else. 

Harry was stunned into silence for a long moment. “How did that go?” 

“Mostly terribly,” he answered with casual evenness. 

“Then why-?”

“This is already so different from the way I remember us having this conversation.”

“Don’t deflect right now,” Harry commanded and then felt the strong need to add a stiff, “Please,” at the look he received that glinted like sharpened knives. 

Draco acquiesced rather promptly, “It was the least I could do. More than one of those letters accused me of murder, and many more accused me of things I actually did. All of those people deserved answers.” 

Harry would never have thought Draco Malfoy would feel the need to answer for anything he’d ever done after the Wizengamot let him off with hardly a slap on the wrist, let alone do so literally. “I never reply to any . . .” Harry cringed, “fan mail.” 

“Why would you? You’ve already done everything for them and have no reason to pay such penance.” 

“There were a lot of people I failed,” he looked down at his cereal and realised he’d still only taken the one bite. “I’ve done wrong too.” 

“Everyone does wrong,” Malfoy waved away Harry's culpability with a perfectly pale, confident hand. It was still flippant, as if Harry's regret was exactly as irrelevant and commonplace as the blond was saying it was. “Everyone fails someone; this isn’t the same and you know that,” Malfoy said sternly, implicating himself clearly. 

The blond's sentiment made Harry think about all the people in his life and in the wizarding at large who were under the impression that Harry hadn’t done anything wrong; some of them seemed pretty sure he couldn’t. They were all so busy seeing the war and Harry's life itself in only black and white that he felt they couldn't actually see him; whereas Malfoy seemed to see it all in just shades of grey and black. Harry wondered why the conflicting point of view was somehow comforting when he started to feel the pressure of always being seen in the bright, white, light disspate. The easy acceptance Draco exuded while simultaneously telling Harry to stop feeling his own guilt made Harry want to change the subject immediately. “You're sure you don't remember any details about getting getting soaked or- something different about getting my jumper?” 

“I thought I implied rather clearly that I had only one memory of getting the jumper, would you like descriptive words or an illustrative story in addition?” Malfoy asked with a haughty coyness that made Harry regret falling back on the topic. 

“Er, right, I mean no. I forgot that- Well, I meant how you really got it- I didn’t, we didn’t. I was thinking more about how you must have gotten it in the two weeks when you were missing.” Malfoy smirked at Harry’s rambling so he decided to move brusquely forward. “Just nevermind that then. Maybe you fell off a bridge or something?” 

“Perhaps I jumped?” Potter looked appropriately shocked so Draco continued more seriously. “I remember nothing of that time, Potter. I ceased to exist for all I know.” 

“Obviously you didn’t.”

“Obviously.” 

“How do you feel about Hermione casting around in your head?” Harry proposed, having thought about it the minute she’d left last night. 

“Horrified and outraged you’d suggest it,” Malfoy responded poshly, but with a surprising amount of sincerity. 

“It’s more of an only option than it is a suggestion.” 

“You do it,” Malfoy countered quickly. 

“Nah, I’m rubbish at all that,” Harry said uncomfortably, running a hand across the nape of his neck, unsettled that Draco would prefer he go messing about in his head. 

“She’s going to hate it in here,” he said morosely, flopping the head in question sideways onto one hand, elbow on the table. It made Harry smile for some reason he couldn’t determine, other than the dramatic antics paired with a casual demeanour he was quickly learning to appreciate from the blond. 

“She knows that,” Potter said with a smirk he tried to repress paired with a careless shrug that managed to set Draco’s nerves just slightly more at ease for some daft reason. It had to be foolishness since he knew he wasn’t allowed to be in love with the idiot. 

After breakfast, Harry announced he was going to floo call Hermione and see when she would be available. Malfoy excused himself from the table stating he thought he should change back into more comfortable clothes. 

“Does Robbards know you’re not going in?” Hermione asked the moment she stepped out of the floo, not ten minutes later. 

Harry smacked his forehead with an open palm then immediately brought out his wand without responding while she smiled smugly. “Expecto Patronum!” He shouted quickly, thinking of the last time he, Ron, and Hermione had gone to Hogsmeade to meet up with Neville, Ginny, Luna, Dean, and Seamus. It had been an amazing night and it hadn’t been that long ago, but as soon as the stag was cast he let the dullness caused by knowing it would be months before they did it again creep insidiously through his brain, making his legs feel leaden and his shoulders slump. He spoke his message, noting Malfoy had started descending into the kicthen as he’d casted and was already studiously assessing him. The stag then brushed his antlers through the shoulder of the shocked blond and galloped through him up the stairs. 

Malfoy was once again wearing the Weasley jumper, but that seemed to be the only change to his outfit; he still curled his thin fingers around the thumb guards of the blue shirt underneath and hadn't changed out of the grey denim trousers he had shown up in. Harry intently watched the blond tug on the right sleeve of the sweater as he approached the table. Harry realised that side already hung a little lower on his narrower shoulders, a fact Harry hadn't known he'd taken note of yesterday as well, until he saw it again. Today it showed the dark blue collar of the shirt underneathe instead of a pale, defined collarbone.

“Oh no, Harry you didn’t let him borrow that,” Hermione stated, her disapproval clear and severe in the set of her shoulders and the flat anger in her tone.  

Harry felt a bit of whiplash when he snapped his attention to her. “That’s what he showed up wearing.”

“It was soaking wet then, if I recall the story,” she said contemptuously. 

“Kreacher does laundry, about all he does,” Harry offered as explanation. 

“Then why is he wearing it again ?” She asked, an accusation riding on the inquiry through her clenched teeth. 

“I felt like I needed to,” Draco answered truthfully because she was about to go shuffling through his mind and would find out anyway. “It helps.”  

“Helps what ?” She demanded with a breathless sort of scepticism and incredulity.

Silver eyes darted back toward the stairs and Harry knew the blond was getting fractious. He watched Malfoy consider the rude outburst; he struggled to get a handle on in the sneer he worked to turn into something more than a grimace. Before Malfoy could formulate an answer, Harry leaned in toward Hermione, shifting the floo powder dish noisily to the other side of the mantle as he started speaking. “Hermione, he has memories about the jumper that he obviously finds comfort in.” He dropped the dish and resumed normal volume just as Malfoy’s eyes started to narrow, “Since you’re about to invade his mind, I think we should just let him have this one. Don’t make it into a big deal, alright?” 

She nodded begrudgingly, but the purse to her lips told him it wouldn’t be the last of it. “Ron should be following soon,” she announced stiffly. 

Draco knew Granger was a world renowned legilimens and mind healer, particularly when it came to memory. He suspected most of the world heard about it when the work she’d done to repair her parents’ memories had paid off. He still resented it when she lectured him on the best practices for a willing subject as if he hadn’t been unwillingly tested by his aunt all summer long before his sixth year. Harry watched intently from the other end of the kitchen table, looking stiff and uncomfortable. Draco wondered how much he’d missed of the terse exchange between the two of them. 

Just when Granger was winding down, the fireplace turned green and a lanky ginger Draco also remembered painstakingly befriending stepped out of it. “Wow, Malfoy’s really here,” he stood staring for a moment. 

“That’s all you have to say?” Hermione nearly squeaked, indignant. 

“I think I might be in shock; he's wearing Harry's jumper. Give me a minute,” Ron frowned thoughtfully but with a near equal amount of concern. 

“Ronald, be serious about this; it’s a ploy.” She spared Malfoy an irritated glance for his scoff. “How stupid do you think we are?” 

“You, specifically, not much at all,” Draco drawled with posh indifference, waiting for them to tell him Ron still hated him too. “But opinions change.” It left him feeling empty already, thinking of all the fond memories he was about to lose. 

“He's obviously just desperate and plotting. I bet he did this to himself. Probably just to get Harry’s attention,” Granger insisted snidely. Draco almost sighed aloud; he was already so tired of this. Inside, despite all the evidence to the contrary, he still felt they had been so much closer than this, than even he and the Weasel. It hurt more to lose what he’d thought he had with Harry of course, but the perceived loss of Granger was a solid second. 

“‘Mione, I’ll be the first to agree he’s a desperate cry for attention in wizard form, but this seems a bit obvious, a touch too straight forward for such a walking complication.” 

Draco sent him a curious, questioning look before all eyes turned to him for a reaction he wouldn’t give them. Instead he looked away disdainfully and wondered; had he and Weasel truly started to become friendly years ago when he first started consulting for the Ministry? He remembered finding they had a lot in common in little ways after being forced to work together for extended periods of time while Draco had begun his contract work. They both held a special kind of contempt for most of their ancestors, for the ministry, and they both had a soft spot for muggle sandwiches that were too large. Draco came to the conclusion that most of that had apparently happened, unless he was hearing code in the form of allusion and understanding where there was just pragmatism. 

One day, a couple of months before starting what he thought he had with Harry, Ron had accused him of being friendly and working to be likeable just to get Harry’s attention. 

“Oh, Weasel, jealousy is an ugly colour on you. I doubt Potter would give me the time of day. And rightly so. I thought for a while when I first started providing consultation for your department that you were lulling me into a false sense of security until you found a way to get rid of me more permanently.”

“I still haven’t ruled it out,” Ron had sneered, a poor imitation of his own. 

“Don’t fret, I’d never be so recklessly bold as to even approach Potter.” 

“That sounds like a desperate cry for attention if I ever heard one.”  

“I’m more complicated than that,” he’d drawled defensively. Ron had laughed agreeably and the suspicions were mostly over after that. 

Granger abruptly brought him back to the present, “Your opinion is noted, Ronald.” The ginger had the audacity to shrug though he smirked at Draco when his wife turned her attention back to what she saw as the problem at hand. Draco had grown friendly toward Weasel even if Granger hadn’t had any kind of relationship with him. Weasley was the consolation prize, the only one he knew to be consistent between memory and reality. “Let's start with the sweater,” she tried again. Draco could see she felt emboldened, figuring the sentiment toward Draco having it would be leaning more in her favour. 

“Hermione-” Harry began to protest. 

“It's a perfectly logical place to start, Potter,” Draco interrupted, refusing to back down; memory invasion and alteration aside, this sweater was his now. He would take ownership of being the one out of sync, but he couldn’t give up the feeling that came attached to the garment because of the memories that still existed within him. False or not, it was too good to let go of. Even when this ended with Granger solving everything so Potter could kick him out and go back to work expecting him to do the same, he knew he would do or say whatever was needed for him to keep the hideously comfortable article of clothing. 

“Exactly, it's something we know has a false origin,” she elaborated primly even though no one had asked her to. Draco barely repressed a sneer. “Tell me about it.”

Harry wanted to object despite Draco’s bravado. Instead, he found himself a bit breathless and averting his gaze, trying not to think about all the blond had already implied about the sweater. He’d given into the realisation that Hermione was likely about to hear and see some embarrassing things concerning himself, but he hadn’t really thought Ron would be over so soon. Harry didn’t really fancy the idea of Ron hearing any sordid details, even if they were made-up. He’d assumed one of the three of them wouldn’t call out from work for Malfoy. 

“I took it as collateral; I demanded it as reassurance Potter wasn’t going to never talk to me again after-” Draco’s voice was confident until he’d stopped himself. Harry saw Ron furrow his brow in a strange kind of concern and found something interesting to study in the scarring of the kitchen table. “Potter let me keep it because he knew I was insecure enough to need it,” he admitted shamefully, desperate for Potter to see him, to know him like he thought he could be known. Green eyes made their way back to him during the quiet pause he hadn’t intended. “You let me keep it after that initial . . . meeting because you, well, I remember you begrudgingly telling me you liked the way I looked in it.”  

Harry swallowed thickly because he very much did like the way Malfoy looked in it. It hung off his slender shoulders at an angle that made him look comfortable and casual in a way Harry could imagine Draco’s version of him would think was intimate. 

Granger coughed pointedly and Potter startled like chastised niffler. Draco scowled but it was short-lived. “Now show me,” she commanded, bringing her wand to point directly in Draco’s face. 

Her casting was immediate and silent. Harry watched Draco’s eyes roll back as he instinctively fought it until he slumped forward and his mouth fell open, soft and lax. Harry looked away, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck. His foot started bouncing as impatience set in with abrupt suddenness. 

Draco found himself among neat little compartments he immediately recognised as his own mind. He’d barely even registered Granger’s casting. She really was as good as everyone said. He moved around in that senseless way that felt like thought; he wasn’t among files or cubicles or boxes, everything just stayed behind a wall without shape or definite mass. Everything just wasn’t until he wanted it to be otherwise. He moved toward a wall that didn’t exist physically until he recognised the memory of his jumper of Weasel origin. He felt embarrassed by how relieved he was that Hermione was so practised he couldn’t even tell she was there, even though he knew she was. He knew he only had the illusion of control; he’d given it to her, even though he didn’t know her and more importantly she didn’t know him. He resisted again out of intrinsic panic when the thought occurred. A sharp pain spiked against the back of his skull and his breath caught in a place where he didn’t breathe so it felt like his brain was hiccoughing. He collapsed in on himself and felt dragged along passively as the wall fell completely. 

He waited gratefully as she skipped over the most soul shattering night of sex he’d had, not that his experience had been all that expansive. He was relieved because he certainly hadn’t wanted her to see it. Instead she graciously allowed it to remain a blur of colour, a messy illusion, until the memory came to life suddenly as the sweater appeared. 

Draco grabbed the knitted atrocity Harry had been wearing. And yes, he was already Harry in his head; Draco felt like he’d been itching for years to call the other by any name aside from that of his family, conversely desperate to be more than just a Malfoy to him. He pulled it on over his head as Harry started to splutter his confusion, possibly indignant outrage. He didn’t care and he shared how little he cared with a haughty head tilt he knew would seem ridiculous wearing the rag, laying flushed and spent in Potter’s bed with absolutely no intent to leave until morning. “I’m keeping it to make sure you don’t try to pretend this never happened.” 

“You think I would?” 

“I didn’t think you’d do any of this until very recently,” he’d argued guardedly. 

“Fine. Prat. You better give it back in one piece.” 

“You think I’d harm- Well, actually, that makes sense. I probably would. So keep that in mind when you try to convince yourself this was a hallucination or something.” 

“Blackmail’s probably not the best way to win me over,” he responded blithely, turning on his side to sling a heavy arm over Draco’s narrow hips. The pressure elevated him and he felt the paradox like contentment. He sighed into the embrace and almost immediately lost all consciousness. 

The next day Potter had smirked and told him it looked weirdly attractive on him and it had been Draco's from then on. It had been a normal memory. It felt like every other memory Draco knew surrounded them in his void-like headscape. Hermione played it again. Then one more time. After that, she grabbed the not too distant memory of him apologising to her after his hearing. 

“For what it’s worth I regret the loss of what little integrity I had. . . now that I feel how it’s gone.” 

“Keep acting like that matters, Malfoy,” she responded cuttingly. 

It was just as she’d said, shallow and stiff. He’d relied on being overly polite to get through most interactions leading up to and directly after his trial; he’d been contrite and mortified. He remembered being terrified to approach her despite the relief of having evaded Azkaban. His memories of all he’d done to fix things between them followed as she sought them out for comparison. Memories began to spin through him and he knew Granger was performing the equivalent of speed reading, skimming over every concession she’d made just to give him his first chance, his surprise to realise she’d give him another. She found his realisation that each occasion was a test he had to pass continuously over an indeterminate amount of time to build trust then his memories of slowly beginning to earn it over many interactions. These memories all felt the same as the jumper, the same as the apology. There was no difference, but Granger slowed the flow when she came to the memory that held the first real recognition of their friendship. 

They watched the memory of what had apparently never happened and then she pulled them out. 

“That was ridiculous, Malfoy. Honestly, I would have thought you smarter than to fall for such an outrageously manufactured lie.” 

“I don’t understand, none of it happened? How do you know the difference?” 

“Clearly, I know because I remember the truth; I lived it.” She took a drink of water and picked up her wand. “I don’t know how the memories are so faultlessly implanted, but I’ll find out.” 

“Wait,” Harry hesitated without really knowing why. 

Ron seemed inclined to agree with the reluctance and that only motivated Draco to finish, then maybe he could find out how many of his memories with Weasel were true. “I’d rather get it over with.”

Harry paced as they went back in. This time for much longer. He considered the possibility that Hermione would view whatever memory Malfoy had that explained how their relationship could be even more different than what the blond had thought existed between him and Hermione. If she thought it ludicrous there was an explanation that led to her befriending Malfoy then how outrageous would the origin story of his relationship with Harry be? 

“So you don’t think Malfoy did this?” Ron asked as if he were investigating. 

“Not really his style, right?” Harry shrugged noncommittally.  

“Right. He’s less likely to be embarrassing himself in front of ‘Mione as part of his own plan. He’s more subversive than that.” 

“That’s an observation I would’ve thought she’d take into consideration,” Harry said, frowning because even to his own ears it sounded like he was defending Malfoy. 

“She’s not looking at this like a puzzle yet, not really,” Ron answered easily. “She’s still looking at it like an attack.” 

“It probably is, but I don’t think Malfoy’s the attacker.” 

“No, seems more like he’s collateral damage.” 

“Or a distraction.”

Ron looked thoughtful, “hadn’t thought of that yet.” He nodded. “It seems a hell of a lot more likely than the Malfoy we know submitting to my wife rooting around in his brain.” 

Harry hummed agreeably, but then retreated deep into his own thoughts about the Malfoy they knew. 

Hermione huffed herself back to the physical plane loudly enough her irritation almost masked Malfoy’s pained groaning. “I can’t know which ones are the true memories because it’s not as though I was there to experience all of them with him. There is no distinguishably different quality from any of his school memories I know happened versus the adult ones where any of them could be real, aside from the ones with Harry that I know are obviously fake like getting the sweater. There’s not even a trace of the spell that placed or created them,” she glared at Malfoy while she spoke as if she were certain it was his doing. He didn’t see the expression; he was holding his platinum head low in his hands, but Harry could tell he’d been listening by the way his shoulders tensed and he almost lifted his head during her pause. “It’s an indiscernible mess in there. I start to pull on one thing I know is false but ten other things are inexplicably drawn to follow it into the void.” 

“That’s his brain and his life you’re talking about, ‘Mione,” Ron said with the air of a husband casually reminding his wife about a weekly dinner with his parents. 

Hermione seemed to come back to herself a bit more with a furrowed brow, working to find her way to the empathy they knew she tended to completely forsake when she surrendered totally to logic. “The point is, I can tell there are implanted memories, obviously, but it was well done to the point of intricacy. Yet, there is absolutely no sign of any spell cast that would do so.” 

“You make it sound impossible,” Malfoy said, finally raising his head. Puffy, exhausted eyes glanced at Harry, brief like a flash from a sickle in the sun, to see how he was reacting to the information and he realised he hadn’t been. He’d been totally engrossed in the defeated blond head in front of him. 

“Well, some potions can be completely used up without leaving any residue behind; though I’m sure you knew that,” she responded more like it was an accusation than an answer. “But mostly it sounds impossible because it should be. Luckily, magical impossibilities are one of my many specialities. I have a few thoughts. I’ll work on them a bit and let you know when I have something to share.” 

“Work on it for how long?” Draco questioned instead of asking her how magical impossibilities were her specialty; he didn’t have the energy to care. 

“Who knows? I have a life, you know.” 

“So I have to stay here?” 

“So sorry we don’t have a dungeon to accommodate you more fairly,” she apologised facetiously. Malfoy scowled because he’d winced, but supposed he deserved it. 

“She’s not joking but she doesn’t really mean it,” Ron added helpfully. 

“We shouldn’t trust him here if this is where the spell has pushed him,” she ignored her husband’s addendum. 

“Are you offering up the Den?”

“I don’t even like that you know the name of my home,” she let the scorn in her tone and demeanour answer the question she didn’t bother finishing her reply to. 

“If we sent him home, would he just wind up back here with less memory?” Ron wondered. 

“Or maybe somebody different would show up thinking we were together instead?” Draco scowled severely at Harry’s somehow-worse-case-scenario so he shrugged sheepishly. “I don’t want a whole horde of Slytherins getting convinced they’re in love with me. I’m worried enough that Malfoy won’t survive the embarrassment when he gets back to normal; I don’t want to be blamed for the whole house offing themselves in fits of mortification.” Harry noticed Malfoy’s eyebrow had raised and his scowl had only intensified. “He can stay here, I really don’t think there’s any harm to be done here. I’ve got wards and-” 

“You’re not suggesting we leave him unguarded when someone’s messing with his head, are you?” Ron countered with concern before Hermione could answer. 

“But the aurors-” Harry started. 

“Have been trying to get you to go on vacation for years,” Hermione pointed out despite the still present frown she held onto demonstrating her lack of approval for the idea. 

“You haven’t had a day off in years?” Malfoy asked, sounding somewhat mortified and obviously confused. Harry wondered if the other man had fantastical memories of life-altering vacations with him and then started to consider what that would even look like. He literally couldn’t imagine it, even if he just tried to see himself going on a future vacation, a real one, after all this madness was dealt with. 

“I get the weekends off,” Harry shrugged as if it didn’t matter because it didn’t. He never did enough with his free time that it couldn’t fit in the space of every other or every third weekend. 

“Cough,” Ron said flatly, holding his hand over his mouth as if he had done more than just state the word. Potter turned slightly red as he scowled in response and Draco didn’t have to remember or wonder how he and Weasel had eventually become friends. It was becoming more obvious and Draco felt comfortable smirking about it. 

“Okay, most weekends,” Harry conceded reluctantly since his best mate saw fit to betray him. “Terribly inconvenient for bad wizards to not let me have every weekend. It’s as if they have no respect for the law,” he said drily. “Gasp,” he deadpanned at Ron in retaliation. 

Draco laughed freely at Harry, belatedly bringing his hand up over his mouth to stifle the mirth when he realised that the memories he had of laughing comfortably in front of the trio had been forced on him, had replaced reality. Harry stared for a moment that seemed longer than it was. 

“Fair sentiment, mate, but you and I both know the chances are more like sixty-five/thirty-five at best and that’s not in favour of the weekend,” he clapped Potter brusquely on the back, too roughly, an action that had always caused Draco to cringe or wince. To be fair, sometimes it seemed like a bit much for Harry as well. Especially when they had been young and he’d been so much more slight than his best mate. 

“Sod it all, then,” Draco announced to the room at large, not even paying attention to whatever remark of Potter’s he’d interrupted. He’d been busy ruminating about his memories of the ginger plight he wanted to call a friend. The conversation would eventually come back around to him, his false perceptions. That’s all he needed to know to be sure he was done for the day. He stood and headed briskly to the other side of the kitchen. “I’m going to get pissed. Note that the Fire Whiskey is exactly where I remember it to be. Answer that with your coveted logic, Granger," he challenged as he retrieved the bottle. "Weasel?” he offered as he reached for a second glass. 

“Yea, might as well give me a belt.” Harry looked to be at a complete loss at Weasley’s friendly tone, a nonplussed expression plastered to his face while his hand scrubbed through his hair. “What ‘Mione? I told you, he’s been consulting for the department,” Weasley offered in response to Granger, who seemed practically aghast. Together the responses made Draco feel lighter than he had since he'd first shown up at Grimmauld Place. 

Harry had seen the blond increasingly more frequently and heard he provided information to the aurors, but no one Harry worked with closely had interacted much with Malfoy, not that he suspected any of them would, if given the opportunity. He would have thought Ron would have told him if he’d worked with him though, so maybe everyone had worked with the ponce and just didn’t tell him. He wondered if their past was really that well-known. 

“So when you were going out for drinks after work with new friends I ‘wouldn’t be interested in’?” Hermione scowled when she raised her fingers to signify she was directly quoting him. 

Ron immediately went for the loose shrug and abashed expression that so often worked in his favour. “Yea, it’s been Malfoy most of the time, though Zabini is always good for lunch too. Bloody hilarious mess of a bloke, he is.” Draco scowled, he was on better terms with Blaise than he had been in school even; if those memories were to be trusted. Weasel accepted the drink, staring at it for a moment instead of addressing either of his people. “I didn’t know how to tell you yet. I was working up the courage.” 

Harry would have to hound his best mate later for an answer to why he’d been left in the dark. He had a feeling he wouldn’t like the details of the explanation, but needed them anyhow. He strongly suspected he’d hear, ‘you know how you can get’ or some derivation of it at least once. He held off a frown, but let his brow furrow. “So you’ve been willingly spending time with him?” Harry asked no one in particular. 

“Yes,” both men answered him at the same time, but Malfoy continued speaking while Ron took a drink that looked like it was supposed to hide his thin smile. “In fact, those memories are also indistinguishable from any others you’ve told me were false. I was consulting for several departments in the Ministry, including Weasley’s over the last five years or so.” 

“Then he’s been getting to know Ron for these lies,” Hermione concluded. “For all we know, the two weeks I can’t find in there show him planning and carrying out preparation for this whole ordeal, Harry.” 

“This is tricky, ‘Mione; sure, we know they’re lies, but is he really lying if he doesn’t know what the truth is?” Ron wondered. 

“Yes! If it’s not the correct, real version of things then it’s lying by definition.” 

“It’s not his lie, Hermione,” Harry said, confident in the statement despite the lack of evidence supporting it. 

“Give me Veritaserum-” the blond started eagerly. 

She scoffed and it was full of condescension. “That won’t work because without the true memories, you genuinely believe all this outrageous nonsense that’s been put in place of reality.” 

Harry scowled more to himself than because he was expressing disapproval to Hermione; this was the truth for Malfoy now. All of it was the only truth he was allowed to know after whatever had happened to him. Harry was unable to refuse the empathy he felt welling up as he watched Draco still trying not to tremble after being violated in a way Harry was all too familiar with. He saw the way the blond guided all the irascible tension to clench his jaw, determined to keep his teeth from chattering. 

“I think this is as far as we’re going to get today, ‘Mione,” Ron announced brightly and she rolled her eyes, but sighed her acquiescence when Harry nodded agreeably. 

Draco stared blankly into the fire as Granger cautioned Potter again. She took the time to clap a hand above his forearm with Weasley energy and told him to get some rest since he had the day off before turning the flames viridian. Draco was too exhausted to tear his gaze away. His eyes burned and he tried to remember how his body was supposed to feel while he fought to remain upright against waves of memories that had been so violently stirred to the surface. 

“I’m going to make some hot chocolate,” Harry announced to Malfoy’s catatonic profile, putting the liquor away. 

Draco realised if the Weasel had told him goodbye, he hadn’t heard it because it was just he and Harry again. “Why do you really believe I’m not in on it?” Draco asked quietly, desperate to keep the shuddering out of his voice. He knew he failed. It was too hard to put up defences around the other man after all Granger had put him through. 

Harry paused at the pantry, his brow furrowed, Draco hadn’t thought it would require such intense thought. He suspected the Gryffindor would respond on instinct one way or the other. 

“The Draco Malfoy I knew would have known better than to think I’d fall for this. You at least know me better than that.” His hand went to the back of his nape, but restlessly moved on to smooth down his fringe after the second thing he’d said. 

“Apparently not though, since you are falling for it. Not kicking me out or arresting me,” Malfoy argued, giving the man a break since he’d been both embarrassed and still kind somehow, which Draco thought ridiculous considering their circumstances. 

Potter smirked, while stirring ingredients combining over the heat; the simmering concoction released rich, sweet scents into the air. “The Draco Malfoy I knew never knew me as well as he thought he did.” 

Draco flushed, suddenly very warm and it felt like more than memory, it was a reaction he was having in the moment, a moment wherein a very present Potter seemed to be teasing him, while actively working to comfort him. “Then I suppose the Harry Potter I never really knew had always known me better than I suspected,” Draco replied, making his voice velvet and lips hint at a leer he wanted to twist into a challenge. Draco was pleased to find Potter a little flustered and momentarily speechless. 

Rather than reply, Harry busied himself with pouring the hot chocolate. He put caramel on the bottom of Malfoy’s cup and absurdly tiny, crisp marshmallow treats on top. His own was half milk with nutmeg sprinkled over it. 

The blond acknowledged the difference in appearance with a raised eyebrow, but all Harry did was send a glance of daring apathy before sipping his own more savoury version of the drink.

Chapter Text

Hermione’s first session felt like less than a success and left Harry full of an energetic kind of stress that had him pacing the length of the old table up one side and down the other after he cleaned up the warm room. He’d barely gotten the ponce to eat brunch before Malfoy had excused himself for what Harry quickly learned was a nap. The blond had been quiet, withdrawn, snarkless and it bothered Harry to have him leave without discussing what had happened or what they would do next.

He hadn’t wanted to press the issue though so he’d paced, irritated, in the kitchen until he couldn’t stand not knowing what the other man had left to do and tapped into wards intelligent enough to know that the soft snoring coming from the blond-frustration’s guest room when he walked by to use the loo was genuine. He could only continue to pace and plan afterward. 

Harry realised he would have to go to Draco’s work, interact with people who would know if the two weeks he couldn’t remember were normal and he just didn’t have memories of that time or if he’d really been missing during that time like he feared. Harry continued his anxious ruminations through lunch time and only stopped pacing to begin preparing for a dinner he suspected would be underappreciated. 

He decided he would take his time with a Shepherd's pie and come up with something for dessert while that was cooking. He also decided he needed to investigate Malfoy without the prat tagging along. He thought Ron could watch him, as penance, and brought up the idea as soon as he heard footsteps on the kitchen stairs. 

“I’m going to have to go around, ask some questions,” Harry announced without turning away from his food preparation. 

“Yes, I figured you would need to do your job,” Malfoy’s tone was blithe but underscored with bitterness Harry hadn’t necessarily expected. He turned to see the blond still wearing the Weasley sweater, but it was rumpled and his hair was mussed as if he hadn’t bothered to look in the mirror before coming down after his five hour nap. 

“Bad sleep then?” 

“Well, I woke up and this is still happening so it certainly could have been better,” he drawled as he stepped off the last stair and looked around the kitchen as if he had genuinely expected something other than what he saw. 

“Alright then,” Harry acquiesced apathetically. 

“Is there tea?” he asked with less masking. Without the cultured, waspish emphasis in his tone, he just sounded tired. 

“Course, water should still be hot,” Harry answered as he sent the tea things following the kettle Malfoy summoned from the stove as he sat down at the table. His every movement seemed sluggish, careful, still exhausted. “Shepherd's pie is almost done.” 

“You know how to make Shepherd's pie and you’ve served me only hot cereal and pancakes?” 

“Well maybe lunch would have been to your liking if you hadn’t decided to default on your beauty sleep.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked indignantly and combed his fingers through his hair. His fringe fell to the side, looking shaggy and uneven after being rifled through. Harry recognised it looked much better that way, rather than slicked back as he’d seen the man still wore fairly often whenever he’d briefly seen him out and about before all this. 

“Your nap,” Harry offered shortly. 

“Yes, Potter, I meant-” 

“So you didn’t remember me cooking anything good for you?” He asked rather than explain to Malfoy that he had been commenting on his appearance. 

Malfoy scowled at the interruption but took a moment to sincerely consider the question. “No, you’ve been . . . Well, I thought- I remember you being too busy for much cooking. Mostly just sandwiches, take out, some easy things,” he smiled like he could laugh and Harry was again caught off guard by the pleasant expression on such a snobbish face, “amusing catastrophes whenever you dared to try more than standard breakfast fare.” His pale eyebrows drew together, forming thin lines of upset on his alabaster brow, “Soup when I was sick . . .” He trailed off to pay attention to his tea and Harry could tell he was done reminiscing. 

“That’s not surprising, my cooking skills are mostly secret despite how legendary they are among my closer friends. Other people think Kreacher has really taken to the kitchen.” Harry laughed with little real humour but continued drily, when Malfoy continued to stare into his tea. “Ron always wondered why I didn't give that information to the press. He said it would mean so much to the public, thinking it would cost me so little, knowing how witches like his mum like tidbits like that in their Witch Weekly or whatever. He thinks my cooking is reflective of growing up around her. I think Hermione knows more about how much it has to do with the Dursleys than I could ever admit.” 

“They taught you how to cook?”

“Demanded I cook, more like.”

Malfoy scowled, but made an obvious attempt not to jump to conclusions or judge, “Well, I suppose if it’s a talent you have, fostering it-”

Harry found his efforts immediately infuriating. “Did I not tell you about the Dursleys?” He interrupted like it was a challenge because all of a sudden it was. Draco Malfoy most emphatically did not know him and would not get to exercise his newfound respect for muggles on the Dursleys, whom he also most definitely did not know. 

“The muggle side of your mother’s family, yes of course.”

“So I told you they made me sleep in half a closet until I was eleven, then?” He asked with false bravado, not false because he was at all uncertain in his assumption that whoever had done this would not know these things. It was false because he didn’t feel the haughty confidence with which he asked; he started to shake a little, his heavy knees feeling like liquid lead. 

“What?” Malfoy asked incredulously. 

“I must have told you that they locked me in my room after feeling pressured enough from Dumbledore to finally give me the extra one they’d always had? I didn’t even mention that they fed me through a slot in the door for weeks?” Harry paused momentarily so he could steady his breath and watch Malfoy shake his head slowly, as if he wasn’t sure Harry could be serious. “It would have been months, maybe even years, if the Weasley twins and Ron hadn’t come for me or if Dumbledore hadn’t needed to use me in the war like I was a weapon.” He kept his expression cool, his tone dry. 

“No, you didn’t tell me any of that,” Malfoy said softly. 

“That’s because we weren’t together and we only had that conversation in your head. That’s why it’s shallow and simple; it’s not real.”

“Did you tell any of your previous partners about it?”

“What?”

Malfoy seemed emboldened by his hesitation. “Did you?”

“No, I don’t talk about it to anyone,” he said evasively. Malfoy didn’t need to know he didn’t have partners so much as Ginny and a couple sporadic things he couldn’t bring himself to call relationships that over time had confirmed he wasn’t as into having sex with women as he’d once thought he should be. 

“Well, now you’ve told me,” Malfoy said, clearly feeling smug from gaining the knowledge. He returned to his tea, taking a careful sip. More of his fringe fell forward with the action. Harry noted it was too long; it hung in his eyes a bit when it wasn’t brushed back. 

“Only to prove you wrong,” Harry countered with a scowl, running his hands down through his out of control locks. He’d been feeling irascible all day and he could tell his hair showed it. 

“By making me one of your most secret confidants?” he smirked, satisfied like a well-fed kneazle. 

Harry scoffed, “Yea, I suppose I have.” 

“Why would you tell me something like that?” Malfoy asked, allowing true insecurity to colour his tone. His knuckles seemed to pale as if he was suddenly gripping his mug much tighter. 

Harry sighed because he knew why he’d said it, but he didn’t want to admit how much it had bothered him to have Malfoy assume such a terribly incorrect truth about him. “You’ve always been perfectly capable of hurting me without such details, how much worse can you be now that you know?” 

“I’ll never use this information against you, Potter,” Malfoy said with a sincerity that made Harry desperately uncomfortable. 

“I think someone suspects you might.” 

“Then someone picked the wrong person for this,” he said as fiercely as if they were sixteen and fighting again. “I would find the Dursleys and cause them great harm before I would ever tell anyone else about them. I know you can trust me.” He looked down at his folded hands after speaking and Harry knew he thought he was telling an uncomfortable truth. 

“I hate to say it, really, but I don’t see how I could. It's nice to have someone care though, people don’t threaten violence on my behalf much anymore.” 

Potter acquiesced with a lopsided grin that wasn’t much more than a grimace. Draco found it appealing despite the claim that had preceded it. He wouldn’t let himself care that Harry couldn’t trust him. Trust could come later; he reminded himself they had to know eachother again before that. Well, know each other in a real sense before anything like that could occur. 

“You said you had some investigating to do?”

“Er- Yea,” Harry stammered a bit at the suddenness with which Draco changed the subject. “Tomorrow I’ll have to go poke around where you’ve been working, the manor, and-”

“Why the manor?” 

“Well, anything in your life could be-”

He interrupted again, but wasn’t happy about it, “Of course, you haven’t been to my home yet, despite my many memories to the contrary.” He sighed and though it was dramatic it held a note of true defeat. “The manor is hardly in my life. I have a lovely, recently remodelled, flat overlooking the Thames not all that far from here.”  He fished out a keyring with only a few keys and handed it over. 

“Keys?” Harry said, recognising how very non-magical they were in nature as soon as he took them. 

“I have muggle neighbours, Potter. They’re often quite nosy. If a strange man shows up to my place without my keys after I’ve been missing for half a month, I think there will be a different type of investigation.” 

Harry tried to squash his wandering thoughts about how many strange men showed up to Draco’s flat, whether any had ever had keys; he cleared his throat and put the keys in his pocket. “Er right, thanks.” He let himself think about the unbelievable insight that Draco lived among muggles. “Did Lucius kick you out?” 

Draco arched an eyebrow and his lips pursed, “No, Potter. I moved out of that living mausoleum of nightmares the day my house arrest time was served.” He’d actually wanted a flat on Diagon alley, but the only few available had turned him down and he wasn’t willing to settle for a hovel on Knockturn alley. 

Thankfully, Harry was spared backtracking or apologising because his timer for dinner went off and he had an excuse to busy himself serving. 

They ate in stilted silence, both lost in similar thoughts, ruminating on the differences between reality and what they had expected. Harry wouldn’t have expected Draco to assimilate even a little bit and Draco hadn’t expected to still feel so spurned by the assumption of his inherent prejudice. Not from Harry, not while all the memories he had clamoured in his brain, screaming at him that the other man had already come to terms with all the details of his life. Draco went back to bed as soon as the kitchen was cleared.  

The following morning Harry was up early. He hadn’t slept much. What little he had gotten hadn’t been high quality; it had been plagued by dreams he didn’t remember and feelings of guilt he didn’t understand. He decided to go all out for breakfast, aware he hadn’t left Draco feeling great. He was fairly certain they all had very challenging days ahead of them so it would be best. He finished up with the rashers last, after making perfect eggs, sausage and gravy, savoury potatoes, and beans on toast, then huffed to himself because it was nearly ten and the blond hadn’t shown his face. 

He trudged up the stairs, annoyed he had to wake the blond when he had told him the plan yesterday. He knocked on the door, thankful that light was at least shining under the door. 

“So surprisingly polite, Potter,” came a bored drawl from the other side. 

“Breakfast is ready, get decent and come eat,” he said crossly into the dark wood grain. The door opened on a superiorly dressed Malfoy; those were certainly not clothes Harry possessed. The blond was wearing slim-fitted, straight-legged jeans in an icy light blue, distressed and bleached in a couple of strategic places. The shirt he’d paired it with was looser and seemed supremely soft but was a horrible mustard colour. Somehow it looked magnificent on him; his eyes seemed brighter, sharper, and his skin practically glowed. He grabbed a navy blue cable knit and wrapped it tightly around himself after answering the door. He’d obviously been up for hours; he was showered, his hair was combed back, but for a bit of fringe that was swept to the side with flair and lift. The air of his rooms wafted out around him as if the blond had hosted an entire botanical convention earlier this morning. 

“I had Kreacher fetch me some things,” Draco offered an answer to the question Harry didn’t ask. 

“You don’t still have an elf?”

“As I understand it, one does not have elves anymore, Potter. They call it employment now,” he smirked at Harry’s slip up. “The elves who decided to stay with my family have stayed with my family home, as is . . . traditional. They help my father; he needs it these days. I wouldn’t take them from him if I could, even if I did have the inclination to need one.” He sounded superior because he thought he was, but not in regards to Harry and his pathetic servant of the House of Black, just more so than he had been in a general sense, despite Harry’s expectations. 

“Right. Okay,” Harry huffed at his waspishness and his lip twitched a bit before he had the chance to take in his next breath. “Well, breakfast is ready,” he offered shortly, for lack of any more thought out reply. 

“I heard the first time,” the blond’s eyebrow moved like he had repressed the urge to lift it disdainfully. 

“Ron and Hermione will be here before noon,” Harry grumbled then turned to stalk away from the blond, but heard his footsteps fall in behind him. He focused on keeping his teeth from clenching and wondered why he’d even bothered with breakfast or waking up the prat in the first place.

Malfoy caught up effortlessly of course, which only further irked Harry. “So it takes the two of them to babysit me even though you’ve been doing it on your own this whole time?”  

“Ron actually volunteered and Hermione is coming with me,” he took pleasure in pointedly, but humbly, correcting the other man. 

“To investigate my flat?” he asked, pausing to allow Potter to go down the stairs so he wouldn’t see how alarmed he was by the proposition. 

“No, I don’t get that much of her time. She’s going to come with me to help talk to your co-workers and whatnot at the ministry for a few hours before her schedule demands she be elsewhere. I’ll go to your place after that on my own. Unless you’ve laid some traps for me and I should have back-up?” 

“I would say, ‘of course I haven’t,’ but I suppose I don’t really know, do I?” Draco taunted, catching up after the stairs only to have to fall in line behind the other man again to head down into the kitchen. 

It smelled amazing. That was one thing Draco did actually miss about the elves, the meals. He had a terrible thought that led to worse thoughts; maybe the sensation of taste was more difficult to duplicate in false memories? He suddenly saw himself eating all the take out and sandwiches he thought he’d been sharing with Potter alone. It made sense and it weighed down the broken sensation in his chest. 

Harry turned to assess what he wasn’t entirely sure was teasing and must have looked as worried as he felt because the blond continued speaking, though his tone seemed a bit off. 

“Regardless of what has, or more accurately has not, transpired between us, I don’t leave magic laying around my place like that. I don’t trust my landlady not to go poking about in there when I’m not around. She says she wouldn’t unless there were complaints and she failed to get a hold of me, but other tenants have shared rumours and. . . so, no, there won’t be any traps,” he finished a bit abruptly, realising he had started to ramble again with the distressing thought that Potter was about to invade his personal space without him. Somehow, it would be the first time Harry set foot there, despite all the overnights Draco remembered. He’d known this was going to be a long day when he woke up before the sun, but he hadn’t expected so much already. Breakfast was supposed to be the easy part before Weasel and Wife returned. 

“Well, thanks for the reassurance.” Harry said it drily enough Draco knew he had been at least somewhat genuine in his concern. Draco let that realisation hurt because he needed to make sure he felt the real things. 

“I hadn’t meant to be reassuring, really, just informative,” he replied smugly before pulling out the head chair and planting himself in it. He finally tore his gaze away from Potter long enough to acknowledge the bounty before him. “You’ve outdone yourself.” 

“I hadn’t meant to outdo myself,” Harry countered, a pleased smirk overtaking the discomfort and tension he’d started to feel furrowing his brow and stiffening his shoulders. Draco’s eyes had gone wide and though his mouth didn’t hang open, his lips remained parted for a long moment as he took in the sight of all the food. 

Draco served himself from the half dozen platters laid out and only then did he realise how hungry he’d been. His guts had been roiling all morning with unease and anticipation; he hadn’t noticed he was famished. As he ate, it felt like the first home cooked meal he’d had in a long time. It tasted better than all the memories of take out and easy dinners that he remembered combined. He sighed into a bite, “Mmm, I should sleep in more often.” 

“I don’t believe that you slept in,” Harry scoffed then took a large bite. 

“Why ever not?” He asked innocently. 

Harry swallowed approximately half his bite and spoke around the rest of it as he attempted to covertly chew and glance snidely at Draco, “Look at yourself and tell me you had time to sleep in again.” Draco was impressed he didn’t see any food leave the other man’s mouth. 

“Careful, Potter, that’s quite nearly a compliment,” he replied, smirking briefly before taking another bite. 

Harry opened his mouth to reply but the flames in the hearth flashed green and wild, sinking Draco’s stomach. Granger stepped through with Weasel on her heels. Draco sighed again, this time in weariness; he wasn’t ready to face the day despite Harry’s assumptions. He set down his fork and wiped his mouth. Potter scowled at his food abandonment. 

“I don’t think I should have to upend my afternoon plans to hunt down information I don’t care to know,” Granger announced, apropos of nothing, as soon as she noted their presence. “All so Draco Malfoy, of all people, can spend an afternoon with my husband. I could spend the time digging around for the solution to the overarching problem here instead. It would be a wiser use of my exceptionally valuable time. Ron could go talk to ministry officials, who, as a rule, tend to bore and frustrate me.” 

“Don’t you want to know who’s trying to get at Harry?” Draco asked disapprovingly.

“Or why?” Harry asked pointedly as she opened her mouth for what he was sure would be a scathing counter. “Also I said you didn’t have to if you had other obligations.” She shot him a dark look but declined answering long enough to again be cut off. 

“He’s the only clue we have unless we find out more about what he’s been up to,” Ron added. 

“The answer could still be somewhere in the implanted memories, but I don’t want to miss anything and I don’t want you to exhaust- erm, our single clue.” Harry offered after the equally displeased look she shot Ron’s way. Harry received one from the blond in exchange for his diplomatic efforts. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, “Who would even know this much about me?” 

“Well, uhm,” Weasley started, but stopped momentarily before continuing on, “I mean if that bint Skeeter could get enough information to sell an unauthorised biography, then it’s out there. Maybe not all in one place, but people love talking about you Harry. I’ve had a lot of conversations with a lot of blokes in a lot of pubs about you.” 

“Thanks Ron,” Harry said stiffly. 

“It’s not like that. People want to know that you really are a good guy.” He shrugged, abashed.  “They want the sidekick to tell them they can love their hero because of who he is, not despite it.” 

Before Harry could admonish him for the terms 'hero' and 'sidekick' Hermione interjected in a rather unimpressed tone, “I’m sure that line worked on a few women too, Ronald.” 

“C’mon ‘Mione,” he groaned and she flashed a toothy grin that let him know he wasn’t in the doghouse. How did Draco understand this wordless exchange between them if they weren’t both his friends? How many of the memories of long talks with Harry were really just information Weasel had let slip casually? Draco recalled a wine soaked, lazy conversation with Harry wherein he learned that Ron and Hermione had been separated and seeing other people for a bit over a year before coming back together. Instead, in reality, there was likely only a mundane night at the pub with Weasel. He broke a bit more precisely; it felt like a substantially more critical hit to know that Potter would be the lie in every one of his memories. 

“Right,” Harry announced like it was an agreement despite his guarded tone. Draco looked back up from the food he no longer had the appetite for and saw a perturbed sort of analysis still on Potter’s face; he looked to Hermione abruptly. Draco realised he’d been being studied and Harry had seemed genuinely concerned at whatever passive melancholy had been lingering on his face as he’d been lost in thought. He managed not to smirk as everyone exchanged brief goodbyes before they split into pairs and Harry left with Granger through the floo. 

“So do you have to stick with me or am I allowed to go nap?” Draco asked imperiously. 

“It’s not like that and you know it, Ferret,” he clapped him on the shoulder and grinned a little oafishly at Draco’s subsequent wince. 

“Barbaric; everything about you is feral, Weasel,” Draco accused, but his tone was one of simple complaint rather than reproach as he vigorously rubbed his scapula. 

“C’mon, this isn’t ideal, but honestly, I kind of missed you when you didn’t show up to our Friday Sandwich date two weeks in a row.” 

“Likely only because you had to pay for your own sandwich,” Draco scoffed, mostly disbelieving. 

“The first week I thought you were just late so I paid for yours too,” Ron answered earnestly despite his attitude. “Though ‘Mione did like it alright.” 

Draco’s throat felt thick again and he hated how conversely thin it made his voice sound, “Also it’s not a date. I’d never date you.” 

“Too poor or too roguishly handsome?” Ron asked and it felt familiar, through many memories of insulting volleys. 

“Neither. You’d eat me out of house and home,” Draco answered with a sneer in his voice, but only the smirk on his face. 

Ron laughed, loud and exasperated. Draco let himself smile genuinely. 

“So what do you want to do? Don’t say shopping; Hermione said that if you really thought of me as a friend you’d probably make me go shopping with you and I can’t. Don’t let her be right.” 

“I’d also never take you shopping; I’d only want valuable input.”

“Fair enough,” he said, smiling more sincerely, with less irritation. 

Draco tried to think of something he would find comforting while Potter ransacked his life. The only things that came to mind were, ‘Bitch about it to Potter,’ ‘cry about it on Potter’s lap,’ and ‘Get Potter to fight the Potter ransacking his life.’ He stopped himself there because Ronald was still looking for a response. “I think I’d just like some fresh air, maybe a walk along the Thames?” 

“Boring but sure,” he agreed brightly. “Not toward your place though,” he added as if he were very cleverly preventing Draco’s interference already. 

“If I wanted to be at my place, I would have been by now.” 

Ron shrugged, but started tidying up Harry’s kitchen and Draco followed suit. They finished and headed outside, facing a brisk, sharp wind and a sky that promised rain. 

“Change your mind?” Ron questioned, but it sounded distinctly like a request. 

“Not a chance now that I suspect you hate it.” Draco cast a nonverbal impervious charm over himself and started walking toward the river he knew wound itself through London not far from Islington. Well, far enough that he thought it could be punishment if Weasel genuinely didn’t care for a moody walk through London. 

“How do I deserve that?” Weasley asked as he stepped in time to Draco’s brisk pace. 

“You’ve had me wondering how much of my life is real with you in it and haven’t even offered to fill me in,” he informed, genuine in his impatience and his confusion. He abruptly realised he had been feeling like he was grieving since he’d forced himself to believe he was the one out of step mostly just because that made more sense. In a way he was; he’d lost so much even though he’d never truly had any of it. He felt his throat tighten enough to indicate he would be mourning openly if he were alone. 

“How would I know what you don’t know?” Ronald asked and then his features pinched like he thought about what he said only after he’d said it. 

After an explosive sigh that blew forcefully over a note of repressed hysteria, Draco collected himself. “You’re infuriating,” Draco accused flatly, glaring sideways at the ginger. 

“I’ve heard that before,” he pointed out as if it could be considered helpful. 

Draco decided he couldn’t stand it any longer and had to dive head first into verifying one memory about Harry he thought could still be true, one night that could make a difference in his current reality. “Did you or did you not, on one very drunken night, after a very bad day for the aurors, tell me that I was the kind of guy Harry kept looking for?” 

“I was too drunk,” Weasley started defensively despite his brief nod. Draco realised he’d dug his fingernails into his palms, fists clenched tightly in anticipation of an answer and released them, feeling a shaky kind of relief that whispered through his chest like a faint hope. “We thought Harry’s partner wasn’t going to make it; he was torn up, laid up in hospital with no estimated date of release. They had just gone out on their first date the previous weekend.”

“So it happened, you said that to me?”

“Yea,” he admitted reluctantly. “I’d only told you because Harry thought that guy could be a real thing and before he hadn’t let himself consider that any of them could've been.” 

“But he wasn’t?” Draco inquired then held a hand over his mouth in honest distress, “Did he lose him then?” He didn’t want to get Potter only because he’d already lost his person. 

“Not then,” Ron answered. “Later he quit the aurors and without the common ground the job had given them, they fell apart pretty quickly.” 

“Well, that sounds like reason enough to get drunk and interfere with his personal life,” Draco offered the jab, hoping to distract the Weasel from his own misplaced guilt. 

“It felt like it at the time,” Ron replied guardedly. 

He decided to try for a more humble approach to ease the Weasel’s regret. “Well, thank Merlin regardless of how terribly sad that whole story is. I’ve lost so much of who I wish I was, Weasley. I needed that. Thank you.”

“I knew, you know? Before this happened. I knew you- I realised you fancied him,” Weasley said, wearing a desperately uncomfortable expression. 

“I- what?” It was like Draco’s heart stuttered in his throat. No one had admitted aloud what he’d felt through all this. He’d been left to wallow, feeling what everyone continued to remind him were invalid emotions with every fibre of his being since coming back to consciousness on the stoop of Number Twelve. 

“Well, I know that you wanted to. It was obvious even though you never asked after him, not once, maybe it was easy to spot because of that. You came alive whenever I mentioned him. I kept telling you about him because you needed it and wouldn’t give yourself anything else. You never give yourself anything. You’re worse than ‘Mione.” 

“So all I know is from you?” 

“How would I know what you know?” he laughed. “But that doesn't explain the Fidelus; I’m not Harry’s secret keeper. I didn’t pay attention to where he keeps his liquor and I sure as Hell hadn’t the gall to give you one of his sweaters.”  

It also didn’t explain all the implanted memories, but neither of them bothered pointing out such an obvious thing. “Did you ever talk to him about me?” He asked hopefully, knowing the answer already. 

“Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. Only a handful of people outside my department know that we’re friendly even, but you don’t have as bad a reputation anymore as you might think.” 

“I remember being practically redeemed. I suppose that should have been my first hint that none of this was real.” 

“Hey,” Weasel admonished with surprisingly sincere reproach. Draco glanced at him sideways to see concern in his scowl and quickly looked away again. “I haven't heard you talk like that in almost a year.” 

“Well, I haven’t felt like this in . . . ever. I wish I never had these memories.” 

“I’m ready to wallop whoever thinks they can mess with us like this.” 

“Elegant as ever, Weasel.”

“Yea well, ‘Mione says we can’t even take them away now that she knows they’re all intertwined or rooted in reality since I told her about our talks. And I told her . . . well, I told her all of it.”

“All of what? What does she know that I don't?” Draco asked apprehensively over the steady patter of thick rain. 

“I was planning on inviting you to Chrismtas this year. I thought I could smooth things over enough by then and after last year, what with your mum-”

“Don’t-” Draco couldn’t think about losing his mother, he couldn’t afford to see that memory riddled with a Potter shaped vacancy like he did when forcing himself to analyse all other memories. It wasn’t real unless it could stand on its own when he skipped over all Potter’s participation in them despite how much he remembered relying on the other man during that time. He didn’t think he could survive it hurting even more than he remembered. 

“Well, I still had a couple months. I was going to tell Hermione and then, with a lot of bargaining and concessions on my part, I was going to convince her to help me tell Harry. I thought it would work. I already talked to Mum about it.”

“And?” Draco choked, his throat clicked, dry and strained. 

“She said she’d hate to think of you alone for Christmas, of course.” 

“She really doesn’t blame me for Fred?” How could this be real? Information he hadn’t had yet it followed the same track, ran to the same forgiveness and acceptance that Granger had made him think he’d never had, and wouldn’t ever get. 

“She really doesn’t. She told me she could never blame a child for his part in his parent’s war, any more than she could have let Harry walk into the forest at the Battle of Hogwarts if she’d known.” Weasel’s expression soured a bit, turning painful before he could continue. “I saw your face when Fred died, when that wall exploded; it wasn’t a victory for you. I hated you even more when the dust settled that day, but I thought you looked like you hated yourself more,” he paused, looking almost abashed in his honesty.  “Which also appeased some deep, darkly upset part of me at the time.” 

“I did, I always have,” Draco offered rather than remember exactly how much he’d hated and pitied himself as he’d sat in the Great Hall surrounded by a victory that could never feel like his and mourning he’d never forget. 

“I know, Ferret,” he said and it wasn’t pity, but it sounded a bit morose all the same; sadness he offered Draco like empathy. His eyes burned as the ginger continued speaking, “So, you wanna come to the burrow for supper tonight?” 

He sniffed, hoping it sounded imperious. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

Molly Weasley was as promised: motherly and inclusive. He thought her practically saintly to move past his childhood transgressions and treat him like a guest.  It was something he hadn’t believed the first time, rather the false time, around. The burrow was as he knew it to be, warm and cosy, cluttered and mismatched. However, it was more crowded than he’d expected it to be. 

All the older Weasley children were there, aside from Charlie. Some had small children in tow that ran around, bursting into rooms and dodging adults with the graceless speed of the very young. There were also a couple Order members hanging out in the kitchen with Molly and Arthur, and some random ministry employees he recognised from Arthur’s department. Then there were a few of his classmates. He tried for so long to decide for himself whether his memories of interacting with them were real or shallow and false. Finally, he did the only thing he thought he could and participated in the reality currently unfolding around him. 

“I didn’t realise the two of you were going together, congratulations” he said, approaching Luna who was watching Dean fetch them two beverages that bubbled gold and sparked green and orange.

“Oh yes, it’s been lovely,” she sighed pleasantly, smiling grandly when Dean glanced over his shoulder and saw her watching him. “It’s a trauma bond though so I don’t expect it to last much longer.” 

Draco winced but she kissed him on the cheek. “You were the least of our trauma, Draco.” He noted that he’d still contributed because of course he had. Dean came up just then, when all thought and speech had been chased from his brain. 

“Aw, bullocks. Did you tell him about your insecurity, La?” He kissed her forehead and swept her hair over her shoulder. “It upsets people when you do that; people want us to last forever, like I do.” He grinned and she swiped one finger down his nose before hugging him. 

“I want that too, but you’ll heal and move on.” 

“She always brings it up like that,” he said over her shoulder as he rubbed her back in slow circles. “Sorry. Well, not really sorry, you deserve to be confused and uncomfortable, but sorry she told you anyhow.” She looked up, smiling brilliantly into his face before a beautiful, small, strawberry blond child ran up, grabbed her hand and hauled her away as she laughed unreservedly. 

“That’s more than fair enough.”

“It is,” he said pointedly, then shrugged. “Good of you to acknowledge it.” 

“I have before,” he said so uncertainly it sounded like a question. 

“What?” 

“Didn’t I send you a letter?” He asked softly, the anxious fear of the truth sending off klaxons in his brain. 

“Nah, wouldn’t have read it anyway, but seeing your face, all pale and sick like you might upchuck, is doing wonders for my disposition, Malfoy. You look like shite.” 

“Guilt suits me I suppose.”

“Ha! That’s just the right kind of not funny. Self deprecation suits you too.” 

“I had wanted to write you, the both of you.” He remembered visiting Ollivander and assumed that must have been false as well. “I’m sorry.” He added when Thomas only raised an eyebrow at his first declaration. 

“I heard you at your trial,” he replied firmly. 

“I know, I-” he swallowed against the knot in his throat, interrupting himself. 

“It didn’t mean much then and it means even less now.”

“How can that be?” 

“Then you were afraid; now, time has had us move on. The past only matters when we allow for it. I let go of the anger and hate I had because otherwise I wouldn’t have healed. I had to, for her, so she would believe me.”

“She doesn't though.”

“She will,” he said with a thoughtful smile. 

“When?”

“Whenever she realises I’m never leaving.” He gripped Draco’s clavicle harder than the blond thought should be necessary and his smile was more of a grimace, but it obviously took a Herculean effort to not find that hate and anger so it could fuel some light bludgeoning despite Dean’s self diagnosed well-being. “I never needed a letter from you. I just need to know that you’re no longer a worthless waste of a soul.” 

“Am I not?” Draco wanted it to be a challenge, full of haughty disdain, but he knew he wanted a genuine answer; he didn’t know who he was anymore. 

“I’ve heard some stuff that makes me think maybe you’re not, but I bet it’s just one of those things some of us will believe until we don’t.” Draco heard the repeated logic from Thomas’ own proclamation, and heard the demand for commitment in it. 

“I may be a bit of a waste still, but I’m certainly not worthless,” he said imperiously. 

“We’ll believe it as long as we keep seeing it then I guess. Good luck not fucking it up, mate.” 

“Thank you,” Draco responded a bit stiffly. He wondered how many times he’d find his memories to be useless as he looked around for Ron among the various, erratic ginger mops. 

“I should go,” Draco told Ron under his breath as he crept up beside the man. He noticed George Weasley’s wife narrowed her eyes at his covert demeanour. 

“What? Why?” 

Draco only raised a disbelieving eyebrow as his answer. 

“Right. Well, I think people should know that you’re different and this is a safer space than most.”

“You only think that because it’s your home, Weasel. And I’m only different because I have false memories telling me I am,” he hissed, feeling defensive and vulnerable. 

“You’ve been different than you were for years, Malfoy. That’s still true,” Weasel replied with a scowl full of concern and disagreement. 

Draco sighed, the compliment weighing heavy somewhere near his trachea. “I feel desperate for some of these people to like me because I already remember getting to that point. I want to be comfortable here, but I can’t because I’ve never belonged here. I hate that I’m the one who’s not real. I want there to be someone who knows me and still cares about me.” 

“What am I then?” 

“Sure, you know me, but I meant- 

“I think I might know you better than you know yourself at the moment, Malfoy.” 

He had a secret suspicion that Hermione’s desperate practice to restore her parents’ memories had left Ron with a couple of missing pieces; something was out of order with the man. Draco barely refrained from pointing that out despite the Weasel thinking it fine to point out Draco’s mental insufficiencies. 

“Do you really care though?” He asked derisively instead, because how could he? How could he ever after what had happened to his family?

“Yea, you pointy git, otherwise I wouldn’t’ve brought you here.” 

“Why am I here? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing.” 

“Just be a person, you prat. Everyone here knew you’d be here and still came. Just talk to them, they know about my secret sandwich shame sham dates,” he grinned stupidly but when Draco remained impassive he rolled his eyes and continued. “A lot of them know how much you’ve done for my dad, for our department in general, and most of those that don’t are at least aware that you’ve been doing good work for the ministry.” 

“We were kicked out of the kitchen,” George interrupted, jerking a thumb over his shoulder toward their mother. Draco saw he had been followed by a small clutch made up of mostly gingers. 

“What’s the secret meeting for?” the twin’s wife asked. 

“No secret,” Draco denied. 

“Malfoy was thinking about leaving,” Ron tattled casually. 

“Ronald!” They looked at him with varying degrees of oddly, uncomfortably, perplexed expressions. He supposed that meant he was the only one to call him Ronald aside from his mother and his wife. It felt a little daunting, but of course he also enjoyed how reactionary this detail of his true self made everyone; it was entertaining in a way that felt very classic. 

“Clearly. Look at him, about to pass out or take flight from the looks of him,” Angelina commented idly as if it wouldn’t get his defences up.  

“He looks tidy though, well-dressed like ‘ee cared about coming ‘ere,” Fluer observed, her accent was not as strong as he’d remembered and he wondered how much time they spent here. He focused on that instead of letting the feeling of being under a magnifying glass overtake rational thought. The sensation only continued to intensify as the scrutinisation by people searching for flaws they all knew he had. George continued to stare in a mostly blank, apathetic way he found disconcerting while his wife nodded, taking in his outfit as Fluer had suggested. 

“I thought you’d gone back to France last weekend?” Draco asked haughtily as he could manage without sounding like he was sneering. 

“It’s just a hop, skip, and a jump to come back for a dinner with special guests,” Bill supplied while Fluer looked mildly surprised that Draco had known. 

“Yes, can’t miss an opportunity to see Thomas and Lovegood, I’m sure,” Draco drawled and this time he did let himself sneer just a bit. He hadn’t wanted to be a show. 

“We came back to support Ron, maybe take the piss out of him,” Bill answered evenly. “What d’you want to leave for? You haven't eaten anything yet. You’ll hurt Mum’s feelings,” he pointed out diplomatically. 

“I seem to have lost my appetite and I think most people here would be more comfortable if I left,” Draco kept his voice from wavering by repeatedly clenching his toes in his shoes. 

“No, you’d be more comfortable,” George accused evenly. “You wouldn’t be facing all these things about your past.”

“True enough, but wouldn’t you admit that I-” Draco started, trying to find a way to let them know he knew he was hated without being piteous about it. 

“No one here holds you responsible for the worst things in the whole bloody war, Malfoy,” George insisted in a tone that implied maybe he wanted to. “Awfully conceited of you really, you were never that important. Or impressive,” he added brightly. 

“He’s being arsey about it, but the sentiment remains the same,” Bill extrapolated.

“But his twin- and you- Greyback- I plotted-” Draco’s brain finally started stuttering at the confrontation, his mouth unfortunately reflected that. 

“Fred was killed in a battle that still would have happened without any of your plotting. I never blamed you for falling headfirst into a war, Draco,” Bill continued more sternly. 

“Well, my ear-” George started and Draco cringed blatantly. 

“At least you can wear ear muffs, or some warm hats. If Bill can forgive a child’s mistakes then so can you,” Angelina countered with a warm smile for her husband. 

“Ear muffs really throw off my lines,” he smirked but it was hollow despite the effort.  “Also, hats are for people much less handsome than me.” Listening to George now was still like listening to the two twins finish each other's thoughts. His sentences were expressive in a couple different clauses, often containing separate sentiments and he talked twice as much as he had when Fred had been alive, but it didn't have the same energy. He was still the life of the party, having brought the suspiciously mood influencing green, sparking drinks, but it came in smaller spurts, like he had to recover from how exhausting he found all the attempts for his own happiness. 

“Bill tried to wear a burka in zee beginning. I applauded his inclusivity. Also eet waz much better zhan zee apiarist outfit,” Fluer’s voice lilted over his guilty, writhing thoughts. 

“I’m still so sorry,” Draco blurted quietly, determined but shaking minutely despite his even tone. Weasel’s hand went instinctively to his elbow and he felt more still, despite being twice as uncomfortable. 

“We don’t need that from you,” George said flatly. 

“We need to move forward,” Bill clarified, gripping George’s shoulder. “Right?” 

The solitary twin nodded, but shrugged him off and left without further comment. “He’s not as mad at you as he wants to be; that’s the real problem,” Angelina offered with a sad smile before heading off after him.  

Some people would always remain in the past because that’s where they’d had to leave them; Fred Weasley was one of those people, and he’d been half of a pair. Before Draco could decide if he wanted to get the comment off his chest or quash it down, they were interrupted by a loud, confident child pulling on Fluer’s sleeve. 

“Victoire says Roxy’s making her arms tired.” Bill laughed, mussing the boy’s tight, auburn coils of hair. He waved an easy peace sign type salute in Draco’s general direction before striding off after his wife who used long, graceful steps as the crowd parted like water for her. “I can help you,” the very small boy said to him when everyone else had walked off. Ron had gone after George as well. 

“Oh can you?” Draco asked, intrigued. 

“I can. Name’s Freddie and I help my baby sister to know what’s real and what’s not all the time. Can you believe she didn’t know about nifflers but thought football couldn’t be real?” He smirked and shook his headful of dark hair; it bounced and light reflected off it, showing how desperately the Weasley red had tried to come through. He still had a generous helping of freckles peppering high on his brown cheeks and bright hazel eyes that already seemed to be laughing. 

Draco actually could believe that; he remembered discovering both of those things and feeling similarly, but he didn’t think he liked where this child’s offer was headed. “You want to tell me what’s real?” 

“Yea, like I know Uncle Harry’s not your boyfriend. He hasn’t had one in awhile. I know lots of real things.” 

“I see.” Draco commented, discomfort overriding his earlier interest. 

“You just come ask Freddie and I’ll let you know what’s what. We’ll say you owe me a favour later for my services now, yea?” 

“Sure thing, Freddie, sounds like a deal.” Draco walked off briskly as soon as the boy’s attention was caught by something else. He had to find a washroom or he was going to explode from this house in a panicked frenzy. 

He found the small, but well-kept loo easily enough and let himself fall apart. A tangible weight tore him down limb by limb, until he had to lean against a doorless wardrobe full of mismatched towels to hold himself upright and he hated it. He hated himself for succumbing to it. He pulled himself together enough to take a glass from the wardrobe and fill it with water from the tap, fighting the urge to sob wretchedly. He mentally berated himself for allowing such a regrettable, pointless experience of acute suffering. 

He breathed desperately for a moment, large, gulping breaths through only his mouth because his nose was clogging after snorting efforts to keep himself together enough to at least prevent snot from flowing. The air rushing past his teeth made them buzz after a few dozen breaths wherein he repeated the mantra, “I’m fine, and even if I’m not, it doesn’t matter,” over and over again under his breath. He knew that tomorrow would come regardless and then today would be over. Like so many times before, his life was out of his hands once more and whatever was going to happen would happen despite how he felt about it. He would just have to collect himself and face it, which terrified him, but was also the absolute best he could manage. He reigned in his vertigo before drinking from the water again, silencing himself once more. 

It jarred him into a shocked silence to realise that there was no one left to care if he had a mental breakdown despite Ron’s reassurance; he was emphatically alone. It was made worse because he could remember how reassuring Harry’s arms were, how warm his skin was, but he wouldn’t be comforting Draco any time soon. Something felt like it snapped, cracked apart when it should have been holding back the panic with his newly found apathetic determination. 

He abruptly recongnised he didn’t have time to examine the break when a familiar voice sounded off on the other side of the door rather urgently. “I need the loo, Malfoy!” He immediately set to work pressing all his terrible feelings down. 

“Don’t you have another?” He nearly shrieked, his face was bright red and splotchy where it wasn’t the deathly kind of pale grey he took on before he threw up or passed out. He could not pass out in the Weasleys’ loo. He tried to breathe through the straw in his throat. 

Ginerva Weasley responded, sounding a bit more annoyed, but also a bit panicked, “I can’t fight the banshee with a bladder this full!” 

“What in the bloody Hell kind of euphemism is that?” he asked, walking to the door out of curiosity, her voice had gotten quieter as she’d spoken like she’d thought about walking away. 

“It’s not, you prat!” She sounded upset enough Draco suspected maybe there was a banshee involved. “I’ll have a wee in the sink if you promise not to tell my mum!” 

“I’m not-”

The door turned and then the youngest Weasel froze, taking in his distressed appearance. Draco clenched his fists as he noted several pairs of eyes only degrees from seeing their confrontation. He jerked her into the room rather than set the whole place to flood which had been his first instinct. He closed the door behind her before any others could witness his vulnerability. 

“You didn’t sound like you were on the pot,” she claimed, sounding defensive but looking nonplussed. 

“Your entire family are latent lyricists, I swear.” 

“Well, you weren’t! What’s the matter with you? What are you in here, not using the loo for?” She took a breath and scrutinised him with a scowl in place. “You look upset, who made you cry? They’re all really good at it when they want to be,” she added the last as she crossed her arms. It seemed she was going to hiss and stage whisper at him until he explained, so he replied to the only one of her questions he had an answer for rather than cursing her mouth shut and apparating as far away as he could. 

“Freddie.”

“Oh,” her brow pinched together. It looked like a strange, uncomfortable kind of concern. 

“I thought Ronald made it clear what was wrong with me,” he extrapolated, turning away from her to cast a glamour over his pallid features, horrified he’d just admitted to Harry’s ex that a child made him have a fit in the loo. 

“Ewe. Only ‘Mione and mum call him that.”

He smirked, pleased to throw her off her own footing a bit. “Well, apparently so do I.” 

“Well, you don’t call Harry, Harry so-”

“That’s different,” he snapped viciously because why had someone even shared that much detail about his current dilemma? Particularly with her. 

“It always is when it’s Harry,” she offered sagely, as if she had great insight and it set his teeth on edge and his chest on fire. 

 “How can you possibly make such a general statement so blatantly implying you understand anything I’m going through?” He hissed back at her. “I’ve spent all this time that doesn’t even exist living a life with him, falling in love only to find that he wasn’t even living the same life. The one person I’ll ever love like that and he’s not going to feel any of this like I have. Don’t you dare act like it’s a common experience we share.” He felt breathless and lightheaded after his rant; he unclenched his fists and turned his back on her to stare at himself in the mirror. He quickly decided to look in the basin instead of at his own pinkened, puffy features and have a breath. 

“Oh I get it,” Ginny said, holding her chin at a defiant tilt. “In fact, hearing you complain about it makes me think maybe it wasn’t me after all.” Her tone indicated disappointment and acceptance more than anger. 

“That’s a bit harsh.” Draco’s knee jerk reaction based on a recently manufactured life of lies caused him to defend the git. He reconsidered, “Though he probably deserves it.” She smirked, gratified as he was by their sudden and united front. “But our situations are substantially different, you had something real.” He kept himself from choking on the last word, but only just, and feared it was still apparent in his voice. 

“Did I though?” She questioned as if she genuinely doubted it. 

“Wasn’t it?” he countered uncertainly, aware that they’d been treading on dangerous grounds for conversation far longer than he thought wise. 

“It was real enough at the time,” she shrugged and it reminded him of Ron, which left him feeling slightly less uneasy which he immediately found foolish. “I figure it took him less time to realise it wasn’t real enough to last than it took me.” 

“How do you know if it’s real enough to last?” He asked, fixing his hair in the mirror. 

“Sometimes it’s pretty obvious,” she said reflectively, then spent a studious, albeit brief, moment to consider him. “You just keep going, you don’t know until you recognise that it’s not.” 

“That’s chaotic and terrible,” he complained, thinking again of Dean’s guileless need to be believed by someone possibly incapable of doing so. He almost snorted, abruptly realising how ridiculous it was that there was something so simple and obvious, yet Lovegood could believe in creatures no one but her equally odd father agreed existed. 

“That’s just life. And change, sometimes it’s like that,” she rolled her shoulders again, but it seemed to have lost momentum, then gave him a once over. “You look better, now get out. Mum said food’s almost ready, Ferret.” 

“Only Weasel gets to call me that.” 

“Riiiight,” she drew out the word, making it clear she couldn’t care less. 

“Fine, Weaslette it is then.” 

She rolled her eyes and practically shoved him out of the washroom. His senses were then flooded with exceptional smelling food and riotous laughter. He still felt empty and confused, but his appetite had somehow returned and Ronald was waving him over to a collection of tables laden with food. Freddie gave him a double thumbs up as he approached and he forced a smile that only felt a little bit like a lie. He kept the smile as long as he could because it was all a lie he desperately wanted.

Chapter Text

“I saw you made a full breakfast,” Hermione said pointedly as soon as she and Harry were checked in at the ministry. Harry had walked briskly across the foyer, well aware that he’d be hearing her unrestrained commentary on his current predicament. 

“I did,” he responded a little apprehensively. 

“Is he bothering you that much already?”

“Actually, I keep myself busy cooking so much because he isn’t bothering me,” he wrinkled his nose at the statement and decided to reword it. “Well, I mean, he mostly keeps to his rooms, barely coming out for meals so far.” 

“Oh, Harry,” she laughed slightly behind his name, but it had that sharp edge of frustration to it. 

“It’s not like that,” he said flatly. 

“Not like what?” She prompted, clearly studying him before he’d even started to answer.  

“Not-” he paused. He wasn’t entirely sure of all the things it wasn’t. “However you think it is.” He finished with an exasperated sigh. 

“You wouldn’t know what I was thinking about it; you’d have to be a bit more self aware for that,” she smirked deviously enough he knew she was mostly kidding. 

“I know you think I’m already messing this up with my bias, Hermione. But you don’t understand how much he slept after that first session. I think the legilimens bothers him more than-”

“That sounds an awful lot like you’re projecting.” 

“You’ll get another look, you don’t have to try and make me doubt myself,” he said a bit crossly. 

“I wouldn’t,” she put an arm around him, across the middle of his back so she could lean on him and walk as well as grasp his bicep, a reassuring gesture she was fond of. Even walking along closely as they were, the two didn’t garner much more than nods of greeting, and the occasional doubletake; most people were accustomed to seeing the two of them walking around the ministry together in similar fashion. She didn’t go in on traditional public displays of affection, not even with Ron, but she kept close contact with the people she cared about while she was with them. Most of his friends seemed to after the war, like everyone needed to hold on just a little harder. He tolerated it better now, feeling affectionate rather than on edge like he had directly after the war. “Whenever I doubt you, I take ownership of that.” He rolled his eyes because it was true but she’d smiled like it was an inside joke anyway. “Look, I know this is difficult for a multitude of reasons and I obviously want to help. I just don’t think the answer is in where he’s been; it’s in his head, where the problem is.” 

“I would’ve expected you to find it already if it was that simple,” he tried. 

She shot him an appraising glance and slowly detached from him to pause in the hall and hold him at arm’s length before speaking again, “You know flattery is an extremely short term solution to a disagreement with me.” 

“I’m hoping that’s all I’ll need,” he grinned a smile he hoped was winning. 

“It’ll get us through the afternoon at least,” she admitted, returning his expression before heading toward the lifts. 

“What are your afternoon plans anyway?” 

“Why do you always ask questions you know you’re not supposed to know the answers to?” 

“No one tells me if I don’t ask,” he smirked with more genuine enthusiasm and she shoved him with her shoulder as they stepped into the empty lift. 

“I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you I’ve been working in Memory recently,” she told him drily. 

“So the plans you were in a strop about having to stall for Malfoy were also for Malfoy,” Harry smirked as he confirmed. 

“Well, yes, but I wasn’t going to tell him I’m an unspeakable,” she scoffed and crossed her arms. 

“What if you have to bring him in?” 

“I can’t see why I would,” she replied casually as they stepped out of the lift and almost walked into Arthur Weasley. 

“On your way out?” Harry inquired with a genial smile. 

“We were hoping to talk about your professional interactions with Draco Malfoy?” Hermione prompted before he could answer Harry. 

Arthur smiled easily, as he typically did the moment he saw either of them, no matter how abrasive or sudden their appearances were. It was one of many endearing traits that Harry loved him for. “Molly’s putting together an impromptu gathering for supper since Ron’s finally admitted to befriending the Malfoy lad,” he informed as if he’d known for awhile. Harry realised with a start he probably had and felt absurdly left out. “I was hoping to be of some help before she gets to the stage where all I do is get in the way.” 

“Ugh,” Hermione scowled. “How much of a gathering?” 

“Oh, well,” he started thoughtfully, uncertain but unphased by the question nonetheless. “I think it was whoever would be willing to be civil and interested in patching things up. Not looking for a fight with dinner, you know, just hoping to see he’s worth Ron’s interest.”

“He’s not,” Hermione informed flatly. 

“I think it’s great,” Harry allowed with a thin veneer of disapproval for Hermione’s reaction. He didn’t know why though, she was entitled to be upset the antagonist to their school years was now horning in on her family. He mentally shook himself for half a second and continued speaking to Authur, “but erm, we did want to know-?” 

“He’s been surprisingly polite. I suppose some of his expressions still firmly remind me where he comes from, but that superficial level similarity is about as far as it goes. I think he learned from the war and from his father how he didn’t want to be. He’s still a bit . . . Well, a bit strident, but we all have flaws. He’s seemed well off since contracting with the ministry and he’s saved lives in my department. We uh, well, we don’t always know how muggle things are supposed to work, that’s kind of an ongoing education here. His affinity for darker magic has alerted us to latently cursed items on more than one occasion. Incidentally, did you know one of the buttons on a blender is supposed to stop it?” 

“Yes,” they both answered simultaneously

“Fascinating,” he said agreeably. “Thanks to Draco Malfoy, I do too. Also I still have my hand, so. . . well, wonders abound I suppose. I really should be going.” He hugged them both. “Feel free to look at my folder on him, it has reviews and casework. The others have worked with him on a more frequent basis, particularly Smith and McLaggin.”

“I think I should talk-” Harry started. 

“Dibs on Smith,” Hermione spoke over him. 

“Damnit,” Harry sighed. Arthur clapped him on the back before excusing himself with a chuckle. “Fine,” Harry huffed a bit, “but you have to talk to the next arsehole we come across.” 

“Like Smith is even all that much better,” she said, rolling her eyes despite also grinning at her own success. 

Harry grumbled, but they split up and started interviewing people who’d worked with Draco, beginning with Arthur’s suggestions.  

“Sure I wanted to hex him,” McLaggin leaned in close as if they were co-conspirators, likely thinking he was being charming. Harry’d only just begun talking to the man and was ready to be done regardless of that fact. “Between you and me, I was even planning on it next time I saw him outside work.”

Harry failed to provide much in the way of response, instead biting his tongue, because why was he even bothering to take this man’s opinion into consideration? It was obvious to Harry McLaggin was a terrible judge of character on account of how much he liked himself.

The man straightened and evened his tone. “But he was- well a bit snarky still, occasionally a bit swishy, but humbled; he listened and followed instructions well enough,” Mclaggin’s slightly older partner expressed similar, but even more prejudiced sentiment. After suffering through with the former, Harry had very little patience for the latter and finished with them before Hermione had finished with Smith. He smirked when he walked by the desk they were seated on either side of as he moved on to the next interviewee. 

Harry moved through the rest of the department, got copies of Malfoy’s cases, and then went on to the department of International Magical Cooperation when Hermione had caught up. Apparently, Malfoy spoke more than just French and was versed enough in multiple wizarding cultures and languages to serve as a kind of assistant to the ambassadors there and most of them were vastly more tolerable conversationalists than McLaggin and his ilk. 

When he was finished there, Harry moved on to the Department of Transportation to find that Malfoy’s work on the cupboard in sixth year had afforded him insight that they were working to incorporate for those without access to the floo network. Throughout every department Harry went to there were only ever a few people who worked with the blond closely, but Harry continuously heard sentiment similar to what Arthur had said, things like “I’ve been surprised by easy to work with -how funny -how honest -how sympathetic” people found Malfoy to be. 

He decided it was time to find the last department that worked with Malfoy extensively, the minister’s office. Harry had seen him around there and assumed he played politics, trying to pay for policies like his father had, but after the mostly insufferable interviews so far, he didn’t think that fit with what Malfoy’s work seemed to be. 

“Ready to move on?” Harry asked, poking his head into an office in the department of Magical Education without knocking when he saw the back of Hermione’s head through the frosted glass window. He’d clearly interrupted, but she smiled gratefully at Harry’s appearance. 

“If we must,” she said standing, serving her interviewee with a curt nod. 

Harry reported his findings in transportation and asked what Malfoy had been up to in education. 

“He’s helped fund and organise the education program for pure bloods’ understanding of muggleborns and how cultures can blend without erasing one another, how to respect individuality without the fear of losing one's identity. Literally the last social program I would have thought he’d have a hand in.” 

“Kinda makes me feel better that the Malfoys were left with most of their fortune and name intact. Really seems like he’s come around a bit.”

They got into the lifts again and she sighed explosively. “Oh Harry, that man needs to retire; I’d hardly call him a reliable source. He seemed so tired after droning on about Malfoy’s contributions, and kept trying to nod off during our conversation.” 

“I think one of mine did,” Harry said thoughtfully before remembering he was mad at her, mostly for sticking him with McLaggin. “But you don’t get to complain.” She laughed and his scowl disappeared, but he rolled his eyes anyway. “Can you believe McLaggin, of all people, had the audacity to think Malfoy is still a brat and a snob?” Harry tried. 

“Yes.”

“You didn’t talk to him; he’s gotten even worse.”

“He can’t be,” she refused with a theatrical kind of scepticism. 

“Oh he is,” Harry confirmed just as dramatically. 

She shuddered audibly, then Harry scoffed on a chuckle so she giggled too. 

“What do you think Malfoy does for the minister?” Harry asked as they neared the minister’s office. 

“Collapse foreign governments,” she responded without hesitation. 

“Doesn’t really track with what we’ve heard so far.” 

“What we’ve heard so far doesn’t really track with who he is.” 

They stepped out of the lift onto glossy hardwood that gleamed more than any floor Harry had stepped on aside from Gringotts. Not that he’d gone to the bank recently. The goblins preferred that the three of them do their business by owl after the dragon incident. 

A short man in his middle age with dirty blond hair and a semi-permanent pout sat behind the large desk outside the minister’s office. “Auror Potter? What can I help you with today?” The minister’s aide questioned.

“Er, well I was hoping to talk to you about Draco Malfoy.” 

“Oh Merlin! Have you found him then?” he asked, frantic worry evident in his tone. “Mind Healer Granger, what are you- Tell me he’s okay at least?”

“Yes, he’s fine, well, he will be,” Harry stammered a bit awkwardly. He hadn’t expected to find anyone in the ministry so effusive. “He’s safe.” He kept himself from elaborating further. 

The man scowled in response, “Wait, you haven’t arrested him have you?” 

“No, he hasn’t given me reason to. Yet,” he added the last for good measure. 

Hermione placed a hand on the man’s deep blue clad elbow and spoke, soothingly, “We’re trying to help him, there is some mind magic at play,” she paused as if she genuinely wanted to tell him, but worked to stop herself. Harry kept from rolling his eyes and blowing the act. “Well, details are confidential; I’m sure you understand. We just need to know more about his life, typical day to day things, what exactly he does for your office, and how you would describe working with him?”  

“Oh, he’s brilliant,” the man practically fawned. “And hilarious of course, but he’s also been a veritable asset. He’s given us valuable pieces from his family’s collection, not just monetarily valuable, but for history and the study of magic. Sometimes the darker magics, but the information has been priceless, not to mention he’s our head charity organiser now.” 

“What?” 

“Like a party planner?” Harry snorted a bit; Hermione’s incredulously stunned expression didn’t help him maintain his composure. 

“You wouldn't know, Mr. Potter, since you decline all invitation,” the minister’s assistant replied cuttingly, “But they are exceptionally more than parties. Most are at least gala quality and have had considerable success in garnering public support, awareness, and donations to the more progressive social programs we’ve been able to initiate to lessen the lingering damages from the war.” 

“I had no idea he was involved and I have gone to several,” Hermione noted pointedly. “I’ve made speeches even.” 

“And it’s likely Young Master Malfoy was the one behind your coordination; whoever you spoke to probably reported to him.” 

“I’ve never seen him at any-”

“He’s gone before the doors to any event ever open. He works behind the scenes, tends to only show up during an event if a crisis begins to unfold. He gets plenty of praise from the people who know him though, don’t worry.” He added the last quite snidely, as if they wouldn’t catch on to what he meant with his pointed comment without it. 

“How did this even come to be?” Hermione asked, more incredulous that the deputy minster was standing up for Malfoy as if she and Harry were bullies trying to sully his good name. 

“He volunteered to do clerical work after his house arrest ended, very sincerely said he wanted to help clean up the mess he’d helped make. He’s earned every position since that first favour.” 

“He was a volunteer secretary?” Harry asked, a different kind of disbelief in his scepticism. “That was the big favour he called in to get his life going again?”

“Yes, and he was efficient as well as professional,” the man huffed. “Are we done with this yet?” 

They were ushered out of the minister’s office and all they could do was go along in a sort of stupor. 

“He hadn’t even mentioned-” Harry started, feeling unexpectedly spurned. 

“I feel like this can’t be happening. I thought the false memories were ridiculous, but this . . .? This is too much.”

“How’d you do with the others?” He asked in an effort to redirect a bit. 

“Much the same. Everyone seems to begrudgingly acknowledge he’s not a terrible person anymore, just to be surprised they did so.”

“It’s weird,” Harry offered agreeably as she sighed heavily. 

“I still hate him so much, Harry,” she said it quietly, without any energy. It caused Harry’s brow to furrow and his cheeks to feel pinched in sympathy. 

“I know,” he said empathetically, because he truly did understand; she had every right. 

“Will you tell me about his home, this flat you mentioned?” 

“Erm,” Harry stalled at the odd tone and request that felt a bit like a personal invasion. “Anything in particular you’re hoping to know about? For research or-” 

“I need to know he’s been the same person,” she admitted almost shamefully, but her scowl and her furrowed brow contrasted defiantly. 

“He’s still Draco Malfoy, ‘Mione,” Harry said softly. “He’s still the slimy git that broke my nose, he’s still the heir of a family that’s done some truly terrible things, but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t done a bunch of things we don’t know about and maybe wouldn’t expect.”

“Like moving away from easy opulence?”

“He called his childhood home a living nightmare, er a mausoleum of living nightmares. Just because he’s the same person doesn’t mean there can’t be differences.” 

“But most of how he’s acting now, who he thinks he is, that’s because of these false memories with you," she shook her head in steadfast negation of any alternative. "He couldn’t be who he really is and even pretend to be able to be with you. Don’t forget that, Harry.” 

“I know, Hermione. Trust me, I want to get him back to whatever former gitishness he’d been at before he disappeared two weeks ago.” 

“Most of my interviewees reported the same thing. Two weeks. People accepted he’d been missing, yet no one was looking for him,” she scowled after repressing a twitch to her mouth and a lilt to her eyebrows that Harry suspected would have turned into a sympathetic expression had she fostered it instead of desperately dismissing it. 

“Or they just didn’t know; his schedule was pretty spread out. Sometimes he wouldn’t see clients or whole departments for weeks at a time anyways, while he worked on their problems or they worked on without him because they hadn’t run into another problem yet.” 

“He seems to keep himself busy, productive at least,” she acquiesced begrudgingly. 

“Bit of a workaholic,” Harry smirked, remembering the blond’s admonishment. 

“What’s that for?” 

“What?”

“That weird, possibly fond, smile,” she explained, the undercurrent of an accusation in her tone. 

“It wasn’t; I was smirking because he’s a ponce.” 

She scowled, “Sure, I guess.” Then she looked at her watch, a Christmas gift he’d gotten her that Ron had been a bit sore about because she’d liked it so much. It was charmed, but it wasn’t showy magic and she was almost never without it. Harry’d gone shopping with Ginny that year; it had been the first time they’d really successfully hung out as friends after their break up. “I have to get to work on this. Tell Ron I’ll be home late, would you?” 

“Yea, ‘course,” he said agreeably enough. She set off toward the Department of Mysteries by way of St. Mungo’s liaison office, as she always did, but turned and called over her shoulder one more time. “Don’t forget to swing by Robbards’ office.” Harry nodded, but sighed and tugged on his fringe; he didn’t want to have to explain his absence and tell his boss he needed more time off. He headed that way regardless, with his feet dragging like he wore lead boots rather than dragonhide.  

The thing Harry liked best about Robbards was that he didn’t play favourites, but that also meant he got chewed out pretty thoroughly for missing work and for not reporting the mystery of Draco Malfoy sooner. However, by the end of their conversation, Harry wasn’t in trouble so much as he was officially assigned the case. 

Harry took a steadying breath after leaving the head auror’s office then headed toward the nearest exit. The only thing left to do today was invade the blond’s personal space. He tore a hand through his hair as the wind whipped it and the rain ran off his glasses thanks to a permanent impervious charm Hermione cast on them the last time he had to upgrade his prescription. He pulled his cloak tighter and set out for St. Katherine’s wharf; he could use the walk. The frigid air forced him to retreat into his thoughts. He wondered if Malfoy walked home from Whitehall. He wondered if he should have used the tube instead; it would cut the time in half. He thought of Malfoy taking public transit and smirked widely. He watched the rainfall on the mostly grey but yellow lit streetscape. The other man probably just apparated the second he was out of the ministry. Then Harry wondered if there was a convenient apparition point near the wharf; he was getting rather cold despite the water running off his cloak. 

He found the address Malfoy had given him easily enough. He used one key for the outer door which opened on a lobby that was currently unstaffed. He eyed the muggle lift and all the buttons and numbers on the panel; it seemed Malfoy’s flat was on the top floor, because of course it was. The door to the lobby opened behind him and a post carrier strode in briskly. 

“Hi there!” She greeted him, just as chipper as anyone who knew him would be. She was all smile, bright eyes, and perfect teeth. Her mass of thick, black hair was pulled back in a messy, precarious knot with locks escaping to fall down and frame her high, dark cheeks. 

Harry grinned back, unfamiliar with post carriers these days, he felt a bit surprised by her gregarious demeanour. “Hullo. Busy day?” He asked, not wanting to leave without acknowledging her work. 

“Fairly,” she said with a smile before opening one of the small metal doors in a wall of many that held all the muggle post for the building. It was overfull already and a couple things fell out. “Oh,” she said worriedly and started to empty the box rather than cram the handful of brightly coloured advertisements she’d held prior to opening it. 

“Is something wrong?” Harry had to ask after watching her face fall. 

“One of the tenants here hasn’t checked his mail in a couple weeks. It’s full enough that I have to take it back.” 

“Oh, er, well,” Harry hesitated only briefly. “Is he a blond bloke, bit prissy?” 

“Yes, I suppose he is," she smiled crookedly, clearly made a bit uncertain by Harry's less than flattering description. "Do you know him?” she questioned hopefully nonetheless. 

Harry nodded a bit awkwardly and chose to explain because of the concern she hadn’t bothered hiding. “He and I went to school together. He’s staying at mine for a bit.” 

“Oh, good; Draco’s too pretty to be that lonely.” 

“I didn’t mean-”

“Sorry! I assumed- well, I’d hoped- he wasn’t into me because he didn’t fancy women,” she chuckled a bit embarrassedly. 

“Well, I don’t think you’re far from the mark there, but I- we aren’t-” Harry stammered. “We hated each other in school,” he finally stated bluntly. 

She shrugged, “Well, fine line and all that.” Harry tried to keep his scowl from becoming too severe. She must have noticed because she continued a bit less flippantly. “You seemed concerned that I was worried. Here,” she responded shortly but still just as genially and handed him a stack of brightly coloured post. “I can’t give you his real mail, but you can take all the adverts and then I don’t have to lug it all back. He likes the ads more than standard post anyhow.” She shared a fond smile before turning back to her duties. 

He started up the stairs, nonplussed by the interaction and scowling at the sale on mattresses in his hands. What kind of wizard was on a first name basis with their postmaster? The kind that orchestrated charity events instead of attending snobbish wasp parties and saved Arthur from a blender; apparently Malfoy had become whatever kind that was and still managed to get himself into enough trouble to lose two weeks of his life.

When he got to Malfoy’s door he felt the urge to pause, to hesitate; it seemed wrong to come here without the other man. Then he remembered the nosy landlady and went boldly forth, despite his reluctance. The door opened silently on a spacious area with high vaulted ceilings and gleaming light blonde wood. The settee was grey and rather modern, minimalistic, as most of the space seemed to be. He had appliances that were stainless steel to coordinate and Harry wondered if they worked or how much was there just for show on account of the snoopy landlady. 

The apartment was tidy in general and well put together; there was no toppled furniture, no malevolent magic hanging in the air, no physical signs of any struggle. Malfoy had left the kettle on the cold hob and a mug on the counter, the former appeared rinsed but held onto the stain of tea. Harry decided that had been left due to routine, not interruption. He checked a couple closets and cabinets, then opened drawers finding everything from the softest towels and sheets he’d ever touched to an assortment of muggle gadgets as well as plenty of household potion ingredients. 

There was a current men’s fashion magazine and a Witch Weekly that was almost a year old on the small table next to the couch. The table was white marble and looked like a teardrop had been caught in a swirling vortex then was immediately frozen. On the opposite side of a plush beige armchair there was a black marble table in the same shape with a tiny square of sand in a jade box atop it. Someone had used the miniature rake accompanying it to zigzag lazily across the light granules. He sensed a disillusionment charm in the large open space behind the couch and cast to reveal an armoire with glass doors that held a plethora of potions from pepper up, calming draught, and dreamless sleep to antidotes, blood-replenishing potions, and wolfsbane. When at the ministry Harry had learned Malfoy had a potion master's license to sell. Still, he hadn’t thought he’d find more than hair tonics and beautification brews. 

Harry wandered toward the bedroom, feeling more than a bit wrong. The room was different, it was mostly done in neutral, earthen tones but was littered with brighter green accents. 

On Malfoy’s bedside table there were three different books, one seemed to be a biography of a philanthropist Harry was unfamiliar with. There was the instruction and repair manual for an espresso machine he certainly didn’t have in this apartment, it seemed commercial, industrial even. Lastly, there was a true crime novel about an American serial killer Harry thought he might have heard of, but wasn’t sure. There were also pictures everywhere, on the bedside table by his books as well as hanging on the walls and in bookshelves. One was what looked to be an eleven year old Malfoy flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. There was a picture of an even younger Malfoy posing in the Manor’s gardens with an equally young Theodore Knott. A family portrait was larger than those, but smaller than a picture of Narcissa alone, as well as one of a very small Draco Malfoy playing with a very young, exceptionally smitten Narcissa. There was a moody scene with a teenage Draco and Pansy under falling leaves in one of the courtyards at Hogwarts. Draco looked thoughtful, Pansy looked pleased; Harry thought Draco was in third year, maybe the beginning of fourth. There were more recent pictures, Draco with Blaise Zabini and Zacharius Smith at a pub, Milicent Bulstrode peeked around the frame with a wave, apparently having been in charge of the camera. He even had a picture of Ron laughing with an inordinate amount of sauce on his face. It was a muggle picture, the kind that have to be shaken until the picture forms. He even had several pictures in collage form that just seemed to be muggle calibre photos of random, innocuous muggle things. One was a blender, so Harry smiled; they were all cases then. 

With a sudden uncomfortably hot, sick sensation in his gut, Harry hoped the false memories hadn’t taken anything away from the other man. He immediately decided he would bring things back to Malfoy, most of these things. What if the reason Malfoy hadn’t asked Kreacher for more than hair care and clothes was because his fake life with Harry had crowded out details of his friends and the real life he had? 

Harry set about shrinking all the photos on his bedside table, including the work collage. He then went to the kitchen peninsula, it had tall, skinny, armless black leather chairs along it like fancy bar stools. The area behind it was a book nook; a bay window looked out over the steel balcony on the backside of the apartment, the side that overlooked the Thames and the bustling wharf. The view was exceptional, but Harry was quickly distracted by the bookshelf. There were handwritten spines dated with years and Harry was confident the handwriting was Draco’s. He brushed his finger along the spine of 1996-1997, before snapping his hand away guiltily. He transfigured a thick, but somewhat floppy, tote bag out of the interior welcome mat. It was a drab thing of black, beige, and grey that seemed to be mimicking the look of leaves but didn’t look like it belonged despite the neutral colour scheme. He shrunk the journals and placed them all into the bag, removing the pictures from his pockets to join them. Since he had room and hadn’t really seen much in the way of clues yet, he continued to wander the apartment and took the mug that was well used, as well as the annoyingly luxurious soft thing that lived on Malfoy’s bed pretending to be a blanket even though that was ridiculous because nothing on earth could be that soft. He also grabbed Malfoy’s pillow but froze at a sharp rapping on the door. 

He made his way over, trying to think of explanations to satisfy a landlady. 

“I heard you in there,” a young boy, maybe nine or ten, seemed to accuse Harry the moment he answered the door. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Harry Potter; who’re you?” Harry returned slightly more politely. 

“I’m a friend of Draco’s,” the kid claimed proudly. “What’re you doing in his place? He hasn’t been home in weeks and he’s never mentioned knowing any Harry.” 

Harry refused to scowl at the child over what had foolishly felt like a slight. “Well, we haven’t seen much of each other since school. He’s at my house now and I was just grabbing some things for him.” 

“How do I know you’re not just taking off with his stuff?” The lad eyed Harry’s makeshift tote suspiciously as he asked so Harry turned a bit, trying to lean casually and move the bag so the boy wouldn’t see all of Malfoy’s miniaturised things. 

“Well, I suppose you don’t,” he admitted. 

“Tell me what you know about Draco or I’m reporting you. I’ll call someone, I will!” 

“Well, he’s a bit of a ponce,” Harry answered immediately, not caring for the way the kid already seemed to be escalating the situation. “Er- he moved out of his dad’s house just before moving here, he has a tattoo on his arm, and enjoys making fun of people he doesn’t like.” 

“He doesn’t only make fun of people he doesn’t like,” the boy insisted, disbelief and possibly even scorn dominating his expression. He crossed his arms, clearly expecting more. 

“He was attacked by a large animal when he was thirteen and he’s insanely competitive.” The boy seemed only slightly less wary. “Erm, he thinks he’s funnier than he really is, but he is kind of funny. He does his hair everyday, he likes apples, chocolate, stealing my clothes, and flying.” Harry had started to ramble, unsure what would convince the small child before him. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with muggle police. 

“Flying?” The boy had visibility relaxed until Harry’s slip when his eyes went wide and his stance changed to bouncy, hopeful excitement. 

“Er yea, he likes to travel, speaks a ton of different languages, you know, aeroplanes?” 

The boy's scowl was more disappointment than scepticism and Harry realised he had gained his reluctant trust. 

“He’s okay then?” the child asked, letting his true concern show. His tiny lip trembled, but Harry resisted the urge to drop to his knees and take tiny hands into his own to comfort. He suspected the lad was doing his best to be tough and didn’t want to ruin it for him. 

“Yea, he’s staying with me for a bit, helping me sort out some stuff for my work,” he said it as convincingly as he could, since it was technically true enough now that he’d talked to Robbards. “I wanted him to have his things since I’m not sure when he’ll be back.” 

“Did you get his favourite cup?” 

“Is it a black and green chequered thing he leaves out on the counter?”

“They’re chevrons, not checkers,” he corrected primly, but nodded agreeably enough and even smiled. “He drinks more tea than my gran.”

“Talking about me to strangers again, Jacob?” An elderly woman with thick, silver hair laying loose and a wide smile came out of the door across the hall from Draco’s flat. 

The boy huffed, “He’s not a stranger, Gran, he’s Harry Potter.” Harry was impressed the kid remembered his name. His gran seemed to pause for a second at it and he wondered if maybe she wasn’t as muggle as he’d assumed. 

“Nice to meet you, Potter,” she said it evenly, but Harry was fairly confident the woman was suppressing a smile. He tried not to show how taken aback he was at the simple, non formal use of his surname; she was neighbours with the one person who had consistently addressed him that way. “I’m Annalicia, I see you’ve met Jacob. I always worry he’s bothering Drake.” 

“It’s Drac-oh, gran, like dragons and stars,” the kid said, clearly tired of having to do so repeatedly. 

“Of course, dear, let’s leave Mr. Nalfa’s friend alone then.” 

“Gran,” the boy urged, sounding embarrassed. “It’s Mmmmal foy. ”

“That can’t be right,” the grandmother frowned lightly. 

“It is,” Harry offered with a slight grin. 

“It’s French,” the boy recited with Malfoy’s defiant chin tilt perfectly mimicked. Harry’s smile threatened to turn into laughter. 

“Nonetheless, we have dinner to make, Jacob. Thank you for entertaining him. I haven’t had a break since Drake has been gone. Could you ask him if he’s still available to watch him next Thursday? I rescheduled my appointment; would you let him know?” 

“Erm, yea, course,” Harry agreed, swimming in disbelief because of the newfound knowledge that this woman apparently relied on Draco Malfoy for childcare. She gestured toward Jacob, and he reluctantly went, dragging his feet dramatically which she staunchly ignored. 

Harry chose to enter the stairway after the fascinating encounter, but when he quieted his overburdened mind, after walking half way down, he realised that of course he would be able to apparate away and did so.  

“Ferret called it a night already,” Ron announced when Harry hit the steps descending into his kitchen. “How was the investigation?” 

“I think Hermione was disappointed; no one really had all that much to say about Malfoy or his disappearance, and nothing we heard could be held against him. He’s still a bit of a berk but he’s living more than well enough.” Harry didn’t want to acknowledge how the blond’s busy schedule and social ease left a weird pit in his stomach, uncomfortable enough to cause him to question his own single career pathway dominated schedule. “How did things go on your end?” 

“We had supper at the burrow,” Ron grinned proudly. 

“We heard,” Harry said, returning the smile. “I think you’ll have to answer for that when you get home.”

“Mum offered, when I told her about him, said she’d take the brunt of the blame with Hermione already,” Ron chuckled and Harry knew he wasn’t truly worried. Hermione might not like Malfoy, but she wouldn’t think she could force other people to continue to hate him for her. Whatever uneasy truce the two of them might eventually reach would take time. “All in all I’d say it was great, though; Bill came back for it. I think maybe just to keep George in line, but he wasn’t as bad as I’d feared he might be either. Still, I think the whole thing wiped Malfoy out a bit, but he did really well.” He grinned, “Not a single punch or hex was thrown.” 

Harry nodded agreeably while making a serious effort to keep his brow from furrowing in concern; if Malfoy was already in bed, it may have been more challenging than Ron had noticed. Harry and Ron said goodnight to one another, both ready to call it themselves, then Harry immediately headed toward the blond’s room. 

He knocked and waited patiently for Malfoy’s steps to saunter closer on the other side. He could almost see the subtle, but somehow still very dramatic, shift to the other man’s hips in the pauses between the sounds of his stride. 

“Did you learn all the terrible things about me you’d hoped to?” He accused in greeting when he opened the door. 

“Actually, I don’t think you’re as bad off without me as you think,” Harry returned easily despite the blond’s clearly defensive sneer. 

“What makes you think such a ridiculous thing?” He scowled and his nose crinkled a bit, something Harry couldn’t remember noticing; he wondered what it signalled. 

“Erm, you were doing well, I think, before whatever this is happened to you.” 

“Think my flat’s that nice, do you?” The sneer and scowl melted into a smirk. 

“I do,” Harry let half his mouth smile before he rolled his eyes and Draco knew they’d have to invent a magical surgery to remove his love for this irritating, self-assureed man. “But I was more impressed by the people you know, the ones who know you.” 

“What a gross oversimplification of my person, Potter. That’s only my job and my things. Really, if you wanted to know about my work you could have just asked,” he leaned against his door frame with all the drama of a swagger and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“Not even just at work, though,” Harry tried again. 

“Who knew all I had to do to earn your respect was to covertly steal your best mate?” 

“I didn’t mean him. I met your neighbour.” He reported what the elderly woman had asked him to and outlined his interaction with Jacob. 

“Yes, well,” he paused, pushing off the door frame to head back inside his room; Harry took it as an invitation and followed. “The child never leaves me alone, so it’s only natural he’s grown on me. And his grandmother pays me in homemade caramels and taffy; I’m not doing it for nothing, Potter,” he explained imperiously.

“Also your post carrier. She said you get inordinately excited over junk mail and grocer’s ads,” Harry said evenly, despite the bright feeling in his chest that felt like laughter. 

“I use the grocer’s adverts enough that I’ve now been offered a credit card,” the blond declared proudly and Harry couldn’t help but smile at the idea of Malfoy in a Tesco. “Though they spelled my name wrong, so I don’t think it would work out.”  

“You’d probably get whatever muggle they’re mistaking you for into a bit of debtor’s trouble.” 

“Probably,” Draco said, feeling coy for some reason. 

Despite his temperamental and seemingly unpredictable mood, Harry wanted to talk to the blond. It was just that they’d both had very different days, days Harry wouldn’t have thought either of them would submit to as willingly as they had. It was about the mystery of course, not at all because learning about the git had softened his perceptions. He needed to know details about the blond’s first visit to the Burrow; it was a momentous occasion and for some daft reason he felt like he’d missed out. He resented having to do the work part of managing Malfoy’s case while Ron had handled the babysitting in a spectacular fashion. “Ron said things went well at the Burrow.” 

“Mostly I suppose they did, for what it was,” the blond offered stiffly. 

“What was it, then?” He asked, blatant and straightforward. 

“It wasn’t even what I expected and of course not at all what I remembered,” he sounded imperious and defensive, but Harry continued to listen attentively. The blond looked away and sighed heavily, a tired, reluctant sound. “You’re actually the only person I want to tell about my day at the burrow, but I can’t even talk to you, not the way I want to,” Draco struggled to keep his voice from wavering, cracking, and rising. Something shifted the light in verdant irises; he desperately hoped it wasn’t pity. “It’s insulting, it’s frustrating and infuriating, but mostly. . . Mostly it’s just heartbreaking.” 

“Draco, I’m sorry, but I can’t-“ Harry seemed to at least be genuine in his struggle to find words. “That feeling has never been real. I know it’s not fair and I’m surprised to say that I really am sorry for putting this on you, but I think we just have to deal with what’s wrong here.” His hand shifted restlessly along the nape of his neck and he had the decency to look as sorry as he’d claimed. 

“Forgive me; I don’t know how to deal with feeling this way,” Draco drawled, defensive apathy the only armour left to him after such a declaration. Draco didn’t feel wrong; his world felt wrong. He retreated to sit on the bed that was never his in either his recollection or Potter’s reality. The other man stepped further into the room, following the conversation, so Draco impulsively decided to give the speccy git what he wanted, a report. “I could have cursed your ex-girlfriend into a watery grave for walking in on me while I was having a private mental health moment in the loo.”

“She won't tell anyone,” Harry offered without pause, knowing how even after they had broken up, she hadn’t ever broken any trust of his, implied or otherwise. “Wait. A private health moment? Does that mean you- erm, were you upset then?" 

“Yes, Potter, that's what I said, only I did so with tact.” 

“Well, you know I haven’t got much of that,” he countered easily. 

“But you have some?” Malfoy asked sounding hopeful and surprised in a blatantly facetious way. 

“I wouldn’t waste it on you, you already know I don’t really have any to spare,” he said because it seemed to make Malfoy feel marginally better when he did know something about Harry. This was one of those things anyway, all Harry was doing was reminding the blond. 

“Regardless, you could try,” he teased but then his smirk fell. “I wasn’t worried she was going to tell anyone. Well, past that initial instinctive concern, but the real and most panic inducing fear was what I could do to her if things went too far, if she got under my skin.” He remembered the sickening crunch of bone under his boot and then just a flash of his blood on a bathroom floor. He abruptly felt just as nauseous and shaky as he had in the Weasley’s washroom. “I know my instinct is always to escalate when I’m in those fight or flight situations, always has been. I just don’t know how much I act on those thoughts anymore, how much I fight my instinctive reactions. I remember having control, but what if that’s all part of the illusion too?” 

Harry didn’t think it was. Malfoy seemed to have both control and stability in his life but the blond was right before about simplification. They’d only just begun the investigation after all. “Did she then? Erm, get to you?”

Draco thought about how he’d been trembling, furious, vulnerable; how, in hindsight, she had helped him stave off the mental breakdown he’d been having, inadvertent and unintentional as it had been. “Yes. She certainly did.” He scowled. 

“Could have gone worse then,” Harry said and then winced violently, viscerally upset by his own reflexive reference to Draco’s vulnerability in restrooms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t- Well, I hadn’t meant to-” He couldn’t find words to express his horror at his own actions, even after all this time.

“Potter. It's fine. I know you could never mean it.”

A dark look passed subtly over Potter’s features. “There've been times I’ve meant it.”

“I know you though, you didn’t-” Draco started, refusing to believe that Potter really had meant to let him bleed out on a bathroom floor. That was ridiculous. 

“You don’t know me, you know a false version of me.” He frowned and it looked pained. “Even the more realistic version of me that you used to know is tainted by whoever did this to you.” 

“I may not know who I am without you, Potter, but I do know you,” Draco’s voice was strained but he didn’t care. How dare Harry try to take away what was real on top of everything Draco wished was. “I'm aware there's plenty I don't know, but I knew you before you defeated Voldemort,” he spit the name and received the flinch from Potter he hadn’t realised he’d been going for. “I knew you before you saw me on the astronomy tower and I knew you before the feel of your magic cut into me in Myrtle’s bathroom.” 

Harry winced, the blond’s onslaught held too much truth, in a biting way. None of those things made Harry who he was, but it demonstrated the certainty in the blond’s voice that he could speak to Harry that way, that he could make his point using Harry’s life. Of course Draco had known him. Even if he’d never known everything. “It was Snape’s spell,” he cringed as he offered the spell’s source like it could lessen his guilt. 

“I know that too.” 

“How?” 

“I remember you telling me, near the beginning of our relationship,” he said stiffly, unwilling to elaborate because he remembered the circumstances being intimate. 

Harry paused. “I am sorry, you know. I didn’t know what it would do.” 

“That I did not know. Interesting,” Draco replied rather than focus on the differences in what the faux Harry in his memories had told him. It didn’t matter how the past had made him feel; this was real, this would be his new truth despite how much he already missed the implanted one. 

“You would have died had it not been for Snape.” 

“Not to put too fine a point on it of course,” he drawled defensively. 

“I think that’s the most important point.” 

“Of course you would, always so riddled with guilt.”

“What’s the most important thing about that whole incident for you then?” Harry asked dubiously. 

“You failed to kill me,” Draco redirected, a little proud. 

Potter laughed, a short bark of a sound; it was the most unexpected reaction Draco would have never even tried to imagine. “I wasn’t trying.” 

“What?”

“I had literally no idea what that curse would do to you, only that it was meant for enemies.” 

“Then I suppose the most important thing to take from it is that we’re enemies,” Draco claimed before turning away to study a seam on the duvet that likely didn’t need such attention from the glossy, unfocused way he stared at it. Harry could tell the other man wanted to give up on the conversation, but Harry wasn’t done talking; he hadn’t even given him his things yet. 

“We were,” he said pointedly. 

Quicksilver eyes rose again to assess him studiously for what felt like a long moment. “Yes, we certainly were.” 

“So, erm-” Harry stammered under the scrutiny, feeling embarrassed for some reason he didn’t understand and sought to redirect the conversation. “I take it you were able to sufficiently insult Ginny and that kept you from having to hex her?” 

“Well, I was admittedly a bit off my game.” He smirked, a bit appeased. “She used a banshee as an excuse for her rude interruption.”

“There is a banshee. I hadn’t known it moved to the upstairs loo again.”

“Well, then I suppose all of it was surprisingly and unfortunately gennuine.” 

Harry tried to repress a smile, but knew he was mostly failing so he decided it was time to summon the tote full of Malfoy’s things. “Well, I hope this helps. I thought it might make things a bit easier for you here?” 

“Did you?” Draco asked a bit challengingly. His eyes locked briefly on his journals before returning to stare at Harry. He just stared. Like a bright, cold sun glinting off a thick crust of ice, Harry couldn't maintain his eye contact with it for long. 

“I did,” he responded uncertainly in the face of the strange, controlled expression Draco wore like a protego. 

“I won’t ask if you read them because if you did, I’d have to kill you and I just don’t have the energy for that right now,” he said, his voice was low and dangerous. The hair on the back of Harry’s neck started to stand on edge. 

“I didn’t. Of course not," he barely kept himself from shouting at the other man. He had briefly and suddenly reminded Harry of the Draco who threw a crucio at him, albeit much more innocuously and subtly. The threat still felt real enough to Harry; his blood heated, ribs were pummeled suddenly by his heart, and the skin on his neck felt tighter somehow. Most criminals tried to not leave documentation behind, but even if he had come across one he was fairly certain he would hand it over to the courts rather than take it on himself. Harry wouldn't do that to anyone for any reason. He hadn't ever come across something so private in his investigations. "I just thought they might be a bit useful. You can read them and remember how you really feel about me.” He joked because he felt awkward and sweaty. 

Draco knew how he felt about Potter. It didn’t matter if his last entry was a proclamation of his ardent and never-ending, hateful obsession toward the man; knowing the past wouldn’t take away the images in his head, the feelings in his gut and chest. Knowing what was real wouldn’t sort out his mind, wouldn’t automatically force his brain to return to thinking the way it presumably had three weeks ago. “You’re a berk, a nosy, overly considerate, and idiotic berk.”

“One of those was a compliment, right?” Harry grinned in that oafish, open way that seemed to chase away shadows and doubt from the faces of those who saw it. It was better than in his memories. 

“Don’t get accustomed to it. What else is in here?” Draco started digging in the bag to distract himself. 

“Just whatever stuff was laying around that I thought you might like to have,” he said, running a nervous hand down over his fringe. 

“This is my favourite cup,” he said with an evenness that felt like protection because he was experiencing the reality of Potter caring, not just a memory. It seemed to stick in his throat a bit, pressurising the raw emotions that threatened to overwhelm him. It wasn’t as though he could let himself throw his arms around the other man’s shoulders in thanks. 

“It was left out on the counter,” Harry defended a bit sheepishly because Draco seemed to be holding back and he was worried he’d overstepped. 

“You brought all these pictures?” He dumped them out on the bed, swinging one leg up so he faced the small pile. His shrunken blanket and pillow fell out as well and he had to cover his mouth, a hand over a snort of laughter because of how ridiculous they looked, not sure why it struck him as funny. 

Harry, who'd been smiling appreciatively at Draco's outburst, let his brow furrow and his mouth sour a bit before looking decidedly concerned. “I brought them because that’s your real life, all this is part of it, part of who you really are. I didn’t think about any of that until I saw it all. I was worried you might have forgotten something.” 

Draco examined all the pictures fondly, remembering that Theo and Potter had gotten along rather easily, but he and Blaise had really had a rough start. Pansy would always hate him, but would suffer through it endlessly for Draco. He realised his friends probably knew nothing of Potter in reality and could be wondering where he’d disappeared to. “I haven’t forgotten, Potter, but thank you; you didn't have to go through all the trouble.” He said it a bit apathetically because all these things were just reminders that he’d lost Potter, that he hadn’t ever actually had him. “I think I’ll owl them, so long as that won’t compromise your investigation.” 

“Of course not,” Harry replied. He didn’t want Malfoy thinking he couldn’t reach out to his friends. Really, he thought it would be best for the other man to anchor himself in his previous reality. Besides, maybe they would know something about his disappearance. 

“Where were you four years ago, Harry?” Draco asked, brushing his finger over the tiny spine of his journal from four years ago. He wondered when exactly it would diverge from the faux reality he remembered. He tried to recall but was overwhelmed easily. At least he had finally found something interesting about the detective work; he could use it as an excuse to see what Potter had really gotten up to. 

“Exactly here, but without you.” Potter gave him an exceptionally uncomfortable look, before shaking himself a bit only to look exactly the same amount of perturbed. “Do you have to call me Harry?” 

“That’s your name isn’t it, or did I remember that wrong?” He drawled. 

“It is. It’s just- you don’t call me that. You’ve never called me that.”

“There are plenty of things I remember fondly that you don’t.” He had to quash the coy smile he felt twisting his lips. “Calling you Harry still feels nice, safe, regardless of reality,” he admitted, hoping the man would care like he remembered he could. “I’ll stop if it truly bothers you.” He looked down at the carefully folded hands he held on the duvet between his thighs, withdrawn from his things. 

“It’s fine. I’m sorry. It’s just weird getting used to.”

“What’s weird is having to explain I feel safe because of things that should make me uncomfortable and having to suddenly give up things I’ve been taking for granted for years, according to my own lying mind.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said again and it hurt Draco to have forced the insecurity he knew existed in the man to the surface, but he needed the empathy, almost more than he could stand. “Can I do anything to help?”

Draco toned down the warm, successful smile he felt welling up inside him to a small, quietly relieved thing he showed Potter. “Maybe if I knew about your life during this time, then I could learn the differences in my own memories?” 

Harry actually scratched at his scalp a bit in thought, an endearingly oafish display. “Well, there hasn’t been all that much. I was already living here. Four years ago, Ginny and I had already been separated for over a year. Erm, in four years I probably solved hundreds of cases, that’s been my main focus. Mostly, I work too much. Though I was hanging out with Neville a lot more because he hadn’t started teaching at Hogwarts yet. He was over here all the time, he fixed the backyard for me, well, I helped, he always had tasks for me,” he smiled broadly. “No wonder he makes such a great teacher.” 

“Were you two involved then?” Draco’s guts felt like fire as he asked the question flatly, devoid of anything but curiosity. He non verbally regrew his blanket and pillow, something to focus on should Potter’s answer upset him. 

“Erm, no,” Harry said, trying desperately not to feel the flush growing mutinously in his cheeks; Neville had grown into an exceptionally handsome bloke, way out of Harry’s league. “He rather fancies girls. I hear he’s been courting Hannah a bit, but rumour is he’d been having a casual thing with an older woman too, so I don’t know if he’s looking to settle down with any one in particular.” Harry opened his mouth to keep rambling but forcibly stopped himself when he saw the smug tilt to the corner of Malfoy’s mouth. “Uhm, let’s see, what else . . . Teddy’s grown a crazy amount in four years, he’s still over here a lot. I think Andromeda tells me she needs a break just to get me away from work sometimes. I suspect Hermione’s in on it.” 

“Always so paranoid, Potter,” Malfoy smirked knowingly. 

“I prefer intuitive.” He smirked. “It can’t be paranoia if I’m typically not wrong.” 

“What have you done with your limited free time in the last four years then?” 

“Er . . ." Harry stalled, unable to think of anything. “Oh! I rebuilt Sirius’ motorbike,” he announced proudly. Though that had been more about coping with the lingering effects of the war and his crippling loneliness, after Ginny but before Neville.  

“That sounds impressive and also concerning; it can’t be safe.” 

“It wasn’t, but it is now.”

“Do you fly it?”

“I don’t get to very often, work is by floo, friends are mostly all on the network. For any place that’s not, I usually have to apparate to because I’m always running late. I’ve gotten to take it on some auror missions where I had to travel.” 

Draco imagined Potter clad in his auror robes, accessorised with leather gloves, intimidating dragonhide boots, and motorbike gear, riding like he flew, and swallowed thickly. 

Potter quirked an eyebrow at whatever terribly earnest thing he’d allowed his face to do. “I could, erm, if you wanted to, we could go for a ride sometime?” 

“Oh, I don’t think I could survive that,” he rasped, feeling a bit jellied at the thought. It was strange; despite all the intimate things he remembered doing with Potter, the thought of sitting curled around his back, arms around his waist, holding on for his very life, felt like a different kind of proposition. He recalled only one certainly true memory that was similar and the guilt of losing Crabbe welled up like a wall of the fiendfyre that had consumed him. His entire body rebelled at his decline of such an invitation regardless. He wanted his thighs to be on either side of Harry’s hips and desperately needed his arms to close around the other man; the thought of burying his face against Potter’s back felt like a dream he wanted to sink into. 

“Uhm, alright then,” Harry offered, unsure of what the other man meant or why Draco’s cheeks had started to flush a disconcertingly deep shade of pink. “Well, I can’t think of much more that’s happened in the last four years.” Aside from the trysts and almost relationships he was staunchly avoiding discussing after feeling mortified over Neville of all people. They’d been entirely platonic and it had still made him uncomfortably warm and strangely bashful to talk to Malfoy about him with the simple implication alone. 

Draco realised he was just as tired as Potter was awkward and decided to let him off whatever hook they both felt a bit stuck on. “I suppose that’s about as boring as I’d expect without me around,” he smirked. 

“Yea, that’s me now: boring,” he chuckled but it was shallow. Work was sometimes exciting, but he hadn’t been really excited by his life much as an adult. He figured the bar had been set far too high in his adolescence and he’d been mostly okay with that. That was what he’d wanted after the war, boring, stable, and normal as he was allowed to be. Why did it land so effectively as a jibe when it came from a blond ponce? “I guess I’ll let you get back to calling it an early night then.” He started to back away toward the door. 

“Not so early now, but I think I might sleep better,” Draco offered, bringing his blanket from home up around his neck. Harry looked away, turning to the door he was still halfway across the room from, feeling the familiar and problematic warmth he was quickly associating with seeing Draco in situations that seemed he should be self conscious about even though the blond never was. Every other moment seemed like a private moment he was witnessing without permission from the Malfoy he used to know. 

“Right. Er- goodnight then,” he said, reaching the door. Draco stared avidly at his back, the scruffy bit of hair on the nape of his neck was smoothed over by Potter’s restless fingers. His shoulders still seemed set and determined despite the hesitant, uncertain dialogue that carried the man toward the nearest exit. 

“Goodnight, Potter.” Some tension left the shoulders Draco couldn’t stop trying to interpret. “Thank you, again. For all this.” 

He shrugged and turned a bit, Draco thought he sounded like he could almost be smiling as he spoke over his shoulder, leaving his expression in the shadows, “You know me, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for an exciting mystery no one asked me to solve.” 

The door snicked shut against the old wood of the floor and its frame but it felt like a wall. Draco was the mystery someone knew Harry would try to solve, regardless of their history and despite the risk. All Draco’s things spread out on the duvet of Potter’s spare room reminded him he did have a life beyond that mystery, a life he’d presumably been in control of. He wouldn’t let himself be used to hurt Harry. Not again, not after all they’d grown, not now that he knew he wasn’t fated, trapped into doing so. 

He pushed his blanket down near his feet then drew up his legs to cross them. He closed his eyes and worked on clearing his mind, unfocusing on his day, letting go of the conversations he’d had, the conclusions he’d drawn. He chased away the flashes of brilliant green irises when they came; he ignored the warm thoughts that wanted to come after knowing the other man cared enough to bring him things for his comfort alone, not because they’d been needed. 

Eventually his mind was clear enough to focus on his occlumency, empty enough to compartmentalise. He had been caught up in his own mystery enough to forget that he could help himself; he had some power over the amount of torment he endured from his own psyche. 

Chapter Text

Harry woke too early. He rubbed his eyes and stared at the blurry, out-of-focus ceiling until his thoughts harassed him enough to force him to get out of bed. He grabbed his glasses with a defeated feeling huff. He hadn’t slept well; he usually couldn’t when the day was as challenging, interesting, and yet unfulfilling as the day he’d previously had. They still had no real answers, so the lack of sleep didn’t surprise him. 

He went to the kitchen, but only for tea. His stomach wasn’t awake, not that he thought he’d have all that much of an appetite even after it was. He yawned and thought of how unfortunate it was that he was going to have to go into research mode at some point. He would have to read, in depth, all the case files from every department Malfoy had been a part of. 

He headed back upstairs to find a place to read himself into a nap with more lighthearted material first. He hoped to pass out and replace his poor night’s sleep. He figured Hermione would drop in whenever her work day was finished, Ron too. After the odd day Malfoy’d had previously, Harry didn’t think the blond would be interested in socialising much. 

So Harry was rather shocked when he walked in on him sitting cross legged atop the piano in the parlour. “Er-Sorry,” Harry said at the unexpected and intense eye contact. The silver seemed to flash in the low light streaming in through thick curtains and dust mote filled air. 

“My room doesn’t face East,” Malfoy said with the air of explanation. 

“Er, what?” 

“For this meditation I need a window that opens to the East, as well as an elevated platform to sit on.” Harry could only stare with his mouth partly open in response. Draco Malfoy was sitting on top of a piano, a piano that was technically Harry’s no less, and he thought his brain might be stuck trying to process that. Malfoy’s legs unfurled and he slid into a hop that carried him to the ground. His hair flared, showcasing how lightweight and free from product it was. Harry remained speechless but closed his suddenly very dry mouth. “I apologise for invading your space. I can go,” Malfoy said as he straightened his pyjamas, which were also Harry’s. Even though the action was precise and aristocratic, everything about the man seemed softer in his insecurity. 

“Oh no, it’s fine,” Harry snapped himself out of his brief stupor. “I just like to read in here.”

“You like to read?” Malfoy asked, sounding vaguely surprised. 

“Yea,” Harry answered succinctly enough despite feeling the weird urge to continue to explain himself at the pressing expression on Malfoy’s otherwise calm face. “The sun’s technically up, but I thought I could maybe fall asleep again with chamomile if I tried to read.” Malfoy just looked further confused; Harry noted how different the imperious eyebrow arched when he was genuinely surprised. “It’s funny; I can stay up literally all night, until I fall asleep face first into what I’m reading, whether it’s casework or a book, but in the morning even a decent newspaper can put me back under if I’m comfortable and warm.” 

“Intriguing,” Malfoy declared casually. 

 “Didn’t have that in your memories, then?” Harry questioned. 

“No, but that alone isn't what I find so interesting,” he smirked, just a shade away from a sneer for old times’ sake. “Plenty of people read, Potter.”

“Ha, fair enough,” Harry replied a bit drily. “What then?”

“You. I realised I can get to know you all over again,” he responded quietly because it felt like an opportunity he shouldn’t have, yet had already thought he’d taken advantage of. 

“Well, it’d be for the first time, really,” Potter said, shuffling his weight around on his feet for a brief moment that looked like chagrin. 

“I didn’t mean to say that last bit out loud, not really. I know how you feel,” Draco bit back a little, upset the daft git still thought he didn’t know him. There were things he didn’t know about Harry and things he remembered that weren’t real, but at least he still knew Potter. “Sometimes I want to talk to you like we’re- like you would listen how you do in my memories.”

“How do I listen in your memories; am I better in your head?” Harry blurted the questions as one before he had time to think about how the latter sounded. 

“Not better, just different in small ways. Those surprising details of contrast that keep happening remind me this is real.”

“You can’t just tell?” Harry asked, his brow furrowed with the concern he couldn’t keep himself from feeling. 

“Not always, I get lost in it. I remember that life like it’s mine,” the blond paused and it looked subtly painful for him to continue, but he did anyway. “Ours. It’s exceptionally difficult for me, not knowing which reality in my head is the one everyone else is actually living.”

“That sounds a bit terrifying,” he commented, taking a seat on the settee. 

“More irritating, depressing in my case, but thank you for the belated acknowledgement,” Draco drawled. 

“So I was better,” Potter said quietly, almost as if it were his turn to say something Draco hadn’t been meant to hear. 

“My life was better,” Draco emphasised the distinction, feeling uncomfortable with the realisation Potter was thinking himself somehow inadequate. “What are you reading?” He changed the subject as abruptly as he wanted to because he knew Potter wouldn’t be thinking about how tactless and obvious a manoeuvre it was. 

“Oh, just a muggle book.” Harry flipped the book over a couple times in his hand. The bright colours of the strange scene on the cover flashed by as he did so. 

“What kind?” 

“Erm,” he hesitated, still not looking up from the book. “It’s stupid.” 

“I like stupid,” Draco offered casually. 

“No you don’t,” Harry accused, looking up at him to scowl. 

“I’ve always wanted to like the way you do it,” he admitted coquettishly. 

Harry threw a small cushion meant to be decorative and stylish several decades ago at the blond who caught it deftly with a shallow sneer that quickly turned into a pleased smirk. 

The silence that fell after the interaction felt stilted and Harry felt compelled to answer. “It’s a science fiction novel, about a man who has to find this woman and there’s alien nightclubs and robots and talking dogs and I just sound so daft . . .” he trailed off a bit wondrously. 

Draco smiled, “Not at all, it sounds exciting and uniquely interesting.” Harry smiled and it looked a bit like relief. “Read to me?” Draco proposed, feeling emboldened. 

Harry baulked a bit, clearly caught off guard by the request. “I’m in the middle of-” 

“Good, then it’s not too late.” Draco laid down on the rug, remembering it being softer than it was, but just as warm in front of the hearth. He propped his feet up on the couch by Potter, something he had no memory of doing but thought it felt right, put the pillow under his head, and then waited. 

Harry studied the odd position for longer than he meant to, severely unaccustomed to seeing Malfoy sprawled out and so comfortable as to look almost silly. “Erm, alright then. I guess, well, there was just a lot of talk about puns . . .”

“Could you start at the beginning of that? I love word play.” 

“Sure.” Harry’s voice soon pitched to a more even tone that moved around the words as he began to tell the story. Draco let his eyes fall shut and tried to imagine the strange things Potter talked about. He let himself get lost in the lilt of the other man’s tone, the cadence shift when there was dialogue, the hesitation before a science-fiction word that showed he wasn’t certain of its pronunciation. Draco wasn’t sure how long he listened to Potter read, probably too long in an objective sense, but he couldn’t care. It felt perfect. When Harry’s voice gave the first impression of drying out, Draco summoned a glass for an aguamenti so he wouldn’t have to stop. 

They skipped breakfast, but the lunch Potter made was exceptional. They talked about the book as they ate. Potter had already filled him in on the earlier parts he’d missed so he knew enough to truly follow along and discuss. It was more like a content afternoon with Theo than anything he'd had in his recent memories of being with Harry. Draco knew it was better than the memories though, because it had been real and it had been time spent with the true version of the man he was certainly in love with. 

The peace felt compromised only when they’d cleaned up the kitchen after the long, lazy lunch and a luminous otter patronus interrupted to announce Granger’s estimated arrival that evening. “I should work on sorting your case out a bit before she gets here; she likes it when I write a thing up about it. She insists putting effort into a report makes our subconscious mind work on the problem more efficiently or something.” 

“Yes, I think I’ll set out to work on those letters for my friends,” Draco offered curtly. 

He retired to his rooms for the rest of the day, and he did mostly write. Some of the writing was in his journal; he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget this very real day. He also meditated before and after since his session in the morning had been interrupted. His mind was clear and he was compartmentalising the memory and the feelings concerning his morning with Harry when an echoey, almost disjointed version of Potter’s voice interrupted him once more. “Ron’s here, Hermione isn’t yet,” the massive stag patronus said, having come through the walls despite the locked door. It stepped around him a bit nervously in a half circle and Draco waited for it to speak again. After a moment of strange half steps, he realised it wasn’t going to. 

“Well? What is it you’re after then?” he asked the ephemeral creature. It stopped and cocked its head to the side. Draco shrugged his shoulders and held out his hands in a wide gesture of frustration. He thought he’d startled the charm somehow because it moved fast enough to almost be considered a lunge, yet it stopped just short of where he’d retracted his hands back to himself. It looked up and cocked its head to the side again. Draco extended a hand that miraculously wasn’t shaking, and the stag leaned into it, passing through before Draco pulled away again. It still stood, expectant. Draco placed a hand at the creature’s chest, his palm flat against the plane of light imitating fur and held it there. When they both stood still he could feel the warmth of Potter’s magic; he felt it brush and tingle against his skin, like tangible air, but without the resistance of wind. The stag dissipated without warning and Draco gasped at the sudden loss. 

It took him longer to compose himself than he would have thought necessary. By the time he was headed toward the kitchen, he heard Granger’s voice with the inflection of a question in it and realised he’d missed his chance to see Ronald and Harry without her. 

Harry’s voice rose in answer, “Aside from some pretty personal details concerning you two, Ron more so of course, the other Weasleys, my auror work extensively, where I keep my booze for some reason, and where I like to fly, he doesn't seem to know anything real about me that he wouldn’t have already known from school.”

“Really?” Granger prodded, sounding pensive. 

“Yea, it’s weird. Though I have told Ron about flying in Dartmoor since Neville accidentally let slip about Dulwhich at the last pub night.” 

“I hadn’t said anything to anyone about Dartmoor!” Ron defended himself. “Seriously, mate, I know how important private places are to you.”

“No I meant, your auror work. Extensively?” Granger asked with suspicion. 

“Well, yea, he told me I, erm, would come home and talk to him about it everyday,” Harry sounded flustered, his voice drifting up either side of the stairway alternately. Draco could easily envision the man pacing. 

“What real things does he know from school?” Weasel’s voice questioned. 

“Well, you know how it was, rumours and-”

“And the avid staring contests you two would have,” Granger interrupted. 

Harry spluttered, Weasel snickered, and Draco grinned in the dim stairway.

“C’mon, lay off Hermione,” Weasel said in a tone that reminded Draco of the remaining Weasel twin. “The obsession was clearly a two way road.” There was a brief pause before Ronald was snorting himself into a fit of laughter that from the severity of it, Draco imagined Harry had either hit the other man or was looking petulantly outraged. He thought it strange that each conflicting mental picture seemed based on memory of Potter. He realised with a shock that remembering multiple expressions of Potter glaring angrily at his best friend were all younger versions of both men, whereas memories of Harry hitting Ron for any comment in that same vein were supposedly the present day reaction, an adult response, though they too seemed to be just as vivid a recollection. 

Draco lunged forward, his thoughts running together quickly. “Did you just hit him?” he blurted, almost falling down the stairs in his haste. 

“What are you on about?” Ronald asked. 

“Did he hit you just now, after your comment about obsession?” Draco noted with some satisfaction that a furious blush was spreading rapidly across Potter’s features. 

“No, ‘course he didn’t,” Weasel answered and Draco could have danced; this was another way for him to tell which memories were false. He could have beaten himself for not realising such an obvious thing sooner, but it stood to reason that any memory of an older Potter was automatically suspicious, aside from Draco’s recent time at Grimmauld Place and maybe things that seemed like chance encounters in public. 

“Were you eavesdropping?” Granger accused sharply. 

“Well yes, but to be fair, I was just coming down here to greet you lot; I wasn’t warned not to accidentally stumble upon the secret meeting about me in my- well, not my kitchen, but certainly where I get my tea these days,” he drawled. 

“It’s kind of your kitchen,” Weasel provided quietly, looking around as if it were an entirely new place. 

“Now, Ronald?” Granger asked reproachfully. 

“Well, to him it is!” 

“To him Harry is his too, should we just leave them to their faux happily ever after then?” 

“You know that’s not what I mean, ‘Mione,” Ron started. He shuffled his weight around, looking desperately uncomfortable as he continued. “The situation is . . . Well, you’ve been helping but-”

“Offering my assistance is as much as anyone is going to get from me regarding his situation .” 

“You’re the one who’s always preached house unity and togetherness; we could even have a common enemy. Well, at least Harry and Malfoy might.”

“So you waited years to take my advice? You waited until after his aunt tortured me in his home and after he lost the war he’d been helping wage against us? ” Bellatrix’s wide-eyed, insane face flashed inside Draco’s head. She’d been family and that should have meant more to her when he’d failed, but it hadn’t. He felt his knees turn to water and worked to keep down a rising tide of bile from his roiling guts. 

“I waited until I didn’t actively want to curse him for all that, yea,” Ron responded drily, but guardedly. His eyes shifted a bit as if he still felt guilty despite everything he’d said to defend himself. 

“Well, I’m not there yet,” she announced cuttingly, her words sharp and staccato.  

“Maybe we should do this later,” Harry offered warily, looking between the two of them before glancing more covertly at Draco, who still felt a bit light-headed from his efforts to repress any outward display of how much Granger had gotten to him. 

“We could at least not talk about him where he gets his tea. He hasn’t gone back to the Manor or his own place since he showed up here,” Ron commented sulkily. 

“We’ve discussed that,” she said sternly. 

“Oh, have you? What have you decided?” Draco questioned snidely, feeling awkward and vulnerable after having Weasley stick up for him as if they really were friends. He also had to keep his limbs from trembling under the pressure of the soul-sucking abyss that was the memory of the day Potter and his friends were caught and brought to the Manor and subsequently escaped. He’d wanted to die rather than face Voldemort’s rage and his own cowardice. 

“That you should continue to stay here,” Potter cut in diplomatically at the unimpressed scowl on Granger’s face. “Whoever got to your memories is out there ; they could have taken you from your home for all we know.”

“I don’t think-” 

“It’s not up for debate, Malfoy,” Granger interrupted evenly, but with a brusqueness that made it clear they had already debated plenty without him. 

“Am I a prisoner then?” he challenged spitefully. 

“Do you feel like a prisoner?” Potter asked, his brow furrowed in what looked suspiciously like concern. 

“Only when she’s here,” he told the man, testing that possible concern while also allowing himself to wallow a bit sincerely in the pain and frustration he felt from becoming Granger’s enemy once again. “It’s like she wants revenge, torturing my psyche as some kind of vindication. I’m not saying it’s not fair; I’m not even saying I don’t deserve it. I just thought she’d be more concerned with solving the problem at hand than getting under my skin.” 

“Wh- I never said-” Granger countered, uncharacteristically inarticulate. 

“Fair enough,” Harry interrupted decisively, feeling compulsively protective now that Malfoy was officially in his charge. He added a shrug that seemed to soften the blow a bit.

“Harry, I’m running another session with Malfoy tonight.” 

“I think you have enough to go over in my report for the night. I’ll go over the rest of the files I have and we’ll reconvene when everyone’s had a bit more time to reset. We can do it as early as tomorrow morning if your schedule’s open.” 

Draco heard the subtle emphasis that caused Granger to blink furiously as her mouth opened only once in hesitation before she snapped it shut. 

She huffed a high pitched noise that was pure irritance, but her voice was low and her gaze fierce with determination when she spoke, “The longer we sit on this, the longer those memories have to burrow, to manipulate his reality and skew his perception. I’m disappointed I have to remind you that we don’t know where the lies are meant to lead. Risk is a compounding factor over time and it won’t consider anyone’s feelings , Harry.” 

“I’m not going to invalidate the way he feels just because it’s coming from a version of Malfoy he himself wouldn’t recognise. It’s not our reality, but it’s happened to him, likely because of me, and he’s suffering, Hermione.” Potter spoke with calm and guilt lacing his tone in equal measure. Granger’s brow creased and her mouth pinched downward. She seemed humbled and slightly shamed; Draco was impressed with the power of Potter’s statement. He wasn’t entirely sure he knew the man could speak like that. 

“We don’t know for sure that this is a plot to get to you, Harry. It’s led to you, but obviously this can’t be the goal here,” Granger attempted to reassure unconvincingly.

“Besides, suffering seems a bit severe. He looks like he’s holding up alright.” Ron shrugged. “Seems poncy enough to me.”  

“Thank you so very much for that, Weasel,” Draco drawled, somewhat pleased with the onslaught of support despite and also perhaps because of Harry’s outburst, though it balanced precariously close to crossing the line into pity. “Oh, also, thanks to my inadvertent eavesdropping,” he emphasised pointedly, “I realised that the person who gave me these memories obviously works at the Ministry, likely very closely to you or Weasley.” He directed his last statement to Harry and watched his countenance change in microexpressions of first surprise, scepticism, and then scrutiny. 

“What, exactly, makes you think that?” he asked Draco intently, bright eyes glittering dangerously at the mention of such a betrayal. 

“Extensive memories including details of Harry’s job,” Granger provided, nodding, but refusing to let herself look impressed. 

“Well, also I just remembered Ronald hitting Harry when he was a young weasel, even though there were memories of Harry hitting Ron as an adult, he didn’t; that’s not really reflective of his personal style as an adult. It made me realise the information was being sourced with more verity than personalities. These implants have all the facts, some incredibly personal, but they still don’t reflect the adult versions of the people they’re meant to as seemlessly as they first appeared to. It took me remembering what I expected and differentiating between what actually is. What I expected is often what I remember. But ten points to Gryffindor for getting there, anyway, Granger,” Draco announced drily, but with a smirk to show he was pleased she’d caught up. He hoped it rankled. 

“Of course I figured that was a distinct possibility and if you’d told me about the discrepancy in the first place or if I could have found it in your head myself then I wouldn’t have had to suffer your eavesdropping.” 

“This way I get the added bonus of not having you tear apart my brain and we still get answers.” 

“I’d call them theories at best,” she contradicted him with venom in her tone. 

“Shouldn’t Malfoy get the points?” Harry redirected after Hermione’s severe scowl, forcing down the amused feeling that made his lips want to curl after her immediate and dour disapproval. She was angry but Malfoy was right, they’d gotten something out of this, even if it wasn’t much yet. The blond had a rough day prior; Harry figured he could get behind whatever silly thing he was playing at, just to give him a little bit of a break. Since he had just demonstrated that he could still provide insight to the case, the last thing Harry needed was for him to clam up because he thought he was trapped. A cornered Draco Malfoy was an unpredictable and possibly still dangerous thing, whereas a stumped Hermione just needed time and some space. She rolled her eyes and sighed as if she knew what he was playing at but crossed her arms disapprovingly at his participation regardless. 

“I’m not competing, think of me as a Professor,” Malfoy instructed with coy, mock-innocence that Harry found slightly unnerving because he realised he was amused by it. 

“Absolutely not,” Granger refused, scowling even harder, Draco wondered if the lines between her brow ever dissipated or if they only stayed for him. 

“Well, I’m not going to compete against the three of you. That’s not fair.”

“Slytherin wants a fair game all of a sudden?” Weasel challenged, grinning boorishly. Draco smirked to cover his own amusement. 

“I don’t want to play anything if I don’t think I stand a better chance of winning.” 

“Then why’d you ever play against Harry?” 

Granger laughed, but immediately remembered she was mad and literally wiped the smile off of her face, rubbing the side of her head in a brief and frustrated manner before crossing her arms again and shaking her head. 

“Alright then,” Harry said, his smile a lopsided, mischievous thing. “Consider me Slytherin.” Granger made a low, groaning growl of disapproval as she rolled her eyes, but Weasley seemed unsurprised and unperturbed by Potter’s declaration. 

Draco, however, took the opportunity to scoff, “Fat chance.” 

“I was almost in Slytherin.” At the apparent shock Draco couldn’t repress, Potter grinned broadly. “False memories didn’t tell you that, did they? For all intents and purposes of the game, I’ll be in Slytherin. Now, I think we needed some points awarded to us?” 

“Well, if Granger got ten for figuring out what I already knew . . . ?” Draco propositioned, still not convinced Potter was serious. The man nodded and then gestured to his Weasel with a do-go-on kind of gesture. 

“Twenty points to Slytherin, then,” the ginger huffed. 

“This is terribly immature; I’m going home. I’ll look into your coworkers until Malfoy’s pride has recovered enough for another legilimens session,” she declared in a tone that fairly dripped disdain. “Ronald?” 

“She’s not a very graceful loser, you know,” Weasel stage whispered warningly as he followed with a casual obedience. Granger shot her husband one final dirty look before stepping into the green floo flames, saving her obvious distaste and true resentment for Draco. 

Draco noticed Potter trying to steel himself against the fit of mirth his two best friends wrought in such a brief visit that had felt like complete upheaval to Draco. He remembered making Harry that happy, but knew without much examination that it had to be false. “Did you hand over your report about me?” He asked guardedly, but facetiously, he knew the case must go on for Potter, despite what he’d said earlier that implied he might care about Draco’s feelings. 

“It’s not like that; Hermione really does want to help.” Potter evaded the question, following the response with a quick hand through his wild hair. 

“She only wants to solve a problem that results with me gone from her life again,” Draco corrected, hoping to sound significantly less despondent than he felt. She was unequivocally a good friend to have; he didn’t need fake memories to know that. “And yours.” 

“Guess she’s stuck with you ‘cause of your thing with Ron, though” Harry commented evenly. 

“My thing?” Draco challenged, annoyed. Did Potter think he was being comforting or somehow entertaining? It was neither. 

“Would you call it friendship?” Potter asked innocently despite the fact that it felt like a trap. 

“I think I’d prefer not to go around admitting such a thing,” he informed haughtily. He wasn’t comfortably certain such a relationship could survive Granger’s understandable wrath despite Ronald’s ease of acceptance that they apparently had truly had exactly that. 

“So, it’s more about just stealing my friend then?” The innocent facade fell away to obvious goading with Potter’s grin. 

“Absolutely,” he confessed blithely. He started with a blatantly mocking tone, “Though I will revel in my successful manipulation once complete. I started befriending your ex by accident, but the theft of Weasel was premeditated.” Potter snorted, clearly amused so Draco continued, “I think your house elf and the rest of the Weasleys might take a bit more effort, but apparently now I’m working on your familiar.” 

“What?” 

“The Patronus charm, your stag, was weirdly . . . responsive,” Draco explained uncertainly, hesitating about the description because his initial thought had been to call the apparition affectionate. Potter’s shift in demeanour was a subtle, charged expression; a lower, more analytical tone to his voice under the obvious surprise when he’d questioned Draco’s commentary. He immediately lamented unwittingly catching the man off guard. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Potter demanded clarification evenly enough although Draco could tell his defences were up. 

“I don’t know, Potter; I’ve never cast one, my friends never casted them. I don’t know how they typically behave, but I wouldn’t have expected it to feel so . . . needy.” 

“That can’t be a fair assessment of whatever you’re talking about.” Potter’s pride in his charm was obvious in his flippant negation and the way he crossed his arms defensively. 

“It’s not really fair for you to send that horned monstrosity into my quarters whenever you please,” Draco countered and it felt like grasping at straws for indignation, but he didn’t care. 

“It was him or me,” Harry shrugged, thinking his presence would have been more imposing. 

He would much rather prefer Potter come to his quarters himself and he let his eyebrow raise that challenge for him. He collected himself during the awkward silence. “You’re really going on vacation with me then?” Draco redirected, seeking confirmation even though he was a bit put out that Harry would stand up for him against his best friends, but wouldn’t take his word about a stupid charm’s behaviour. 

“I’m taking a sabbatical for you,” Harry corrected. 

“I’m deeply honoured,” Draco drawled, nodding his head in a shallow imitation of a bow. 

“I have to hope it’s going to be a short sabbatical,” Potter rolled his eyes before he turned away to head toward the hob. His shoulders were tense again like that first night. It was fascinating to Draco because it was so much quieter than he’d remembered Harry being when upset. He wanted to write off the discrepancy in his memories as Harry being happier with him and so more expressive, but then he had memories of the teenage Potter being so very frustratingly taciturn when not actively raging or instinctually reacting to something in a caveman-like or Gryffindor-teenager-ish way. 

Draco had to admit that Harry had been right about the details of his memories being of such vital importance. He wondered briefly if he should phrase it any differently before walking briskly across the kitchen. He sauntered across the room as if he ate there everyday because he could swear he had been, then held up a hand to halt Potter’s incredulity at being followed. Draco very honestly, calmly, and conversationally reported what his thought process had just been concerning his memories. 

Although he did leave out the part where he found the present Potter fascinating in a visceral way that hadn’t been present in any of his recent memories of the man. Draco realised it was probably difficult to manufacture his specific brand of Potter-obsession and decided that wasn’t pertinent information for Harry to know. It was also in line with his theory: he knew he’d been obsessively fascinated with the younger, very real Potter, and he didn’t think he really needed to share extraneous evidence. 

“Caveman and Gryffindor are synonymous to you?” Harry asked when he’d finished, as if Draco could possibly answer that without setting him off further. 

“Well, I was a teenager, but certainly never caveman-esque,” he said vaguely with an apathetic drawl. 

“So. . .” Potter started thoughtfully as he summoned ingredients while he turned on the hob. “Even if you think that something is off, your first instinct is still to protect the feigned integrity of these false memories. It makes sense to put in such a fail-safe, but it’s obviously not foolproof. I still don’t get how it’s meant to. . .?” Potter paused in speech to frown in a pensive way that Draco remembered seeing a thousand different times during hundreds of different activities such as potions and other classes, but also during long talks of contemplating their future, discussing his job, and coordinating decisions. He knew what the man looked like when was studiously concentrating and could even tell the difference between a puzzling Potter and a stumped Potter, but he had no idea how many times he’d truly seen such expressions. 

He felt weak-kneed when it struck him again that most of those flashes of memories were likely fake, lies living in his own head; his own recollection was the enemy. He sat down hard and almost missed the chair, barely hanging on to the edge and not caring that he sat shifting most of his weight to his knees in an instinctual effort to hold onto his centre of gravity. In his defence, the chair hadn’t been all the way out, but he hadn’t been in any condition to pull it toward himself before collapsing. 

“Malfoy?” 

Potter sounded genuinely concerned, but Draco could only let his eyes slip out of focus as he stared at the dark lines between the wooden planks of the table. He wanted to respond, but too many things ran through his mind. He wanted to tell Harry he was terrified and worried and confused. He had the dire urge to tell him to shut up already and just hold him like he’d wanted him to from the moment he saw the man open the front door of Grimmauld place. He desperately needed to tell him information he didn’t have and send him after those responsible. 

He opened his mouth to say one of those things only to close it again. He couldn’t expect Potter to help him through his internal panic if they hadn’t hardly evolved beyond disliked acquaintances. Even that seemed fatally optimistic; Potter likely didn’t think of him more than a previously hated school rival or pitiable enemy. At most he was a sinister middle man, and at best he was a current victim in a criminal case. 

“I’ve abruptly decided I cannot stand to feel this vulnerable in front of a man who is supposed to know me the way I remember you knowing me and yet still doesn’t actually like me. I’m going to bed,” he informed, knowing the man would appreciate the straight forward approach and question anything vague, even if it left him with more details than he would’ve liked. Potter was always willing to pay the price: for information, for action, for others, for the win. As he stood from the table, Draco took some solace in knowing that he’d had seven years to get to know him before being compromised and knew he would find answers some day, probably sooner rather than later.  

“It’s not half six yet,” Harry commented, sounding uncomfortable. 

“I said I’m going to bed, not that I’d sleep, Potter,” he said drily as he headed toward the stairs. 

“I don’t dislike you,” the speccy git called casually after him. “You just get me brassed off so easily.” 

Draco paused at the bottom step to turn a raised eyebrow on the man. 

Harry rubbed a hand over the chaotic mop of his hair, futilely smoothing down his fringe the way Draco remembered seeing almost every day for the past year and as far back as he could remember knowing Potter. “I could like you well enough whenever you’re not being a complete arsehole.” 

“So just halfarse my entire life for your approval?” Draco challenged. 

“I’d settle for just knocking off ten, maybe twenty percent.” Potter shrugged and one side of his mouth threatened to lift. 

“I suppose I could try for that,” Draco sighed heavily, melodramatic on purpose and Potter’s mouth curved up into the smirk it had wanted to be. “It may take awhile though,” Draco cautioned pragmatically. 

“Well, apparently all I have right now is time.” 

And it was practically all Draco’s. He smirked at the man but his expression fell. He needed to address one more thing before he went off alone. "I do recognise myself, just so you know.” 

"Er-what?" 

"What you said about me when you were telling Granger that this is my reality now," Draco offered as explanation. 

"Oh,” Potter responded shortly, looking like he wanted to have more to say. 

"Yes, oh,” Draco rolled his eyes slightly. “I know who I am, Potter; I’m just not entirely sure how real the rest of you are when I think about you.”  

"Well, I didn't mean- it's just, erm-”

 “Also I'm not really suffering all that much,” Draco interrupted the other man’s stammering in what he felt was an act of mercy. Really, he just didn’t have the patience for it; he needed to get it out so he could rest his exhausted mind. “Thanks in large part to you." 

“Erm- good, that’s- well that’s good, then.” 

“It certainly could be worse,” Draco said by way of agreement before heading upstairs to ruminate in a bed he’d known had existed in a spare room, but was not the room he remembered sleeping in until very recently. Despite the Slytherin decor, he wanted to be elsewhere. He wanted to be surrounded by Potter’s favourite things and garish Gryffindor decorations a generation old. He wanted to mope and then fall asleep in the bed that smelled like the man he was in love with. 

Draco let his eyes wander across deepening shadows as night fell properly; despite the creeping darkness, he felt a small stir of optimism. He knew they could be amazing together, that life could be worth living with Potter in a way that he could now acknowledge he apparently hadn’t ever had. He didn’t want to remember what his life had been like before he was given beautiful memories of an improbable lie. He spent the evening contemplating and eventually scheming; he could convince Potter that it was worth a try at least. He’d fully let himself love the man for whatever implanted reason. There had to be something those memories had been based on or built from, something he could use, something to work with so he could start rebuilding. 

The following morning Draco awoke instilled with a sense of purpose from the moment he tasted consciousness. He had a plan and it already felt like that was all he’d really needed. He left his hair soft and mostly natural, just a bit of salve to keep it from wisping out. He picked a pair of muggle denims that had been bleached artfully and frayed a bit over a pocket, at the bottom hem, one knee, and the opposite thigh. The dark denim and bone white threads over the holes made his skin look perfect and he paired them with a casual forest green jacket that strikingly complemented the light lavender-berry cross of a colour that dominated the artful, soft pattern of his button down shirt. He put on boat shoes that were mostly a dark heather but charmed the stichting to match the colour of his shirt. 

Draco went down before Potter had to send for him, hoping to catch the man reading again, but wasn’t at all surprised to find him looking sleep-ruffled and not quite awake at the hob, preparing tea, probably thinking about breakfast. 

“I think I’ll deep clean this kitchen while you make breakfast,” he announced to the man’s back and lax shoulders. “It's somehow much dirtier than I quote-on quote remember ,” he added, overemphasising his sarcastic disdain since the man hadn’t turned around to see him perform air quotes. 

“Kreacher gets-” Potter cut himself off with a yawn, not even glancing over a shoulder to address Draco yet. “-inexcusably grumpy if I clean too much.” 

“I said it’ll be something I do; if the elf wants to take it up with me, let him,” he responded casually and picked up where he left off days ago, tapping the grout clean with the tip of his wand. 

Potter made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a grunt of acquiescence. “I was thinking omlettes for breakfast, what all do you like in-” He stopped speaking abruptly and Draco turned from the grout, already smiling pleasantly. He was only mildly disappointed the other man’s jaw hadn’t dropped. It did seem he had to put in extra effort to keep it almost closed, from the firm line of a tendon when he visibly swallowed, to the way he rubbed his stubble. He soundlessly sent tea things to the table when he realised he was staring. 

“Tomatoes and basil,” Draco offered. 

“What?” Harry asked, apparently helpless to give him another once over. 

“I think you meant to finish asking me what I wanted in my omelette,” he elaborated, feeling exceptionally posh having Potter’s eyes rake over him. It was a feeling he remembered quite well from their very real childhood. “My response is tomatoes and basil.” 

“Er, yea. Right.” Potter’s wand followed the pattern for an accio as he started paying attention to his pan again. “Do you have plans today or something?”

“Why do you ask?”

“You, erm, look different.” he swallowed again, looking pained at his own stammering as he caught the tomatoes and basil with Seeker reflexes. Draco’s chest felt light and fluttery about it. “Different than how you have- here, I mean.”

“No plans,” he lied easily, turning his face back to study and clear the ancient patina stuck between tiles. 

“Okay, well, that makes two of us then; Hermione sent a note through the floo this morning. She won’t be available until tomorrow.” 

“So we’re just going to mope around here again today?” 

“I haven’t been moping.” The energy of the magic cutting the tomatoes and basil changed, chopping a bit more aggressively. “She wants to try legilimens with you again tomorrow.”

Getting maudlin about Granger wasn’t part of Draco’s plan. “We should go flying after breakfast,” he suggested as innocently as he could manage. 

Infuriatingly, Potter scoffed, “You can’t fly in that.” 

Harry sent the ingredients to the pan with a casual flick. He studiously watched the eggs cracking themselves rather than glance at the outfit he was deriding again. How did Malfoy even have muggle clothes? Kreacher must have brought them. It made sense knowing where Malfoy lived now, but it still seemed irreconcilable in Harry’s head. And how was it they looked nicer than any clothes Harry owned even though they were ripped jeans?

“I can keep up in this at least,” Malfoy drawled.

“Sounds like you’ve already given up,” Harry commented, rising to the obvious challenge Malfoy seemed to want to busy himself with. 

“Not at all, perhaps I’m hoping to distract you a bit,” he said without trying to repress his smirk. 

Harry ran his hand through his hair. As soon as he tried not to imagine Malfoy’s sleek lines laid out along a broom handle in the colourful muggle fashion, he failed. He cleared his throat. “Right. After that fails it’ll be a handy excuse for when I outfly you,” he said with confidence he thought should feel stronger. 

After a bit of light, scoffing laughter that had been soft enough to feel closer to an amused giggle, Malfoy continued to smirk and clean. “Exactly.” Harry didn’t know how to respond to it so he didn’t.

The food was not cooking fast enough; Harry had already felt his heart quicken with the challenge and the prospect of taking flight. He hadn’t expected the opportunity to fly against someone for quite some time. He hadn’t practised in a while, and admittedly, the blond was one of the few people who ever really gave Harry a run for his galleons. He abruptly decided just to go with beans and toast instead of making himself an omelette and started slicing some bread he hadn’t realised he’d summoned. Malfoy smirked at his toast and it felt as arrogant as ever, yet somehow they were able to keep the light conversation civil throughout the quick breakfast. Harry finished while Malfoy was just starting on the end half of his omelette so he excused himself to get into clothes more fit for flying. 

After finishing an omelette that was cooked to perfection, Draco decided to head outside. He didn’t know what ridiculous pre-flight rituals were taking Potter so long, but he was determined not to wallow in his curiosity. Draco started stretching in the dim morning sun that was trying to burn through the fog bank. 

Harry, wearing a pair of his own much looser denims that were torn from overuse and not at all because it was fashionable, walked out to see Draco looking inhumanly flexible. He stopped in his tracks, wondering what kind of manoeuvres the blond was planning that demanded such pregame elasticity. 

“Did no one in Gryffindor stretch before a game?” Malfoy drawled, untangling his own limbs in graceful arcs that Harry thought had to be completely unnecessary. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen any human-shaped person capable of that; I wouldn’t call it stretching.” 

“What would you call it?”

“Showing off, probably,” he smirked snidely. 

Draco felt a reluctant flush; he was mildly, but genuinely, annoyed. “You haven’t seen ‘showing off’ yet, Potter,” he sauntered over toward the man, nonverbally summoning the broom he’d had Kreacher fetch last night along with his clothes. 

“Is that a threat?” Harry asked, holding his ground casually. 

“If you need it to be,” he answered coyly, the corners of sparkling silver eyes pinched in an amused expression. 

“I might,” the man responded stiffly, sounding a bit breathless. In order to stay in control of himself, Draco repressed a tumultuous feeling that felt suspiciously like laughter. “We can’t play out here, Dulwhich or Dartmoor?” Potter asked with an abrupt return to the business at hand. 

“Let’s go somewhere new,” Draco replied. 

“Do you have a place in mind?”

“No. I want you to pick somewhere you haven’t played so you don’t have an unfair advantage.” 

“Erm, alright then, North or South?” 

“I trust you,” he held out his elbow for apparition and didn’t miss the slight crinkling of Potter’s brow or the way his Adam's apple bobbed a bit dramatically as he gulped down whatever instinctive reaction Draco’s statement had garnered. 

Potter took his arm and the apparition was as swift as it ever was, but when they landed and the physical connection was broken, Draco felt the absence of Harry’s body heat like a wound. It was a form of torture, he was sure of it; to briefly be so close to something he remembered having whenever he needed it and knowing it wasn’t something he could have or even ask for. 

“Welcome to Willingham Woods,” Potter announced. 

“More trees than I would have expected from a potential quidditch pitch.” 

“Well, this is my first time coming here in the day. There are some large clearings throughout. I haven’t tried flying it yet. Isn’t that what you wanted, a neutral playing field?” 

“I suppose it will have to do,” he smirked, not at all displeased with the serene forest. 

“So, erm,” Harry took a snitch from his pocket, but hesitated to discuss the game itself. 

Draco felt lighter than he could remember feeling for quite some time, in either life he had memories of. “One-on-one seeker match, standard rules and regulations, no need to make it complicated. It’s not Ancient Runes, Potter,” he sneered shallowly. Harry’s head shifted to the side, a strange combination of nostalgia and annoyance flashed only briefly before he let the corner of his mouth pull upward in amusement. 

“Right, then,” he tossed the snitch up and mounted his broom. During his metered count to three Draco felt like his heart rate might have doubled. 

They pushed off simultaneously, racing for altitude, climbing steeply, close enough to bump shoulders if either man decided to for no other reason than because they could. When the air started to thin they slowed, Draco saw Potter’s eyes already roaming the expanse below them. The other man must have felt his gaze because malachite flashed quickly across the foggy sky as they continued to grow apart, the distance increasing rapidly. Draco looked down, unable to hold the gaze as his breathing had started to quicken watching Potter’s chest heave similarly. Draco wondered how flushed he looked already and averted his gaze just in time to see a flash of gold. He dipped the other way first, knowing Potter would leap into action at the first sign of movement and would waste time having to over-correct hard. He soared toward the bouncing fleck, glinting in the muted sunlight of the overcast day, but lost it when he saw Potter on a much lower, closer plane, working to catch up with alarming speed and intensity. Draco plummeted in order to cut off the other man. 

“I should grab a handful of your tail bristles for that stunt!” Potter called, panting through the sudden excitement. 

“You won’t; you’re likely allergic to cheating!”

“Maybe I’ve wanted to like the way you do it?” Potter said, casually tossing his own flirtatious phrase back at him as if it didn’t matter. 

Draco realised his momentum and focus had slacked a bit only when Potter passed him, veering off to the left at an extreme angle, holding onto an impressive amount of speed. He decided to be reactive only to Potter, to simply mimic and interrupt him; he found the less he focused on the snitch, the easier it was to keep up. He let go of trying to best Potter and continued to just fly against the other man. Soon it felt more like dancing than flight, still loose and chaotic, but with fluidity and a design to it. 

At one point he cut Harry off, and as the snitch grazed the back of Draco’s arm, he realised that if he’d seen the snitch and turned away from Potter instead of toward him, he would have easily been able to catch the tiny, golden ball. It was the kind of mistake that would have made his teenage self so enraged he’d have been unable to sleep well the night after a game. Instead, Potter missed the snitch with a crunched expression of anticipation and shock on his face that Draco thought he could dream about and the game continued. 

He rode close enough to smell when Potter started sweating and then they played for another hour, their tactics getting more severe, rougher. They did bump shoulders, and then Harry did clip his tail bristles. He’d turned a 180 and dove at an angle that meant the shaft of his broom between his hands blew through the well-conditioned bristles of Draco’s, sending him into a brief tail-spin he recovered from better than he thought he’d had any right to. Potter’s annoyed, high browed expression communicated that he’d felt similarly and that it clearly hadn’t been an accident as he raced toward him again, backtracking, meaning the tail spin had also been intended to buy him time. Draco didn’t hold it against him as much as he would have had he, not ten minutes earlier, swiped the very same tail bristles across Potter’s face. It had been mostly by accident, he’d been trying to avoid a branch and dipped down, cutting Potter off again. He could feel they were both getting worn out, and frustrated with the hot, muggy sun warming the humid air from behind a blanket of clouds until the atmosphere felt wet and heavy, threatening rain and maybe something more. 

When Potter finally caught the snitch, it was because of a moment of supreme and undeniable skill. As Draco panted raggedly, bringing himself back down to the ground, it felt a bit like mercy to have it be over. 

Potter hopped off his broom gracefully enough, but his hair was obviously a damp mess, his t-shirt was soaked through with sweat in a few places, and his breathing was just as laboured as Draco’s. “That was bloody brilliant!” 

“Don’t brag, it was skillful at best,” Draco admonished with a scowl. 

“Not me, you prat! You,” Harry exclaimed with a bit of joyous surprise. “And well, I mean the game in general; I haven’t played in a while.” He ran his hand through his hair, moving moistened locks off his forehead, exposing his scar as if without thought, but he did look a bit insecure as he continued. “It’s been even longer since I’ve played and felt, I don’t know . . . competitive.” 

“That’s because you need to be challenged, Potter,” he smirked, knowing this was Harry, nothing false was informing him. 

“Er, right,” Harry felt his eyebrows crunch together; he felt suddenly ashamed of getting so caught up with Malfoy. He had needed the challenge and it felt like using the blond to have had so much fun with someone who would almost certainly regret the amiability later. “Fair enough, I guess. Ready to head back then?” He offered his elbow and Draco took it gratefully rather than remind Potter he could apparate back to Number Twelve on his own. 

“I’m going to get showered and cleaned up, I think.” Harry announced after steadying himself on the stoop of Grimmauld Place. His previous elation had become a bit contaminated by the unsettling feeling that this was all part of a manufactured set of parameters meant to manipulate him in some way he couldn’t see yet. 

“Well, hurry up; I want to go out for lunch.” They had flown for hours and it had worked up his appetite after the modest two egg omelette he’d had. “There’s a place I’ve been craving.”

“Erm, sure. I guess.” He paused near the door, hesitating, just realising that Malfoy had bossed him around and he’d acquiesced with ease that was nearly comfort. He frowned and headed toward his room, sending his broom to its cupboard on the way. 

After showering, Harry dallied at his closet before committing to an outfit. He knew what he would wear, that wasn’t the problem. Regardless of where Malfoy wanted to go, Harry would be wearing a well worn t-shirt under a plaid button up, soft enough to comfort him in the unfamiliar territory he was about to journey into and thick enough that if the fog got heavy, he wouldn’t even need an impervious charm. Also jeans, nicer ones without holes in them, he could put forth that much effort. He threw on his work boots for a bit more effort, maybe he was nervous Malfoy was about to take him somewhere he’d be remembered, or stalked. 

The true nature of his hesitation only adequately surfaced when he came down the stairs to see Malfoy looking bored but well-dressed in different muggle clothes. After the relief of seeing the blond not done up in fancy wizard robes, he realised this was an outing. Not an outing to a friend's house so investigation could be done in the meantime, but an actual outing between two people for no other discernible reason than because one had asked the other. It seemed like a date. A lunch date, which seemed safer; Malfoy had gone to lunch with Ron dozens of times apparently, and as intrinsically annoying as it was to belatedly learn that, it still wasn’t all that scandalous. 

“It’s within walking distance,” Malfoy announced. 

“Oh. Er, great,” he claimed shortly and without sincerity. Now they had to walk and presumably talk. 

Malfoy raised an eyebrow only slightly and lowered it just as quickly. “Thank you again for the magnificent game, Potter,” Draco said, filling the awkward silence that immediately began to settle around them as they set out down the street. 

“Well, right back at you on that one. Have you been practising? Or secretly playing on a team this whole time?”

“Don’t patronise me,” he scoffed good naturedly, feeling unexpectedly complimented despite his scepticism. 

“I’m not.”

“Well then, no, I haven’t. Not that I remember,” he added the last a bit drily. 

“I’m surprised you’re not at least coaching. I just mean, you haven’t lost your edge and seemed to have refined your strategy a bit.”

“I was trying out something new, but really Potter, no need to effuse; you still won.” 

“It was a bit too close for comfort,” he smirked. “But that tracks.” 

Draco thought he might be blushing and wished the sun was warm enough to blame. “Quidditch was my dream job,” he admitted. 

“Then why didn’t you play?” 

He rose an eyebrow again and titled his chin down a bit to look incredulous. “Why would I think I could?” 

“Well, you’ve kind of always thought you could do whatever you want.”

“That’s a bit hypocritical, Potter.” 

“I’ve never thought that,” his voice rose a bit in pitch with the denial. 

“Then why have you always done whatever you wanted?” 

“I’ve only ever done what I had to,” he insisted, his brow drawing down. 

“You didn’t have to meet me in the trophy room at midnight when we were eleven and I don’t believe for a second that you didn’t want to re-home a baby dragon despite the illegality of it. You’ve always done what you want whether or not the rules and orders align with your expectations.” 

Harry’s brow finished furrowing and he scowled a bit, but it seemed mostly thoughtful, albeit a bit annoyed. “Well, yea, I did, but that doesn’t explain why you’re not a professional seeker. Did you even try?” 

“Why would I bother?” Draco challenged Potter’s obvious redirection. 

“I bet you could’ve made some team,” he claimed with a casual disregard for reality that bothered Draco more than he would have admitted. 

“Then what? Become the most hated player, a deatheater public figure?” He snapped, but it was low energy. He’d let go of such grand delusions a long time ago and he felt Potter just had to get caught up. “Do you think people would have wanted their kids idolising me the way young witches and wizards do with Quidditch players? Think they would have sold many team posters if my face was on them?” 

“Someone could have pulled it off; they sell Chuddley Cannon posters somehow.”

Draco tried to smother the chuckle that threatened to burst from him with a derisive scoff and ended up snorting instead. Harry smiled brilliantly at the noise so he came to terms with it rather quickly. 

There was a brief moment of pleased silence that Draco didn’t care to break. 

“Is this somewhere you and Ron have gone?” Harry asked uncertainly. 

“Jealous, Potter?” 

“No, I just- it’s not a new place? You know what they have and what’s good? I usually have whatever’s recommended to me by whoever I’m out with. It’s erm, too difficult for me to decide.” Harry felt a bit awkward whenever he went out to eat, unless it was a pub night where food just came to the table in between rounds of social lubricant. He could order his own food, but it always took him too long; there were too many options. He liked buffets because it reminded him of Hogwarts, but most of his friends did not share the same sentiment. 

“Somehow I’m not surprised, even though I have no memory of that being the case,” he smirked, evidently pleased. “So indecisive so long as it doesn’t matter. Don’t fret, Potter. I love this place, I can recommend anything there, but I do have my favourites. This restaurant is both a carefully guarded secret and a guilty pleasure of mine.” 

Harry felt that maybe the blond was being a bit facetious, yet even the chance that this was some hidden bit of Malfoy intrigued him desperately, despite his mild disbelief in the blond’s sincerity. 

“A burger joint? This is your secret, guilty pleasure?” Harry asked incredulously when they stopped in front of a modest little restaurant just outside Islington. The walk had been surprisingly pleasant; he'd told Malfoy about his time at the zoo since he thought they’d been heading that way when he had complained about the long walk. Malfoy had told him about visiting an animal emporium in France that had felt like a zoo as well as pointing out several different flowers in bloom which Harry found surprising and endearing even though the other man sounded more like he was showing off the knowledge than anything else. They didn’t talk about school and the conversation steered away from any other areas of conflict in a way that only didn’t feel natural when Harry examined it. 

“Yes, just shout that for the whole of London, Potter.” He rolled his eyes dramatically but opened the door for Harry with a bit of a flourish. He went over the threshold looking sceptical and Draco thought perhaps even a bit chastised. 

“Draco! Long time!” A gruff, elderly man called from behind the counter and a young woman popped her head out through the order window to smile and wave with a flapping hand full of enthusiasm. 

“How often do you indulge in guilty pleasures, Malfoy?” 

“I don’t think that’s any of your business, Potter,” he responded with an aloof slyness that was entirely manufactured. Potter grinned and Draco felt a little more known. 

Draco ordered for them both after a couple of casually probing questions about Potter’s preferred palette (other than sweets) then they chatted amiably about his post war time. A time wherein enough of his life was firmly behind him and the man had gotten on track. This time preceded his breakup with Ginny and his subsequent recovery. 

Their food arrived with a smile and casual small talk from the older man who brought it. “That must have been difficult,” Draco sympathised a bit stiffly, acknowledging the conversation that had been interrupted. 

“It was and it wasn’t. It was difficult getting back to being friends,” Potter responded casually before taking a monstrous bite of his burger.

“How did you know you were friends again?” Draco asked, feeling that though it was a close thing, the real and present discussion with Potter about his ex was a better memory to replace the one he had. 

“Well, I guess Christmas helped us get there.”

“The watch,” Draco said, nodding. 

“What?” Potter questioned, sounding concerned. 

“You got Hermione a watch, but Ginny picked out the design.”

“How did you know that?” 

He looked at Potter a bit disdainfully from under his raised eyebrows. “I remember hearing about it.” 

“From who?” 

“Granger. She thought the real gift was the reconciliation between the two of you.” 

“Well, we’ll have to tell her about this; there’s no way that memory isn’t fake and it isn’t really centred around me, yet it reflects the truth of what really happened.” 

Draco nodded curtly, still not wanting to turn morose about the inevitable grilling by Granger. “Why did it end?” Potter had already gotten so far down the tracks of whatever runaway train his thoughts had started that he looked perplexed to the point of confounded when Draco asked his follow up question. “Between you and Gin?” He clarified, a bit frustrated with how quickly Potter could get lost in his own head when they were having a civilised conversation. 

Green eyes snapped suspiciously to his when he’d said the shortened name and he realised he only felt comfortable calling her that because he falsely remembered doing so. He sighed heavily before dragging his own gaze away. 

“It was my fault,” Potter admitted flatly. 

“That’s not what I asked,” Draco prodded. 

Harry sighed and started picking apart the remains of his burger with disinterest. “I didn’t open up to her the way she needed, and I could feel her waiting for it. She expected my honesty to transform into some kind of vulnerability when we became more intimate and romantic. She thought it would lead to the kind of communication our relationship needed to gain more depth.” 

“That sounds . . . like a lot to expect”

“Is it though?” 

“Maybe not from a standard relationship with a boring nobody,” he drawled. 

“What, because I’m Harry Potter I shouldn’t have to share my feelings and my past with my girlfriend?” 

“Firstly, no one should have to share any part of their past with anyone unless they feel comfortable doing so. Secondly, you weren’t just Harry Potter, you were a pawn, a soldier, and most significantly a victim.” Draco sighed exasperatedly at the offended pinch to Potter’s mouth. “I don’t mean it offensively. You were used and it’s understandable that you’ve put up barriers because of that. Some people from the first war have still never got to the point where they can talk about it.” 

“I couldn’t even talk to her about stuff I’d already told Ron and Hermione,” Harry defended his ex’s expectations. 

“I assume she wasn’t there for whatever it was in the same way they were.”  

“No, but they could talk to her about some of it, most of it.” 

“It seems to me that you’ve never been all that chatty about trauma. Ronald has no filter and would talk to anyone who wanted to listen about most anything, and Granger would probably happily lecture someone on the effects of every trauma she had if she trusted them and needed the discourse.”  

“That’s . . . actually a fair assessment,” Potter admitted with reluctance, but a small upward tilt to his mouth. “Although it’s uniquely unflattering, which makes sense coming from you.” 

They continued to chat about less consequential things on the way back to Number Twelve and the thunder clouds cleared, leaving the sun to work through the humid mist of fog that lingered. Potter took off his overshirt and knotted the sleeves around his waist and Draco tried not to stare. He failed, but thought it at least went by unnoticed. He remembered seeing Potter naked of course, and could pull up countless memories of knowing the man’s body much more intimately than that, but he realised they were all no more than exceptionally detailed fantasies his brain might not even have designed. He huffed in nearly quiet annoyance, waiting for rain that didn’t seem to be coming, only threatening relentlessly. 

“Erm, alright there?” Potter asked, breaking the silence that Draco had thought was passing as peaceable. 

“Yes, of course,” Draco started evenly. He paused, considering how foolishly open he’d been with Potter and how little he’d received in return. Despite how that felt, he opened his mouth again anyway. On what seemed like instinct, he remained vague, repressing the urge to tell Potter the details of such fantasies just for a reaction, any reaction to tell him if he should continue to hope and scheme, to dream of attaining the things his brain kept telling him he deserved because he distinctly already remembered them. “I was just wondering how much of my brain is against me.” 

“Oh.” 

“I apologise,” Draco said, speaking quickly over Potter’s own, loudly blurted “Sorry.” 

“Why would you apologise?” Draco asked. 

“Because I haven’t solved it; I haven’t even gotten any leads.” 

“Don’t be depressingly daft. I know you’re putting in the work. Well, whenever you aren’t too busy entertaining me.” 

“I haven't been entertaining you,” he refuted seriously and with a touch of concern. 

“Disagree,” Draco smirked, ignoring the brief pang he felt from the thought that Potter may be feeling misplaced guilt. 

“I mean, I wasn’t- it wasn’t intentional or anything. We have to eat, right?” 

“Of course,” he reassured easily, hoping to keep the man from mentally torturing himself with ethics and virtue. 

Potter opened the door, holding it for Draco with one hand as he used his wand hand to unfasten and hang his blatantly, and almost offensively casual, button up shirt on one of the many overburdened hooks by the door. Draco could admit to himself it looked soft and warm. Once he was fully inside, Potter let the door shut and Draco’s eyes had to adjust even though the nearest set of curtains was open. 

“It’s so gloomy in here after all that sun,” he commented.  

“Yea, weird weather,” Potter agreed absentmindedly as he lit the chandelier. The little bursts of flames firing from his wand were rapid and precise. 

“You’re missing the point, Potter. This foyer is depressing.” The day hadn’t taken the dramatic turn in weather that it had in what he was now thinking of as his blueprint memory of the first time they walked to a date from Grimmauld Place, so they weren’t forced inside at a run that left them slightly winded. He was briefly distracted by the memory of the two of them raggedly breathing in the small dark space. He wondered if it really had rained on that day four years ago, but couldn’t remember the exact date from the false memory so he supposed it didn’t matter. 

“Are you saying you want to clean? Now?” 

“I’m saying every second this house remains in this state, it offends me,” he smirked. He still remembered the Black house in all its former glory, a memory that was foggy from decades passing by it. Still, he remembered using that old memory to rejuvenate the house with Potter. Even though as he looked around the foyer, he realised he didn’t want to restore it, he wanted for the two of them to make it into something new and different. It was a weird lapse that he should probably tell Potter about, but with the man shaking his head exasperatingly at him, repressing a smirk while he rolled his eyes, Draco thought it could wait until their new first perfect day was over. 

“Fine, go crazy,” Potter instructed flippantly. 

“What do you mean, ‘go crazy’?”

“You have fun. I might nap,” he said slowly, eyeing a cobweb in distaste before vanishing it. 

Draco raised a challenging eyebrow. 

“Shove off. It’s- whatever.” Potter huffed and his shoulders slumped as he emphatically gave in. Draco was delighted with how animated the man was being around him; it seemed like a genuine level of comfort and familiarity was at least being approached. “Alright then. We’ll clean. But you’ll have to answer to Kreacher for all of this.” 

“I’d be happy to talk with him if he takes issue with any of it,” Draco reassured easily. “Not to make this more daunting than it already is but, we’ll need to do much more than simple cleaning.” 

“What does that mean?”

“We’re going to open this musty place up.”

“I still don’t understand.” 

First, Malfoy widened the windows, a spell Harry didn’t know and couldn’t look up because he’d done it nonverbally. Then, he went around flicking his wand to transform the drapes into extravagant layers free from dusty build up. The walls peeled themselves of their wallpaper to reveal a much brighter, more defined, less aged version of themselves when Draco dragged his wand across them. Harry had to draw the line when Malfoy coloured the ceiling a terribly sad, muted green with a spoken incantation he thought he could easily mimic.

“That’s a terrible shade of green.”

“It’s called sage and it’s a perfect interior colour.” 

“Says you. I think blue would look nicer,” he claimed before repeating the incantation and directing his wand toward the ceiling using what he thought was the same movement he’d seen the blond do. 

“Bring it back and try again,” Malfoy instructed without hesitation when the spell fizzled out, not affecting the ceiling in any noticeable manner. 

Harry did so and Malfoy huffed when the sage disappeared briefly in a flash of bright, blue light before returning. 

“You had to know that was wrong as you were doing it.” 

“The incantation?”

“No, that was fine, I’m referring to the limp wristed failure of a wand movement. It needs to snap back.”

“You could have just not said the mean part of that otherwise helpful criticism.” 

“I said it nicely once already.”

“‘Bring it back’ is not the same as snapping my wrist back.” 

“Potter, do you want to colour the ceiling or argue semantics?” 

“I think I’ve made it clear I want to do both,” Potter responded drily enough Draco had to roll his eyes to keep his amused smile from turning into laughter. 

“Snap back your wrist; your incantation was perfect,” he offered with a drawl. 

Potter tried again and the wall was recoloured in a soft, pale blue that spread over the dingy ceiling like water flowing across it. He grinned beatifically and Draco had to look away, as if his happiness were too bright because it did feel like too much. In his memory, Potter had insisted on muggle paint and they’d had a paint fight before Draco vanished it all and insisted on traditional painting charms. He was glad reality was somehow less of a mess for once. He briefly wondered why Potter hadn’t thought of muggle paint, but didn’t want to bring it up and risk the success he’d had so far. The foyer felt brighter and somehow warmer, yet it felt like a tease to Draco; he wanted more. 

“Do you want to do the sitting room next?” 

“Malfoy, this is supposed to be a sabbatical, not a renovation. I wouldn’t mind sitting down and reading in the parlour though.” 

Harry read while Draco nervously switched from laying on the rug in front of the hearth to sitting at the desk, to finally settling down on the couch next to Potter. If he noticed Draco’s restlessness he graciously ignored it, for which Draco was silently thankful for. 

The sun began to set and the room succumbed to the same kind of lightless, gloomy feeling the foyer had been draped in. “I guess we could stand to lighten this room up a bit, my voice could use a break anyhow,” Potter offered, looking sideways at Draco after the chapter ended. 

“Not used to having someone to talk with all day?” 

“Well, I meant the reading, more specifically. So since you want to be a prat, now I’ll only allow it if you show me the other spells you used in the foyer.” 

“Fine, but you still only get to pick one colour.” 

“How do you figure that?” 

“Because a room this large needs more than one and I don’t trust you to match in an aesthetically pleasing way.” 

“That sounds a lot like using git-speak to say you think I’ll make it ugly.” 

“I’m sorry, do you trust yourself to choose three complementary colours?” 

“No,” Potter admitted and then they were able to get to work. He was surprised at how easy it was to teach Harry, not because it wasn’t challenging, but because it was exceptionally enjoyable despite that. They sniped occasionally in a way that felt nostalgic, yet never seemed to become antagonistic enough to distract them for long. Before he was ready to stop, they were done colouring the large room, including changing out the drab, musty upholstery of the furniture and the decorative pillows for fresh fabrics and colours. It had all the same aspects of the room it had been before, but was otherwise entirely new and Draco already loved everything about the way that made him feel in regards to his current predicament. He thought it could be reflective and indicative; it seemed like a success in and of itself. 

An owl hoot echoed jarringly through the house with alarming volume just as they were finishing up and Potter raced to the front door without more than a hastily mumbled apology for explanation. Draco watched from the newly widened window to see Potter emerge from what would have been thin air to the muggle that turned the corner a short moment later. He pulled up to Potter and they exchanged paper money Draco recognised as muggle before he handed over a rather large brown sack. 

“I ordered some food from an Indian place nearby, hope you don’t mind. I’m a tad too worn out to cook.” 

“I think we’ve earned ourselves a break, Potter,” Draco agreed as he examined the finished area. The deep olive shade they’d barely agreed on for three of the walls paired just as nicely with the plum of the entry wall as it did with the subtle snippets of navy in the furniture and the creamy light brown of the ceiling. 

“We did do a bit more than I would have anticipated, had I any expectations.” He started to head toward the kitchen stairs and Draco followed, his mouth starting to water at the scent of curry. 

“So that screeching was some kind of simulated owl?” Draco questioned abruptly because he’d certainly had expectations, but didn’t feel ready to admit that yet. 

“It’s an automatic muggle alert system, like a proximity alarm and doorbell combined. It recognises the intention of incoming muggles, so it only sounds off when muggles trying to find me are nearing me.” He nonverbally lit the hearth before setting the bag of food on the table. “The range is a bit short. I have to hurry, but it works.” 

“It seems like an important part of this house for me to not remember,” Draco mused as he set the kettle on the hob to boil. 

“Well, it’s something I put in not that long ago,” Potter informed after an appreciative smile that was followed by a slight, but pinched look he made a clear effort to suppress. He busied himself bringing out the slightly steaming containers, placing them all on the table and opening them. “George made it. At first it was going to be a spell on a real owl, because no one can mind their own business,” Potter stopped and shaked his head, looking disappointed in himself. “Well, because my friends worry too much, but the experimentation on actual owls was not well-received when he brought up the idea over dinner at the Weasley’s.”

“Of course it wasn’t, I assume Granger was there?” Draco drawled as he sat down. 

“Yea, but he wasn’t thinking; he gets so excited when he starts on a new project. It seems kind of like he might be trying to make up for the enthusiasm he doesn’t get from Fred anymore by involving everyone else as often as he can.” 

Draco remembered feeling similarly about the man and the way he spoke when he was at the burrow and realised he didn’t have any memories of George talking about his new inventions that didn’t include Ron. Of course, when would he be with George without the more familiar weasel? He realised after reliving dinner at the Burrow that he had likely never spoken to the solitary twin before, so he decided it wasn’t an important enough detail to ruin the comfortable flow of the evening. He noticed Potter had gone quiet, looking as though he didn’t quite know why he’d told Draco such a thing. Draco knew he shouldn’t feel hurt and brassed by the brief expression but the insecurity it caused to rise in his gullet like bile felt undeniable. He wanted Potter to feel comfortable telling him things; he didn’t want to see what looked like instant regret on the man’s face afterwards.  

“Anyways,” Potter continued, ruffling up the back of his hair before smoothing down his fringe. He sent two plates and a couple sets of flatware to the table before sitting down with the little square, woven basket that held most of his tea things. “It hasn’t been available to the public yet. It’s not something I use in front of people all that often either; most people, myself included, grab food on the way to this place.” 

They began to eat and when the kettle started to whistle, Draco levitated it to the table while Potter worked on an unflatteringly large bite of a samosa. Chewing, sipping, and the soft discordant sound of cutlery was all there was for a handful of minutes, but Draco was still entertained. He focused on the man in front of him and not the false versions that threatened to invade the moment riding in on a flood of false memories filled with the same smells of tamarind and spicy peas. 

“What did you mean when you accused your friends of not minding their own business?” He asked abruptly when he noticed Potter’s ravenous speed slow enough for conversation. The man’s plate was nearly empty whereas Draco had hardly gone through a third of the offerings on his own plate. 

“It was nothing.”

“It’s clearly something, Potter.” 

“I er- they think I need an owl.” 

“But you don’t?” 

“If I urgently need to tell someone something, who for some reason can’t be reached by floo, I have my patronus.” 

“It’s not just about urgency, though, it’s about connection. Having an owl means you can have long, meaningful conversations with people who are too far away or too busy to see. An owl isn’t meant to be an alert system, even if they are meant to provide a sense of security; they’re a companionable thing.” 

“My last companion died for me,” he said flatly, glaring at Draco. 

“Would a new one have much opportunity to do the same? The war’s over, who would-?” he tried, and knew he was merely playing devil’s advocate, just trying to get Potter to tell him things, preferably secret, emotional things they could bond over. 

“I don’t know, but I’m sure it would only be a matter of time,” he conceded stiffly. 

“How do you still have your friends if that’s how you feel?”

“Because I know they’re independent. They’re just as loyal, if not more so, but they’re free thinking people, who have enough going on that they’re not likely to sacrifice themselves for me.” 

“Some would have said the same about you, yet you did.” 

“Anyone who really knew me realised that was always something I was willing to do,” he said with a bitterness Draco didn’t quite understand. “Anyways, they have more to live for than just me, I was all Hedwig had.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Draco tried, turning the conversation more inward. 

“You’re not the first person to try and convince me of that,” he scoffed. 

“My father killed my owl to prove a point,” Draco informed him evenly. 

“What could possibly be proven by doing something like that?” Potter questioned, incredulous, mild horror in his voice and in his alarmed expression. 

“He was showing me that he could take away anything, but what I understood was that death was random and merciless and, most upsettingly, beyond my control. Am I the first to admit I don’t have an owl either?” 

“Why not? You don’t live with Lucius, you could-” 

“I could, in theory, but so could you.” Potter stared for a brief moment. Draco smirked, but could feel the way it stopped just under his eyes. “But we won’t.” The other man still stared. “Besides, how well would that go over with Jacob and his grandmother?” he added lightly. 

“Fair enough,” Harry conceded with a small smile that still seemed too pensive. He opened the pantry door that held his liquor with hardly a flick of his wand. “Mead?” 

“Do you have something lighter?” 

Harry ran through a mental catalogue of the whiskeys, meads, scotch, and even gin that he had slowly accumulated over the years, yet never seemed to make much of a dent in his supply of. “Wine?” 

“Red or white?” 

“Probably both, I never drink the stuff, but they make good gifts to bring along when I’m invited to someone’s place for a dinner or something.” 

“Why have it and not drink it?”

“They’ve come as gifts mostly. It’s slowed down, but when I first started working as an auror I’d have deliveries almost everyday from thankful survivors of the war,” he admitted with a bit of a cringe riding his shoulders. 

“Fans and admirers?” 

“Those too.” He admitted, wincing a bit in earnest. “Sometimes I’d get handmade gifts, hats, jumpers, scarves. But alcohol was popular too; I don’t know why, I mostly only drink when I’m out with friends.” 

“It’s been considered a worthy tribute to idols and gods since the beginning of man,” Draco commented even though it seemed the type of thing to wildly upset the man from his memories. 

“I’m neither of those things,” he denied with vehement calm. 

“To them, you have been,” he tried testing the memory of Potter’s fame induced fury. In his memories it made the man much more uncomfortable than he was presenting and Draco found it not only interesting, but comforting on some level. 

“No one thinks of me as a god, Malfoy,” he merely scoffed and rolled his eyes. 

“You rose from the dead and literally saved us all when you ended the war. You’re more god than god has been in millenia.”  

“So do you want a red or a white?” Potter asked, ignoring the assessment, changing the subject without pretence. 

“Which do you prefer?” 

“Neither.”

“Really? No palate for wine at all?”

“It’s sour and sweet, all decomposed rubbish juice, it tastes like how I’d imagine Death's spit-” 

“Alright, Potter. No wine,” he agreed, barely repressing laughter at the man’s assessment. 

Harry nodded and summoned a couple of bucket glasses and the firewhiskey. He poured a moderate amount into one just as Draco took the other. He cast a light splash of aguamenti and used a freezing charm while he rotated it to frost the glass in an intricate pattern of Harry’s stag patronus then handed it back to the man in exchange for the filled one. 

“Draco,” Harry breathed, sounding in awe. He raised his bright eyes and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn't the reaction he’d expected. Again, it wasn’t how Potter had reacted to the parlour trick in his memories. Faux Potter had expressed childlike wonder; Reality Harry had clearly been moved by some understated sentiment Draco wasn’t even sure he’d intended to show to such an extent. He had to look away and then set his magic to pour the liquor into the glass; Draco didn’t trust his hands not to shake. Potter watched the frost disappear until only the antlers were left. Then he swirled the liquid to wash them away as well, seemingly transfixed. 

“Today I- er- well, it was really a erm- good day,” Harry finished lamely. He took a swig to cover his own awkwardness. It had been substantially more than just good. He’d had good days at work. He lived today and it was all Draco’s fault; to say he didn’t understand and couldn’t put it into words was a severe understatement. 

Draco studied the way Harry avoided looking up from his drink. “It was better than that.” Potter looked up again, eyes blazing. “Wasn’t it?” He proposed, only slightly concerned he’d misinterpreted Potter’s stammering. 

“It was,” he conceded stiffly. “I haven’t had a day like that in- well, I just had a lot more fun than-” Harry was trying not to say that this was one of his best days ever as an adult because that seemed unrealistic somehow. 

“Same here, Potter,” Draco said agreeably, rather than take the piss out of the man for his inarticulate nature. 

Harry just smiled into his drink, took another swig of his firewhisky, and tried to not wallow in the realisation that today was the first time Draco’s presence in his home had actually felt like a trap. Instead, he let himself enjoy Draco’s day of distracting himself, knowing that tomorrow the man would have to endure hours of discomfort at the hands of one of Harry’s best friends. It wasn’t as if Harry could let Draco stay like this; the Malfoy he knew would be mortified by the day they’d spent together as if they could be friends.

Chapter Text

The following day could have felt like a new dawn if Granger hadn’t been scheduled to torment Draco. He started to wake up slowly, fighting to remain in a dream. By the time he gave up and opened his eyes he couldn’t remember the dream, only that Potter had been there. He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling for an indeterminate amount of time before he decided to give in to the day in general. 

He was unsurprised to see Potter at the hob when he followed the warm smells wafting up the kitchen stairs. There was a cup of tea already steeping for him, a plate of sausage and brown gravy beside it. Potter turned at the sound of his footsteps and announced that beans and toast were nearly finished as well. There was a small bowl of colourful fruit, chopped into manageable chunks and Draco started with that, his stomach already full of nerves. 

“When will she be here?” He questioned apropos of nothing, aware Potter wasn’t so daft he’d need to say more. 

“An hour or so; she still had to get the kids off to the Burrow for the day.” 

“I’m surprised she didn’t want to show the kids how to torture a deatheater,” he drawled dispassionately. 

“I know you’re only saying that because you’re upset,” Potter turned away from the hob as he spoke to show Draco a concerned scowl. 

“Of course I’m upset!” He wanted to just go on having days like yesterday. He didn’t want Granger to rummage and rattle things around in his head until he lost what little hold he had in Harry’s life. 

“It’ll be okay, Malfoy.” 

“You can’t know that.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure it will be,” he declared stiffly. 

“Merlin help me, I believe you,” he admitted miserably, pushing the bowl of fruit back toward the centre of the table. 

Potter didn’t respond, just served up the toast and beans looking uncomfortable. Draco picked at his food in silence for twenty minutes while Potter ate his portion of toast and beans in its entirety before excusing himself to get ready. 

Harry watched him leave his plate more than half uneaten. He scowled again to himself, more deeply this time. If Malfoy believed him then why didn’t the man feel less upset? More importantly, did he only believe and trust Harry because of whatever spell had messed with his memory? Harry felt guilty for trying to build up trust he shouldn’t even have. After cleaning up the kitchen, he sat at the table and waited for the flames in the hearth to turn green. He analysed the tight feeling in his throat and the watery feeling in his chest, then worked to dismiss them. 

“Where is he?” Hermione demanded as soon as she stepped out of the fire and saw Malfoy wasn’t patiently awaiting her arrival.

“He’s just in his rooms, preparing himself.”

She rolled her eyes, “I’m the one doing all the work here.”

“It’s obviously taxing on his end,” Harry furrowed his brow a bit to show his disapproval as he spoke. He remembered just how much work it was to simply tolerate such an invasion. 

She clearly realised her mistake and promptly backpedalled, “I’m sorry, but I’m eager to get this solved and I’m not Severus, Harry.” 

He repressed a wince and avoided her apology by offering to fetch the blond. He heard her sigh heavily as he walked up the stairs. 

“Malfoy?” he knocked on the familiar door and heard shuffling of feet grow nearer until it opened. 

“I take it she’s here then?” 

“Yea,” Harry responded feeling senselessly guilty for having to bring the other man down to his session. 

“Alright then,” he acquiesced with a sigh that sounded every bit like a concession. Harry felt the watery feeling sink more heavily into his guts. It seemed like he was forcing a surrender of some sort and he didn’t care for the way it made him feel. 

He led Malfoy down to the kitchen where Hermione waited, but when the blond sat down Harry instead took Hermione’s hand and excused the two of them to the blond’s obvious dismay and suspicion. He watched them with a light scowl as Hermione stuttered and Harry apologised.

He took her aside to stand in the small, dark pantry room off the kitchen, “Can you at least fake some kind of tolerance for him and not just the problem at hand, Hermione? I feel like half of what made legilimency so difficult when I went through it was Snape’s palpable disdain for me. It wasn’t a feeling I wanted to open up to.” 

She frowned in that pinched way that pursed her lips and drew her eyebrows down; Harry knew she’d make an effort even though he’d felt horrible asking it of her in the first place. “Sure, Harry. If you think it will help this whole thing move along faster, I’ll try.” 

“Great then and, erm, thanks.” He stammered feeling awkward before leaving the cool, dark room and emerging to Malfoy’s scrutiny. 

“Do I need to alarm Weasel; what’s with the private moment, Potter?” 

“It was private, Malfoy,” Hermione answered sharply. 

“It was nothing, really,” Harry replied simultaneously, talking over her a bit more loudly than he’d intended as his nerves continued to jangle. He sat down at the table, across from Malfoy as Hermione walked around to pull out the chair next to the blond. He turned his own chair to face her, a sour look still possessing his pointed features. 

“Are you ready?” 

“I suppose,” he drawled. 

Her casting was instantaneous; Harry watched Malfoy’s head fall back and tried not to be alarmed as he waited for them both to return from the blond’s thoughts. It wasn’t long before he felt his impatience like pins and needles and had to begin pacing the length of the table. 

Draco could tell he wasn’t letting go of the resistance to legilimens as well as he had initially. He felt the will of occlumency rising up in him like the latent instinct it was. He felt Granger encounter that resistance, but only barely; she really was exceptionally talented. He felt her pass by memories she suspected were true: him staring at Potter during his trial, Potter ignoring him when they passed by each other in the halls of the ministry, Potter coming to his current room in Number Twelve to fetch him, Potter taciturnly consoling him with hot chocolate after Granger’s first visit. He resisted more, well aware she was getting nowhere and sticking her nose where it didn’t belong. She seemed to take note and the memory shifted into eating a sandwich with Ron and then another similar day, except Potter had joined them. She watched the innocuous lunch in more detail and he admitted to himself it had to be fake when Potter put his hand on Draco’s leg under the table. Nothing else of note really seemed to be happening so she moved on. 

“I think we’ve earned a break,” Draco admitted.  

The echo of the words were disjointed because he had said them once again only yesterday and that memory was much closer. Draco realised it felt tangible because it was clearly real; it had just happened. In this memory they were in the foyer, just as they had been after lunch and flying, but they were wet from the turn in weather that hadn’t happened when Draco had recreated the memory. 

“At least one,” Potter agreed and scratched at the plum coloured paint clinging to the scruffy bit of beard he’d let grow out a bit. He held out the ratty t-shirt he wore, inspecting it for damages and noted the swishes of paint dappled across it. He frowned as if the shirt hadn’t already been ready for the rubbish bin. He tried a standard scourgify and the frown drew his brow down as well when it only smeared the paint into the fabric.

Draco huffed a sigh to get the man’s attention then vanished the paint with a variation of scourgify meant to remove flesh eating slug trails from delicate vegetation. It worked as he’d known it would and Draco suspected Potter’s lopsided grin was worth having to see the shirt again in the future. 

Draco could feel the other memory, the real, recent renovation they undertook, just behind this one. Or perhaps above it, beyond it, and he realised Granger would be able to as well. 

When Draco re-emerged it was with an abrupt and jarring sensation of being dumped unceremoniously onto a cold, hard floor. It had felt like forever in his head, but he was certain they had only been consumed by the legilimency for a few minutes. Nonetheless, he panted momentarily before clenching his teeth against the breathless feeling. 

“What did you see?” he heard Potter ask before he’d even stopped the trembling in his fingers. 

“Lies, mostly,” Granger reported casually. 

“Knowing my head is full of lies isn’t helping anyone, Granger,” Draco responded, hoping the tightness in his throat didn’t prevent his voice from harbouring the tone of the accusations he wanted to sling. “The process is beginning to feel repetitive and ineffectual.” 

“Harry, could you excuse us for a moment? Maybe bring us something from Draco’s things that he has a real attachment to?” 

“My personal things are-” 

“Could I bring the picture of all your work things?” Harry interrupted to ask politely. 

Draco huffed and rolled his eyes, “Fine, Potter. Do what you must.” 

“I’ll figure this out and when I do we can all get back to our regular lives,” she attempted to half-heartedly reassure him when Potter left the room. 

“What if I don’t want that, after having this?” He asked quietly, only because he had to know what she would do if he wanted to stop these intrusions with her. Because he very much rebelled at the thought of going through it again, but mostly because he knew he didn’t want to go back to a time when Potter barely remembered he still existed after school and post war. 

“‘This’ is nothing, you don’t have anything here. What you're referring to literally does not exist, Malfoy,” she reminded him, sounding dangerous. 

“Granger, I can't keep doing this,” he felt distressed, but tried to keep it out of his voice. He wanted her to know he was done with it, but not think it was because he was too weak to continue. 

She scoffed, “Can’t do what? I’m verifiably the best at this, others won’t be as gentle nor as understanding.” 

It was Draco’s turn to scoff. 

She scowled in response before speaking again. “What is it about all of us working around the clock to fix you that is so difficult for you ?” 

“The looming threat,” he replied vaguely, not wanting to share his insecurities with her, despite some false part of his brain telling him he could. 

“What threat?” she asked, her tone low and intrigued. 

“Never mind.”

“Malfoy, if you’re keeping a single thing from me-”

“I can’t go back to some loveless, Potter-free existence!” 

She had the decency to pause, to let him avert his eyes and give him time to settle the immediate feeling of adrenaline that he felt attacked enough to experience. When he looked up, ready to face her, only then did she address his outburst. “You only feel that way because of whatever spell this is. I’ll find it, Malfoy.”

He felt like a child under her scrutiny, being patronised with a promise he didn’t want. “That's not true.” 

“What do you mean?” she asked, hearing only a challenge in his desperate confession. 

“I mean that I’ve felt some of it before,” he admitted stiffly even though he’d been aiming for poshness. 

“How do you know it was before this spell? It certainly changed your perception of the last four years of your life and could easily be twisting the memories you have from the time before that.” 

“I reviewed my journals from school and just after the war.” It’s not like he had ever blatantly pined after the man, but reading what he had truly thought and the severity of all the things he’d felt concerning Potter, it was clear he had misunderstood some things about himself. 

“Oh,” she seemed taken aback and then her face scrunched up a bit in distaste she immediately worked to quash. 

“Yes, ‘oh,’” he mocked sharply. “Do you see why I can’t let this go?” He didn’t want to beg her, but he couldn’t keep the pleading, cracked note from his voice. 

“I do,” she sighed as if irritated by her own understanding of his plight. “But that’s incredibly selfish of you. Harry had a life before this, before you interrupted it.”

“Did he? Because the Harry I remember-” he stopped himself because she was right about how false that version of things was, he knew that. “I made him happy. Tell me, Granger, do you feel he’s been happy?” 

“But you never actually did make him happy, none of that is real!” She said with a loud frustration that Draco found somewhat shocking in the adult version of the woman, even though it seemed appropriately reminiscent of the boisterously passionate girl he’d only known through school. When she spoke again she had visibly calmed herself and her tone reflected that, “It was all in your head and the sooner you remember the way things were, the less this will hurt. I’m sorry, Draco.” She very nearly sounded sincere, but the evident pity in her tone was something he couldn’t tolerate. 

“You’re wrong. He let himself be happy yesterday. I did that for him, however brief it was compared to the memories I have.” 

“You mimicked that day from the false memory,” she accused, prodigiously astute as ever. 

“Well, yes; it was a good day then and it made for a good day now,” he defended staunchly. 

“So you’re cultivating a relationship with Harry based on the lies someone presumably made for you,” she stated in a way that sounded like she wished it had been a question even though she’d already garnered the answer she’d been looking for. “If you don’t see what’s wrong with that, I can’t explain it and it unequivocally proves you should leave Harry be.” The damnable pity was still there and Draco focused on how he’d always loved to hate her. 

Harry returned with his collage of cases before Draco could say something he’d truly regret and Granger studied it for an uncomfortable and silent moment in which Draco couldn’t look at Harry despite feeling his eyes on him. She then used it to guide them when they went back in. She inspected his cases, and any interaction with Harry that overlapped them, trying to find a seam she could pull, a fracture where true and false were clearly forced together, but everything seemed to be a homogenous representation of reality. He submitted to the almost routine invasions of his mind for a couple of hours, until he was shaking, sweating, and holding back tears that burned viciously behind his eyes. They had gone over a plethora of real memories; Granger insisted that they had to start there and find one that bled into falsehood. She was searching for the source, the first false memory. 

“It won’t be as simple as going back to the earliest thing we know is false because this spell has clearly changed memories that have preceded its implementation. It’s altered past events in your head from years ago even though you were seemingly unaltered just over two weeks ago,” she explained when Potter somewhat irascibly asked why it was taking so long. Potter questioned what she thought, but Draco tuned out, already aware that they had found nothing of import. The session had been futile and worthless, findings that reflected the helpless feelings in himself. He didn’t want to be so forcibly reminded he was trying to live a lie and not even make progress for his sacrifice. 

It was only after Granger left and Potter handed him a steaming mug of deliciously oversweet chocolate without a word that he realised she hadn’t been able to tell him Harry had been happy without him. Regardless of what falsehoods he remembered, yesterday had been real. Even if he thought he could never bring himself to admit to the other man that it had been inspired by a lie, he and Harry had shared a day of real happiness. He would hold onto that even after Granger took everything else away. 

Harry had hoped to have Malfoy’s input for lunch after Hermione’s session, but after having tea and even reading a bit, he had to admit to himself that he wouldn’t be getting it. He made hot cereal with apples and cinnamon and when Malfoy still didn’t join him, he put a preservation charm on the blond’s dish and stored it. He went back to reading, hoping to find the blond meditating. When he didn’t, he eventually put himself back to sleep. 

When Harry woke up what felt like hours later, he prised the book off his face and scowled. He started to worry that either Hermione had been too hard on him or he himself had done something wrong. The latter somehow worried him more; he thought it was because he really had experienced an exceptionally pleasant day with Malfoy so it felt like losing ground. He needed the blond to not return to his recalcitrant arseholishness so they could continue the investigation with his cooperation. 

He moved to his desk and started reading through case work to busy his mind. He got lost in the work and only came back from the case when Ron’s terrier patronus barked at him and he jumped so badly his elbow sent his inkwell flying. He sighed and set his magic to syphoning and repairing as he listened to Ron’s invitation to come over for dinner. 

He planned his ultimatum on the way up the stairs. 

“Malfoy! Do you want dinner here or at the Den?” he shouted through the bedroom door without even knocking. 

He heard only a scoffing noise from behind the door. 

“I could have them come over for a meal laid out on a blanket right outside your door.”

“Isn’t my door,” his voice sounded off briefly, petulant and lacklustre. 

“Malfoy, either you let me feed you supper or I’m hosting a meal in whatever way I think will annoy you most,” he threatened, hoping it wouldn’t come to that. 

“Why?” The blond questioned, sounding much closer to the door. 

“Because you’ve been isolating and if you won’t stop willingly I’ll force it out of you through irritation, possibly fury. Whatever’s easiest, I guess.” 

He opened the door, holding a mask of posh ennui like shield over his features. “Well, I’m already irritated; I guess I can come down for dinner since you're being so insistently and infuriatingly hospitable.” 

“Great.” He thought of yesterday and cast his stag. He spoke the message as congenially as he could while still scowling slightly at Malfoy’s response. “Thanks, mate, pretty exhausted from company though, we’ll be eating in.” He watched his stag walk away, wondering if the memory that powered it would be the only one of its kind; the thought felt morbid and cold. He started walking away from Malfoy’s temporary quarters, shifting his thoughts to dinner preparation instead. 

“Why do you get so morose after casting a patronus? Does it actually take the happiness from you?” Draco asked from behind him, following him despite his apparent reluctance to eat. 

“Wha- no. I-er- I just remember something happy, then all of a sudden it feels like it’s just  a reminder of the happiness that’s passed already.” He shrugged, caught off guard.  

“Why aren’t you happy?”

“I never said I wasn’t,” he denied, stopping suddenly to turn around and confront Malfoy. The blond didn’t seem to be needling him, genuine curiosity was writ on his pensieve features. “What kind of a question is that?” 

“It’s one you should be able to answer better than that,” he drawled shortly. “What makes you less than happy, then?” 

“Nothing’s made me unhappy lately,” he claimed, and even he knew it sounded like a dodge. He turned his back on the interrogation and headed down the stairs to the foyer, ignoring the way his skin prickled up on his neck, painfully aware that Malfoy was watching him, studying him in a way that felt uncomfortably familiar from the blond. It was the intensity he felt that bothered him, an intrinsic response in him that he typically didn’t feel unless he was in danger or trying to argue with Ron or Hermione. 

“What could make you happier?” Malfoy’s footsteps echoed softly through the foyer after his own. It felt less stuffy, less oppressive in the area with the new colours and he felt a brief pang for some reason, realising that after the other man went back to his flat with his correct memories, this was all he would have to remember the day by. It felt like remembering fun nights with his friends at the pub already. 

“I dunno, I realise I’m more content than I was when I was younger, fulfilled maybe, but I guess I could stand to be a bit more, I dunno, excited about it.”

“Just answer the bloody question, Potter. What could make you happier with yourself, your life?” He seemed desperate to know and Harry couldn’t help but wonder why. 

“I guess, more?” he answered, pausing to shift his weight from foot to foot before heading down the stairs to the kitchen.  

“More what?”

“Just more in general. I thought my job would be more. I thought my family would be more. I thought I would do more. I thought there would be more. I thought I would have more and feel more, but I’m just as stunted and preoccupied as I was before I was an adult. Except now, somehow, I’m preoccupied with less. I’m kept mostly busy with work and I try to fill the excess time with my friends, but it’s not what I thought it would be and that’s the only thing that’s too much; that constant background reminder that I never thought I’d feel like I had less than I did back then, but I do.” He took a deep, steadying breath and started to try an apology becasue he realised he had rambled to an embarrassing degree as he descended the stairs, fleeing the idea that it felt like Draco Malfoy of all people was pitying him. 

Draco waived it off, before he could even fully articulate his chagrin. “Strangely enough Potter, I really know how you feel, although I am fundamentally shocked to hear you say it.” 

“How, I don’t even understand what all that was,” he tried to distance himself from the outburst. 

“ It sounds like you’re lonely,” he commented as if it were actually quite simple.

“I’m not; I’m sure I have more friends than you.” He responded with a sharp, defensive tone he hadn’t entirely meant. He proceeded across the kitchen, lighting the lanterns with a flick of his wrist, holding his wand too tightly. They flared brightly within the glass before settling. 

“I wasn’t talking about friends,” Draco said leadingly. 

“Did I do something wrong yesterday?” Harry asked, changing the subject fast enough to give himself whiplash. 

“No,” Draco said slowly and evenly. 

“Was it the day before?”

“Pardon?” He seemed confused by the line of questioning and maybe put off by the change in subject. 

“Did I screw up the day we spent pretending Hermione wasn’t coming for your brain?”

“Tactless, Potter,” he accused drily as he sat down at the table. 

“I don’t care; I don’t understand why we’re like this today and I want to know why.”

“Granger pointed out that I shouldn't have had that day with you,” he started, regretting the confession before Potter even understood what it was he was disclosing. 

“I don’t see why we can’t have nice days and get along,” he said without making eye contact. His hand went to the nape of his neck and Draco smirked. 

“She doesn’t think it’s wise to . . . imitate that kind of happiness,” he explained in a tone that made it clear he didn’t agree and didn’t care for her opinion. 

“We had that day before, in your head,” Potter said, catching on quicker than Draco had been prepared for him to. 

“Of course we did,” he shamefully professed. 

“So you’re trying to recreate these memories now?”

“Don’t make it sound so bloody clinical,” Draco snapped. 

“What?”

“It’s not just another puzzle piece to your case Potter. I did it because I’m a human being, not because I’m a clue.” 

“I know that, I just don’t think it’s a great impulse to try to manifest these lies.” 

“But they’re beautiful lies,” his voice cracked a bit and the concern pinching Harry’s face was too much like pity. “Damnit, Potter. I’m stuck staying with someone who can’t even deign to call me an ex, while I exist in a constant and painful flux between hatred for whoever did this to me, resentment that I’m the only one suffering, and pining for something everyone keeps telling me I shouldn’t even want!” 

Malfoy stopped, frozen, seemingly horrified. His eyebrow twitched and then an invisible divider seemed to slam down between his overwhelming emotions and his mouth, the expression reflecting a sudden and disquieting calm. Harry couldn’t help but notice his eyes remained stormy in an indefinable way. “My frustration with whatever this curse is has made me forget myself. I apologise.” He turned abruptly to stride gracefully back to the stairs, clearly intent on leaving the room. 

Harry stood stock-still for only a moment, equally frozen and conflicted. The hair standing up on the back of his neck reminded him that following Malfoy when he was genuinely upset was a risk, but he also quickly realised that he couldn’t let the blond make such an announcement without addressing it, without trying to steer the man away from his own pain and embarrassment. Harry knew this wasn’t Malfoy’s fault and it wasn’t fair that he really was the only one truly suffering for a plot that was almost certainly not even meant to hurt him as much as it was meant to hurt Harry in the end. 

“Malfoy, wait.” Of course, Potter couldn't even let him have a clumsy exit after such a mortifying declaration. 

“For what, Potter?” 

“Well- I,” he stopped himself for a minute. “It’s just- I- er-” He took a deep breath to figure out what the hell he could bring himself to say. “It’s okay to be upset, but we’ll figure it out.” 

“That does me very little good in the interim,” he drawled without his normal posh energy. 

“Can’t you just not think about all that until we fix this?” He suggested as if it were so simple. 

Draco glowered in response before speaking. “You were my best friend, Potter,” he sighed dejectedly, feeling acutely more resigned to the embarrassment and the pain rather than the outrage. “Suddenly you can hardly stand me again. No, I can't keep myself from thinking about it.” 

Harry imagined how he would feel if Ron woke up one day, not remembering any of the things they'd done together, just a slate wiped clean, all their history gone. Well, not all, but even just the last four years. . . Harry would be devastated. His stomach dropped like lead when he acknowledged that Draco had lost more than that, in the false life he had been certain he’d lived. Harry had been more to him than that in these implanted memories. It would be like if Ron woke up one day to have lost everything he had with Hermione, to be told it had never even been real. Harry felt weighed down by the realisation, the hypothetical despair was tangibly heavy somehow.  

“You’re right,” he commented decidedly. 

“What?”

“I shouldn’t pretend like you aren’t going through that,” Harry explained, “I should have recognised how difficult it’s been for you, even if the evil master plan isn’t about you.” 

“It never is.” 

“Er- right,” he said, put off by the loaded remark. “Okay then, I should be helping you deal with this better.” 

“How?”

“Well,” Harry thought a friend was needed, someone the blond could connect with in a real way, a familiar way, in a way Harry just couldn’t. “How about we talk to the best friend you remember having besides me? So, er- who was next?” 

“Theo,” Draco replied without hesitation. 

“Knott?” 

“Yes, Potter,” he confirmed evenly. 

“I just meant- I would’ve thought Goyle, or maybe Blaise. Probably Pansy.” 

“You listed them in the opposite order I would have.”

“Wow, alright, then. Knott it is, I guess,” he agreed, still sounding perplexed. 

Draco felt compelled to explain. “We were best friends before school and it was easier to pick up with him after the war than it was to even look at Goyle.” The empty space beside the man would forever haunt Draco. 

“I get it, I know nothing,” he rolled his eyes flippantly, but Draco could hear the true sentiment in it. “Let’s go visit Theo, then.” 

“We can’t just show up without calling on him first; I have no idea when I even spoke with him last.” He had some idea, but suddenly he was very nervous. This would actually be the first time Harry met Theo as amicable parties despite his memories telling him otherwise.  

“Then let’s call. Didn’t you write already?” 

“Well, yes, but-” 

“My floo is your floo,” Harry offered with a dramatic wave of his hand. Draco felt a surge of warmth. It was too indicative a gesture; he wanted to believe it was symbolic or at least some kind of good omen, a harbinger of better realities yet to come. “You could invite him over for dinner tonight if he’s free.” He stood expectantly, waiting for Draco’s agreement. 

“Alright, then. I’ll call,” he replied as he reached for the little dish of floo powder. He didn’t think it would help him with his situation at all, but it would be nice to see Theo. It could also be amusing to see Potter meet with Theo after all this time. He wondered how different it would be from the memory of the re-introduction he already had. 

He threw the powder and called out Theo’s residence over the sound of Potter summoning a couple of pans. 

“Theo?” Draco called through green flames that lightly licked his face ineffectually. 

“Draco! I got your letter.” He shook his head briefly in the soot and sparks. “Bloody strange to have it hand-delivered by a house elf I suspect is older than my home, but I take it you still don’t have an owl?” 

“Yes, Theo, I know. It’s untraditional at best.” 

“I still don’t understand the bulk of the letter. Are you a prisoner or a guest?”

“You understand fairly well then,” Draco drawled. Harry winced and tried harder to focus on what he was going to make for supper. He already had some flavourful bread crumb mixture leftover from a crusted chicken dinner he’d made previously and he’d pre-cooked some sausage for a breakfast he had planned so he decided to make a casserole. It would be quick, easy, and only need to bake for a short time so there wouldn’t be too much waiting around awkwardly for it to be done. 

“Fair enough. Are you really in Harry Potter’s house?” He sounded so sincerely surprised. Draco pressed a hand to his temple to ward off the memories of the handful of times Theo had been here that surged to the forefront of his mind to taunt him. 

“Yes, I’m at Potter’s. I was wondering if you might want to come through for dinner?” 

“Is this an ambush? Is Potter trying to entrap me? I haven't even done anything. I swear it.” 

“Theodore, calm yourself,” Draco offered, instinctively reassuring the other. He was used to having to talk Theo down when he got himself all worked up. 

He took a quick, but deep breath. “You’re right. It’s possible I’m overthinking things. Thanks, mate.” 

“Of course. So will you?” 

“You promise you’re not part of a plot of some kind?”

“I may very well be, Theo; that’s why I desperately want you to visit. The plot is much more likely about Harry Potter whom I told you in my letter I’m pining after to an embarrassing degree because my brain keeps telling me I should have had him this whole time. Now, please, come distract me.” 

Theo smirked. They’d distracted each other frequently enough; Draco didn’t have to remember anything specific to know that. Theo was an intrinsic part of who he was, not just past memories. “Alright, let me freshen up and I’ll be right over.” 

It was just long enough for Harry to finish gathering all his ingredients with a preoccupied mind. He belatedly realised he’d turned down Ron’s company for a Slytherin he barely knew and felt guilty until he remembered that Ron was a friend of Malfoy’s and he’d kept it secret for months. 

Whooossshh. The flames roared softly behind him and he dropped the spatula he was using to combine some onions into the dish he was studiously working on. Harry turned to see Knott step out of his hearth. Long legs came first, followed by willowy arms with slender fingers. Knott hadn’t filled out much; he was still thin and tall, but was less reedy and more lithe. High cheekbones still made his face seem long and he wore his soft, brown hair longer than Draco’s, just down below his ears. His bright eyes were shrewd and analysing as he took in his surroundings. “Wow. Harry Potter’s house. Helluva kitchen,” he commented with a distracted amicability. 

“Thanks,” Harry responded brightly, a little surprised. 

“So, Theo, how long has it been?” Draco asked first, extending a hand to shake and then bringing in the taller man for a quick, but obviously comfortable hug that was affectionately returned. Harry thought he should have looked away after witnessing it, but felt stuck watching their interaction. “I’m not being colloquial; I genuinely need to know if my memory reflects reality or not.” Harry tore himself away to summon the remaining herbs and spices so he could continue with dinner and give them a moment to catch up. He worked on the garlic and parsley, setting the black pepper aside. 

“Quite the dilemma you’re in,” Knott commented, flicking a stray lock over his ear. 

“Effortlessly brilliant commentary as usual,” Draco responded drily, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. 

Theo smirked at the familiar tone. “We went to that concert in the States last Summer, but we’ve been writing regularly outside of that.” 

“Oh good, I’d hoped that was real.” He remembered kissing Potter goodbye before taking his portkey even though he tried not to. 

“You went to a concert? Like an orchestra?” Harry asked, abruptly unable to be just a bystander to the conversation any longer. 

“Not at all,” Malfoy responded, with a smirk, clearly remembering a night of fun and not a stuffy classical piece. Harry abruptly wanted to know what that had looked like but went back to the food, tossing the trimmings in the bin with a nearly mindless wand movement, shifting awkwardly and trying to keep himself from imagining it. 

Theo snickered lightly. “Anyhow, Millicent was wondering why her owl came back the week before last. It had gotten tired of waiting for you to turn up I guess. Must not have been able to find this place,” he finished, and Harry felt eyes on his back that he ignored in favour of combining all his prepared ingredients into the baking pan. 

“He takes his security very seriously,” Draco commented from behind him, confirming his suspicions. 

“I can imagine. Two weeks you said?” Harry turned around, wanting to witness the discussion of their established timeline. 

“As far as I can tell, but my recollection is nothing to go on.”

“Obviously,” they said together and grinned. 

“Some of his co-workers agreed on that timeline,” Harry offered, remembering the minister’s Office Aide and glad to have something to add to the conversation. 

“So you’re investigating this as an auror then?” Knott’s light, golden eyes seemed to narrow without screaming suspicion and his head cocked to the side slightly indicating more curiosity than interrogation. 

“Yes,” Harry said shortly, the clever, questioning nature of the other man making him feel suddenly defensive. 

“And is it customary for the lead investigator to house the victim of such a crime?” 

“What are you? A reporter for The Prophet?” Harry countered irritably. He’d left that part out of his report to Robbard’s. He hadn’t been concerned about where Malfoy stayed so Harry had decided it didn’t matter. 

“No, just wondering.” He smiled, a closed, but pleased thing that Harry found unsettling. Then the man brightened a bit and elaborated in a rather congenial tone, “Actually, I tinker with things for the ministry on occasion. It’s freelance work mostly so I work for anyone who needs a specially charmed item repaired.” 

“That must be interesting work,” Harry commented, grateful for the change in topic. 

“Not especially, but it tends to pay well enough.” 

“He’s being modest for some daft reason; it is interesting and he hardly ever has to work yet makes as much as I do,” Draco pointed out with a light scowl. 

Theo simply shrugged and smiled. 

“I think this is ready to go in the oven; it'll be just a bit. I could show you around the place, if you haven’t already been? This was Walburga Black’s house.” 

“I have, but that was decades ago; I barely remember, I certainly don’t recognise the kitchen.” 

“Like that old hag would have ever let anyone but the elves in the kitchen,” Draco declared in a disapproving drawl. 

“Why not?”

“Propriety, Potter.” 

“So it’s improper for me to almost exclusively receive my guests here?” Harry asked in a disdainful and spurious tone. 

“It would have been back then, yes,” Theo agreed. 

“It’s the best room in the house,” he defended. When the other two just glanced at each other without further comment, he huffed. “Alright then,” he said, walking past them a bit stiffly toward the stairs. 

“You’re off-putting,” Draco accused rather sassily under his breath and Harry was glad he’d heard it. It set him more at ease for some reason he wasn’t going to explore; there was company he needed to keep entertained enough to not ask any more questions. 

“And when you want to you’re deceptively polite, whereas Potter’s awkwardly charming; we all have our crosses to bear,” he claimed brightly in a whisper over his shoulder as he lagged behind Potter on the stairs. He ducked slightly out of instinctive caution when he approached the top. 

Draco was surprised by Potter’s gracious hospitality because it contrasted with the stilted meeting Potter struggled through in his memories. He could remember his Harry being reluctant and taciturn the day Draco had finally convinced them they could all have lunch together without it being a catastrophe. The conversation had been sparse; Potter had also scowled several times and eaten very little. It had felt more like an interrogation than a get together. He marvelled at how and why this already seemed better despite the fact that Potter wasn’t holding his hand under the table or leaning in close when they talked. 

“Why does this foyer look like something Draco designed?” Theo asked, eyes sliding across the curtains and fresh paint spell. 

“Because it sort of is,” Harry asked, impressed by the recognition, but also staving off a strangely jealous wave of heat in his chest. He suppressed a scowl directed inward. Theo knew Draco well enough to know the foyer wasn’t Harry’s style. He recognised that the two had lived together for most of seven years; of course Theo would notice. It wasn’t as though the foyer matched the rustic, warm reds and browns of his kitchen, which he had made his own. The rationalisation allowed him to let go of the tight, warmth that bothered him with an even exhale. “We er- he helped me out, design blind as I am, and directed some remodelling yesterday,” he rambled successfully. 

Theo smiled a bit before he commented, “He’s so bossy with that kind of stuff.”

“I am not, I just have an informed opinion,” Draco said. 

“It’s best if someone else gets bossy when I have no idea what I’m doing,” Harry defended their activities through an awkward chuckle and a shrug. 

“Do you like it then?” Theo asked, affecting casual interest. 

“Do I like-? He stammered, uncertain for a moment thenTheo gestured to the new colours of the room with a sweeping gesture. The tension he hadn’t noticed in his shoulders relaxed slightly and he worked to respond like he knew what he was talking about. “Yea, it feels. . . uh- better in here.” Draco looked smug at Harry’s answer. “It’s just all freshened up. The new colours are- erm, nice,” Harry felt the need to elaborate. 

Theo’s eyebrow twitched and his mouth curved again into a more subtle thing that looked like it wanted to be a smirk. “Fancy that.”

“Fancy what?” Harry asked with a furrowed brow. 

“I also improved a sitting room upstairs, Potter hasn’t let me get to the dining room. Yet.” Draco interrupted, not caring for the way Theo was teasing sentiment out of Potter, despite how much he enjoyed watching Potter awkwardly admit he enjoyed spending time with him. It felt dangerously misleading and foolishly optimistic. 

They peeked inside the dining room and then went upstairs. Potter pointed out the washrooms in particular, obviously not used to giving tours and therefore not sure what if anything should be said at each room as they passed it. 

“This is the drawing room,” Harry announced as they entered it. 

“I can see Draco hasn’t touched it,” Theo said, looking around the cobwebbed corners and thin upholstery with subtle distaste. 

“No one’s ever done all that much with it, aside from clearing out pests and other hazards. I prefer the other room as a common space,” Potter responded stiffly. Draco could see a bit of the Black family tapestry and looked away, trying hard not to think about his dead mother and his disappointed father. He felt a hand on his shoulder and was somewhat disheartened, but still grateful for it when he realised it was Theo’s. The man smirked when Draco’s room was pointedly shown as not the same room as his host’s and smothered a chuckle at the garish Gryffindor decorations in Sirius’ old room. 

Harry thought about all the changes the Order had made throughout the house; the cleaning and clearing out, and how it had been to sleep in the same room as the tapestry he still couldn’t bring himself to do anything with. He briskly decided to continue the tour. “Well, I think that's about it and supper should be nearly done,” Harry declared, trying to keep his brow from furrowing into a scowl when he recognised Theo would have liked to take the piss out of him for all the gryffindor stuff still plastered to Sirius’ walls. 

Harry served up generous portions to his guests and then took a seat at the table himself. Theo thanked him poshly and preemptively for the dinner. 

“You’re welcome of course, but you should try it first; the thanks sound more sincere that way.” 

“I was thanking you for the general invitation, the effort, and the presentation. If it actually tastes good, you’ll hear about it again later.” 

“You’re both off putting,” Draco amended before being the first to take a bite. He looked briefly surprised, but his features immediately settled into what Harry thought was a strange mix of comfort and snark. “Besides, gratitude makes Potter uncomfortable.” Harry froze with his mouth open, about to receive his initial bite. “For instance, I couldn’t just tell him this was the best sausage casserole I’ve ever had. He’d aggressively fight off a blush with self deprecation, get a bit flustered, then avoid the compliment as deftly as he could manage.” Harry tensed up, feeling confused and called out. His temper wasn’t as bad as it had been when he’d been a hormonal teenager infected with the soul of an evil megalomaniac, but he could feel himself heating up. He still wouldn’t call it a blush. “So I have to say this is subpar at best.” Harry frowned at the addendum, more confused than offended. 

“Subpar,” Theo agreed. “But the atmosphere makes up for it.” He winked and it somehow didn't seem salacious or snarky. He came off as eager to participate and did so with dorky confidence and the general feel of amusement. 

“I don’t think Draco should rely on fake memories for poor joke material,” he jibed in return. 

“That was one hundred percent Draco, fake memories be damned.” 

“I don’t do all that,” Harry insisted, realising he was gripping his fork tighter than he needed to. 

“I’ve seen you do that twice already tonight,” Theo said, his eyebrows drawn together in some sort of cross between amusement and pity. 

“Really, Potter, this has been great already. You were right, it helps.” 

“What helps? This was Harry’s idea?” 

“Yes, he knew I needed a friend.” Theo smiled and Harry was distracted by how pleased he was that it wasn’t a bittersweet expression. They were extremely good friends, and yes, they obviously amused themselves by prodding Harry, but it wasn’t mean-spirited and instead felt like they were trying to include him. It seemed at odds with what he’d been expecting, but he realised they were making an effort, something he hadn’t seen from them so of course it was unfamiliar. He made a conscious effort to relax. Malfoy had sounded genuinely appreciative admitting it had been Harry’s idea, the least he could do was stick with it until after dinner. 

The three continued to eat together with the conversation turning first to Draco’s suffering of Hermione’s legilimens, which Theo found both fascinating and horrifying. Harry stayed mostly silent, letting Draco recount the traumatic intrusions the way he needed to. Harry could acknowledge the blond did a good job of not disparaging her much in front of him, despite how he must have truly felt about the ordeal. It wasn’t long before it turned to the much lighter topic of Theo’s work, with Draco interjecting his own experiences at the ministry. Harry listened intently. It seemed to mostly go quite well and soon enough everyone’s plates were cleared.  

“Well, I suppose since dinner’s over, I should be on my way,” Theo commented unenthusiastically. Draco said nothing, and seemed to already be retreating into himself again. 

“I have a bunch of card games, and muggle board games, exploding snap, gobstones, others, if you’re interested in staying for a bit longer?” Harry proposed without any sign of hesitation. 

Draco tried not to smile too enthusiastically when Theo agreed, but doubted his effort had been successful when he considered the relieved satisfaction on Potter’s face as he rounded up the dishes. They went to the remodeled sitting room but before they even found their seats Theo surprised Draco. 

“Potter, would you mind bringing up some beverages? I find it helps soften the blow when I win.” The request was innocuous enough but Draco sould tell from the other man’s body language that it was mostly a cover. He realised he would be asked to speak openly and honestly about his predicament and suppressed a sigh so Potter wouldn’t catch on. 

“You mean you’d prefer if your opponents were a bit smashed so you can gain an upper hand you otherwise wouldn’t have had?” He challenged his friend. 

“It all amounts to the same thing really.” Theo responded superciliously. 

Harry agreed, thinking a little social lubrication wasn’t a bad call either way and set off back to the kitchen, not summoning the beverages because he wasn’t sure what he wanted to grab until he was looking in his cabinet. He settled on the firewhisky but brought a couple of butter beers for chasers, levitating them behind as he carried the glasses back up the stairs. It wasn’t until he heard the low din of voices that he realised they had probably wanted to chat without him present. He felt socially stupid, thinking he should have given them the opportunity to do so early on. He slowed his pace, wanting to give them more time, but was drawn in when he heard his name as he approached the door. 

“Of course you’re in love with Harry Potter.” Harry winced and froze just before opening it. He knew Draco was struggling with exactly that, but hearing it said out loud so blatantly hit him like blunt force trauma. The reverberations of it felt like guilt and shame. “You’ve always been obsessed. Plus, you know, fine line and all that,” Theo’s voice was teasing, yet lent a sincere quality to the sentiment that further unnerved Harry. 

“He’s convinced I wouldn’t see this for the opportunity it is if I had my faculties.” 

“Why would he think anything else? You’ve kept all this buried so deep, you hardly ever even took a peek.” 

“You know I don’t do vulnerable.” The never forgotten image of a tear-streaked, panicked Malfoy reflected in a bathroom mirror rioted in Harry’s mind. There was a brief pause and his heart raced, wondering if he was about to be caught somehow. “How are you so confident that this won’t be some mortifying tragedy I never want to look back on?” Malfoy’s voice sounded more uncertain than he’d let it be when talking to Harry about the possibility. 

Presumably it was Theo who sighed and took a couple steps, likely toward Malfoy from the sound. “Because I know you; the real you, the secret things, the quiet parts. I know who you are when there’s no one but us and garden boxes around.” There was a slightly longer silence. 

When Draco spoke next his voice didn’t sound steady, there was a wavering to his tone that made Harry a bit uneasy. “Have you and I ever gone together as adults, Theo? I mean, more than that short run in Paris, have we given it a real shot?” 

“No, Draco. You don’t think it’d be memorable if we had?” He sounded quietly offended, as if he’d known it didn’t matter that he was forgettable, but still hadn’t wanted to hear it. 

“I don’t think that’s how this works so that’s not why I asked.”

“Why ask then?” 

“I think if we’d have given it a chance between us, if it had gone well, that would be something I’d have to forget if all that’s left to replace it is something fake with Potter,” he sounded bitterly disappointed. 

Harry tried to dismiss the aching jealousy that surprised him by abruptly setting a fire to smoulder in his chest. His breath felt short and his brain felt fuzzy somehow. He knew he shouldn’t be hearing any of it and that compounded how difficult it was for him to process it. He would have to look both men in the eye and pretend he hadn’t. 

“I get that,” Knott’s voice continued softly. “You were the most real part of my childhood; we were theoretically perfect together, but we don’t work in practice. Without the brilliance of Summer and the ease of not being an adult, it’s too much work to be functional.” 

“I know,” Draco said, sounding more honestly morose than he had since arriving at Grimmauld Place. “I remember that much at least. I just wanted to make sure I wasn’t missing something.” 

“Well, you’re definitely missing out,” he started out a bit lasciviously, though when he continued speaking his tone turned more earnest, “but it’s something you’ve been comfortable with for a long time.”  

“I’m exceedingly grateful we’re still friends, especially now.” Harry heard the soft shuffling of what could have been an embrace and when Draco spoke again, his voice was muffled almost to the point he couldn’t make out what he was saying. “This memory thing has taken a lot of that from me.” 

Harry walked into the room clearing his throat and the two men slowly came apart. Malfoy turned his head away while Theo smiled warmly and addressed Harry, “How about that liquor?” 

“Right here,” Harry responded a little haltingly. It had been a warm embrace that neither man seemed at all embarrassed or uncomfortable with him seeing. When Malfoy brought his head back up there were no splotchy tear tracks, although the rims of Draco’s eyes looked a bit puffy and irritated. 

“I have to admit, my nerves aren’t much in the mood for exploding snap,” Draco admitted after taking a swig of the drink Potter offered him.  

“I’ve never cared for gobstones,” Theo admitted as he sat in a large, soft chair, unabashedly leaving the settee for Draco and Harry to share. 

“Well, I have a bunch of muggle board games we could try,” Harry suggested uncertainly. 

“Are muggle board games any good?” Theo questioned in return. 

“Some are. I’m not one for Trivial pursuit, you have to know a lot more about pop culture, or current events, and I never had that much exposure, but I assume I’d win  handily against the two of you,” he smirked because Draco scoffed and Theo just rolled his eyes as he took a drink of firewhisky, immediately chasing it with a much longer drink of the butterbeer. 

He opened a cabinet that held an assortment of games both muggle and magical. Draco looked at it as if he recognised it yet somehow still didn’t expect it but Theo went ahead and started to  pull some out. 

“Cards against humanity? Sounds barbaric, could be fun,” he commented. 

“Er- yea, it is a bit,” he chuckled in a way that intrigued Draco. 

“Clue’s alright, it’s a mystery game, whoever solves the murder first wins,” Potter continued to comment as Theo continued to empty the cabinet of all its offerings. 

“I’ve got enough mystery in my life right now,” Draco drawled. 

“How do you scrabble?” Theo redirected. 

“Spelling, but if you want to be really good, also maths,” Potter answered with an amused smile. 

“Snakes and ladders? What’s that all about?” Draco questioned, getting curious. 

“Chance mostly, you travel across the board, first one to the top wins, ladders give you a shortcut up and you backslide down the snakes.” 

“I find that offensive,” Draco responded haughtily. 

“Of course you do,” Harry chuckled as he rolled his eyes. “Monopoly’s more of a strategy game, buying property to build on it and charge other players when they land on it. There’s also mini games of chance when you draw from two different decks of cards.”

“How do you win?” Theo prompted. 

“Don’t run out of money.” 

“Sounds direct, let’s do that one then,” Draco proposed. 

Harry immediately started having a lot more fun than he thought he would as he taught the other two how to play. Draco commented that he liked the brightly coloured paper money and Theo chose to be the shoe “to stomp the competition” and Harry laughed easily when Draco groaned at the declaration. Harry had a stroke of luck and had short rolls on the high end property side of the board for the first two rotations. Theo haggled with Draco for the other utility early on and then got three out of four of the railroads while Draco was waiting in jail to roll doubles, much to his dismay. He remained surprisingly chipper despite his obvious path to loss and Harry was visceral pleased that the blond could only laugh and finish off his drink when Harry bankrupted him. He offered to switch games but Malfoy insisted he wanted to see it played out, determine a true winner between Harry and Theo and so they continued on. 

Harry was about to roll, hoping to avoid the slew of Theo’s properties ahead of him, when he heard a soft snore, and looked to his side to see Draco had passed out, his arm wrapped around his teetering glass. 

He reached out for the glass, smiling at the sleep softened features because the blond had been so insistent on seeing the end of the game. 

“He used to do this during gobstones and chess tournaments in the common room too. Can’t blame the liquor too much,” Theo said, chuckling lightly. 

“He seems to sleep a lot,” Harry commented without thinking much about it as he finished his roll and paid Theo too much money for electricity which Harry had tried to explain the concept of earlier but eventually gave up. 

“He said you don’t sleep enough.” He rolled the dice. 

“A fair observation,” Harry responded a little stiffly, realising they must have talked about him a bit before he’d started eavesdropping. “He said you two were- erm, close before Hogwarts.” 

Theo took a card and Harry paid him out for a beauty contest. “We were, we weren’t at odds during school, but it was easier to be a little standoffish sometimes because it was understandably awkward to be around eachother at school and pretend we hadn't been so close .” 

Harry rolled the dice and landed on one of Theo’s hotels. “I don’t mean to pry-”

"You do a little bit, but I can understand the curiosity,” he said with a small smirk that caused Harry to press the hair on the nape of his neck before handing over a decent chunk of the money he had left.  “It was harder for me than it was for Draco. He made friends so easily." Harry smothered the urge to scoff, but apparently the effort didn’t get past Theo unnoticed despite him focusing on his next roll. "I didn’t say they were quality friendships, but do you remember me hanging out with a lot of people? Or convincing a couple bodyguards to practically worship me, or perhaps even getting a girl to pine over me shamelessly despite a lack of sincere interest?" Harry shook his head, not wanting to say the wrong thing, but he did remember Theo as mostly quiet, typically alone or occasionally pairing up casually with Draco or another Slytherin like Blaise to briefly insult or ridicule. "Me neither," he smirked again as he avoided Harry’s park place and boardwalk to land directly on “Go” for the second time in a row. "But I'll never forget that Draco did. Seeing him move on to bigger and better things made me realise he'd never been mine. He just played along really well when he was bored and alone because we understood each other in a way not many others did." 

It felt like insight, learning that someone that meant so much to Draco could think he meant so little. Harry didn’t know how to tell him how wrong he was. He could, however, turn it into a comfortably negative note on Draco’s personality, especially since they were talking about a younger Draco and not the temporary version that was getting under Harry’s skin in an entirely different way. "Wasn’t that kind of awful of him?" Harry asked as he landed on Theo’s railroad and cursed slightly under his breath. The man had bargained for the fourth one before Draco had lost. 

"Not really, it's just who he was, and who I am; we’re not a stable thing together. Once I could accept that, I could move on myself. I was just never going to be that for him forever. It’s not a thing to shame him for; just because I can’t be his type for an extended period of time doesn’t mean he did anything wrong." Again his roll was lucky and he landed on his own electric company. 

“His type?” Harry questioned, taking the dice. 

“We’re just too similar in too many ways and too different in a couple that turned out to matter a lot more than I’d thought.” He said briefly without actually answering the question. 

Harry was silent, wishing he would say more, annoyed by how badly he was irritated by the evasion. He was further annoyed when he landed on another of Theo’s hotels. “So there was nothing he could have done better before giving up on you?” Harry knew it was too personal but he could tell that Theo was enjoying their back and forth enough to answer. 

The other man smirked as he sorted away Harry’s money in his neat little piles. “He didn’t give up as an adult, when he decides to try something, he usually doesn’t. I was the one who recognised it wasn’t going anywhere and I let him know before we left Paris.” He rolled and landed on free parking and Harry became certain he would lose. “He knew I was right even though it pained him to admit it, but he didn’t fight it. We remained friends because neither one of us could get comfortable with anyone later in life.” 

“Why not?” Harry asked as he futilely rolled the dice again. 

“Have you?” 

“What?” He asked, perturbed by the question and by another bad roll. 

“Have you gotten comfortable enough to get close to anyone new after school ended? After the war?” He restated the question summarising everything Harry had asked of him as he took Harry’s money again. 

Recognising turn around was fair play, he answered sincerely, hoping for an honest response in return. “No, not really, I’ve gotten closer to people I knew, people who went through it with me, but no, there’s been no one new who’s stayed long enough.” 

He nodded and rolled, again landing on his own property, the other damned utility, Harry noted sourly. “It’s harder to get close to anyone after that, no one is safe enough to let in after that kind of trauma.” Harry frowned with sincerity he hadn’t felt toward the game; he often felt acutely attacked when people started telling him he was traumatised. It had been a lot, often too much, but he wasn’t on the Thickey ward; he had adapted and moved on whenever necessary. It didn’t mean he was broken. Theo seemed to take note of the expression. “Unless you work really hard to change it,” he added and was then able to smile with a genuine sort of happy affection. 

“You have someone now, don’t you? And it’s new?”

“It is,” he seemed earnestly bashful and Harry was reminded of the rabbity boy he’d been in school. “I barely trust it, but yes, there may be someone who’s at least proven safe.” 

It was strange for Harry to understand that Draco was a safe person for Theo and not feel derisive about it. But he could see it now; without holding the memory wiped Draco accountable for the things Malfoy did when he was a kid he could see how the man could be a comfort. He understood that he could even get past what he and Malfoy had been to each other in the past if the Malfoy whose memories were returned to him was still willing to set it aside, he could too. 

Harry’s gaze shifted to the blond, who was still clearly passed out, his mouth hanging slightly open at an uncomfortable angle as he leaned into the cushion on the settee. He felt his brow furrow out of a concern for his lack of progress on the case. He needed to restore Draco before he could entertain any kind of friendship or even legitimate acquaintance with the man. 

Theo cleared his throat reminding Harry it was his turn. “Er right- Sorry.” He rolled again, and paid more money to Theo, barely noting how little he had left. “So, uhm, how do you think he’s doing?” 

“Shouldn’t I get to ask you that? You’re the one who’s had him all to yourself for the last couple of weeks.” 

“Well, it’s more, I erm, I meant how is he compared to the Draco you know?” 

He sent Harry a rather cross look as he picked up another card from the community chest. “He is the Draco I know.” 

“Yea, of course, I don’t mean to imply he’s been replaced or something.” Harry shifted a bit uneasily and ran his hand through his hair, feeling frustrated but determined. “I can’t help but wonder about the differences someone who knows him might notice,” he tried again, more plaintively.  

“For the case, you mean?” Theo questioned, handing Harry the dice he’d left neglected on the board when he’d reached for his nearly empty glass instead. 

He nodded. “It could give me some insight.” 

Theo studied him for a moment longer than he felt necessary when he finally landed on his own property. “He’s the same, really,” he said finally. Harry sunk back into his seat, feeling disappointed despite the turn in his luck. “Perhaps he’s a bit more insecure being here, out of his home element. He seems a bit more free to expression.”

“How so?” 

“I’ve always known he appreciates me, he’s done well to show that over the years,” he elaborated and then appeared more pensive. “But he came right out and said as much while you were getting our drinks. It was a bit more . . . open. He’s not much of a liar anymore, not that he was really all that good at it before, but he seems to be more honest. Perhaps that has something to do with not being able to hide anything right now.” Theo had to pay the luxury tax but it was nothing compared to the thick wads of money and property he held. 

Harry suspected the openness he mentioned had more to do with whatever was done to Draco than just his cooperation with the investigation. He thought such a suspicion was warranted because if Draco seemed more honest then why shouldn’t Harry trust him? It was hard enough to mistrust someone who was so clearly a victim, unless he were to ask Hermione, even though she too mostly agreed that there had to be someone else behind Draco’s condition. Everyhting that was happening only seemed to further insuinuate Draco into Harry's life; he was far from oblivious to it, but still felt helpless to stop it. 

Theo won handily as their conversation seemed to purposely lighten and Harry finished off his butterbeer rather than pour more firewhisky. 

“This was fun,” he declared, only feeling a little awkward.  

“Don’t sound so surprised; I’m a notoriously good time,” Theo commented with a small but sincere grin. 

“Really?” Harry questioned absent-mindedly. 

“No, not really, but you didn’t have to call my bluff about it,” he smirked and Harry chuckled in earnest. “I suppose I’ll be heading out.” He said, standing and stretching his lanky limbs a bit. Harry offered a handshake in parting and the man took it with a soft smile. “I realise that you brought me here to connect Draco to his real, actual life, but if you think that excludes you then you know less about Draco than I would have given you credit for in school.” 

“I’m not claiming it does, necessarily, we certainly share a complicated and fraught past, but he can’t really consent to having me as a bigger part of his current life until he knows who he really is again, despite how much he’s been tricked into thinking he wants it.” 

“If that’s what you’ve been telling yourself, I’m a bit disappointed, Harry. For one thing, you already are a bigger part of his life just by helping him with this and I personally feel like it’s already benefiting him, already having a positive effect. Secondly, I think Draco would at least secretly agree and consent, at any point in living memory.” He smiled in a crooked way that still seemed a bit condescending, but his eyes were smiling too and Harry felt less uncomfortable than he would have thought. “Thanks again for having me over, the food really was the best I’ve had since Hogwarts.” 

“Cheers,” Harry said stiffly, trying not to feel the heat in his cheeks as Theo walked toward his kitchen. He waited until the shadows on the stairs dimly flickered green and then he turned his attention again toward Malfoy, still completely passed out in his sitting room. 

His hair was mussed, platinum chunks reaching out in all directions like a heap of straw. Harry smirked, wondering how the blond had ever managed to take the piss out of him for his hair when he must have used multiple different products on his own to make it behave the way he wanted it to, especially in the more rigid styles of his youth. His mouth was open but there was no drool, his loud breathing apparently kept his mouth dry enough to prevent it. His bony wrist was jammed under his chin at a right angle, causing his fingers to spread out like a spider deficient in legs. His own legs were at odds with one another, one drawn close under him and the other splayed out, nearly straight and hanging slightly over the edge. 

Harry summoned a blanket and conjured a series of softly coloured blue lights that outlined the room he was in and lit the way to the room he’d been sleeping in, should he need help finding his way back to his bed. Harry hoped he would sleep well instead of waking up disoriented then headed to his own room.

Chapter Text

The day came that Malfoy had stayed at Grimmauld Place for as long as he had been missing when he’d first appeared on Harry’s stoop. It seemed like a pertinent milestone, yet Harry didn’t know what to do with the anniversary. He found himself in the old drawing room, lamenting that he was still virtually nowhere with the case. Hermione hadn’t determined anything from all the time she’d spent in the blond’s head and when Harry had pointed that out the last time she’d been over she had become reclusive afterward, withdrawing in her research to the point that Ron had asked Harry to watch their kids on Friday so he could have a break. A break he’d spent on what Harry had been repeatedly reminded and reassured was an absolutely sham date with Malfoy that had to be about some insane love for sandwiches he didn’t and would never understand. 

He let himself wallow a bit too because on the days Hermione didn’t cast on Malfoy, Harry had spent all his time on the case as well. It was time spent either reviewing what he had, like Authur’s file, reaching out to people he’d already interviewed for clarification, or asking Malfoy endless strings of questions that the blond somehow never seemed to tire of. The other man’s tireless patience with his inquiries served only to intensify the anxious pressure Harry felt to do something, to accomplish anything. Between the slow drag of time and the deepening pull of apprehension, from waiting for something to happen, it became a more visceral need to learn something of value. 

On the days when Hermione did work on Malfoy, Harry spent most of his time stress-cooking. He always made hot chocolate afterward and Draco drank it most of the time. The last two times he hadn’t, which for whatever reason had seemed to contribute to his frustration with Hermione and the subsequent expression of his scepticism. Harry was reaching the end of his patience with their lack of progress and had made that clear to her as diplomatically as he could manage. Since she hadn’t been around for a few days, he suspected he may not have sounded as even tempered as he’d tried to be. Draco had commented before Harry had even said anything about it that day that his stress showed in the way he held his shoulders; such an observation hadn’t made Harry feel any less tense. 

He’d since talked to people from over a dozen cases Malfoy had worked on and not a single interaction felt leading or sinister when revisited. More recently, the ministry had started to let him consult on much more than galas and fundraising. Harry had found Malfoy’s successes to include betraying dark wizards and other perpetrators he’d insinuated himself to at the behest of ministry officials early in his tenure. He had also on more than one occasion, kept would-be victims from harm through quick thinking, surprisingly well-thought out plans, and even sometimes just complete disregard for others’ feelings and perceptions of him. Most of the latter had been successful because he seemed to understand criminals, motive, and danger better than half the aurors Harry knew. 

He had even gone so far as to talk to muggles Malfoy had obliviated, discreetly of course. It mostly seemed to have been a task someone at the ministry had hoped Draco would have failed early on in his career. It wasn’t something he should have had to do, but there had been staff shortages and changes in middle management that had put Malfoy in a pool of consultants drawn on to cover positions if qualified and trusted, two qualities a witch in the Muggle Liaison Office had wanted to test under duress. 

Draco had been instructed to just wipe the magical from their experience of that day and Harry quickly realised Draco had made sure their trauma was forgotten as completely as if they had never suffered. He hadn’t had to, it had certainly made an already difficult assignment more taxing. It had probably taken him significantly longer to work through his queue than other obliviators and it had to have taken more energy, more magic from him. There had been an attack early after the war by stray death eater sympathisers on muggle transit. Harry, as a fairly new auror, had been part of a small group tracking another part of the same cell out of the country. He’d had a hand in catching them not long after but it hadn’t felt soon enough when Harry had learned the death toll. He hadn’t been involved in the domestic clean up and had never learned of Malfoy’s involvement, which also seemed to be a pattern. The blond was successful but almost no one wanted to talk about it because they didn’t want to give him credit even though as time wore on most were more than willing to take advantage of his competency. 

Harry had started to see whatever had happened a month ago as potential for an evolution of Draco’s person because of his current disposition. Then he realised the danger in that assumption and the selfishness, but to have learned that Draco was capable of the things he’d been doing, despite his predicament and long before this incident, felt like more. It felt like promise; Draco wasn’t Harry’s to manipulate into being a better person without meaning to because Draco already was a better person. Not to say that he was a great person or even all that different from how he had been at school. For instance, he wasn’t great at dealing with people for extended periods of time. Lengthy encounters left most people more put off by him than the people he saw frequently but in small sessions like at the ministry or on more simple day trips. An elderly woman he’d been instrumental in protecting from a dark family curse had said some rather rude things about his personality after having to spend a solid week with him before the curse could be broken. 

Two weeks had been a bit much in ways Harry hadn’t expected. He knew he had trouble focusing when Malfoy’s hair was mussed and undone, but didn’t have too much trouble keeping his head as long as there was something to focus on. It was slightly more challenging not to notice such things during breakfast for example, when he was still groggy and the blond was quiet. He caught himself feeling far too fascinated by the way Malfoy’s wrists moved, the movement seemed almost independent of his arms. They drank tea every morning in the kitchen regardless of whether Malfoy had an appetite for breakfast, which he often did not after any long legilimens sessions the day before. Harry was also starting to feel odd seeing the other man walk around barefoot, which he typically did in the late evening hours. He didn’t know what that was all about, but he was certain he’d be having an easier time not thinking about it if the git hadn’t already been so forward and insistent with him. Although, thankfully, he seemed to have cooled down a bit in that respect and had been keeping up a more respectful report. Harry was also fairly certain he’d dreamed about the other man and woke up sticky. He remained blissfully ignorant of all detail but a vague notion that it had been a dream the blond had featured in. 

“You blasted me off the Black family tapestry?” Malfoy asked, jarring Harry out of his thoughts as he swaggered in. He wore grey joggers that had art deco type patches on each leg, coral and teal squares outlined  in a bold, black geometric design. Draco had matched those colours with a light jumper that was sea themed. A great serpent moved beneath the sea foam near the rather low neckline of a muted sunset. It was strange for Harry to note that he worked with wizards who dressed as outlandishly as Arthur tended to if left unsupervised, and was often amused but had no trouble focusing on the work at hand. Yet, Malfoy often dressed well enough to fit in with the muggles but it was sometimes too much to allow Harry to keep his mind on track. 

“No, of course not,” he responded brusquely after he realised he was staring. Harry looked away, belatedly feeling embarrassed with how distracting he continued to find Malfoy’s clothes. “It was like that not long after the war ended. I noticed it because I tried different rooms when I couldn’t sleep early on.” 

“Imagine that,” Malfoy drawled, but with a lighter, more casual cadence that suggested he didn’t feel the need to roll his eyes despite the obviousness of Harry’s statement. 

Harry had been getting slightly better sleep than usual after the initial unrest while he adjusted to the notion of someone else sleeping here, but Draco had noticed his sleeplessness anyway. One hazard of having tea together every morning was that Draco saw his exhaustion before he had time to settle it with the caffeine. At one point, a few days prior, Draco had shared his own nightmare then promptly apologised. Harry hadn’t been able to go back to sleep that night, thinking he could have said something more comforting in return. “There’s been a few things that have happened that remind me of the powerful magic left behind in this house. Like getting Walburga down,” he redirected instead. It had been an ordeal; there had been far too much screaming for Harry to want to reflect on for long. “Teddy showed up under the damaged area that should be Tonks, Remus didn’t, perhaps somewhat obviously.” 

“Teddy’s a good kid,” Draco commented as if he knew because it felt like he did. “Somehow the jury is still out on him enough for the tapestry to add him as a bastard?” 

“I guess the house is desperate for a male heir that hasn’t been disowned,” Harry shrugged. “How does it know such a thing now that no one is actively blasting people off it?”  

“How should I know?” Malfoy responded, taking the seat next to Harry. It was a small space and the blond radiated enough warmth that it felt even smaller. “So this is what you do? Ponder and sit in here staring at this?”  

“I do a bit whenever I notice changes, haven’t in a while,” he said, keeping his tone casual despite the subtly alarming increase he felt in his heart rate. 

“But now that I’m here?” Draco asked leadingly, knowing his presence was the only thing that had changed. 

“I- er, I guess I find it a little reassuring,” he cringed, awaiting a scathing retort.

“Need something to settle your nerves, Potter?”  Malfoy sighed and leaned back into the seat, making his slim torso seem even longer. Harry knew their height difference wasn’t all that much, but sometimes he thought the couple inches ridiculously unfair; the extra length had to contribute to the liquid grace Draco moved with. Maybe being brought up like an aristocrat had something to do with it. “I think I find it reassuring as well. Perhaps I’m even a little proud to have been removed so long ago.” 

Potter smiled and it was brilliantly genuine. “Glad to hear it.” 

“It means that I was doing well enough before,” Draco commented, feeling the need to extrapolate. 

“I told you that already,” he scowled only slightly, but sounded as though he nearly rolled his eyes. 

“Yes, but I couldn’t simply take your word for it,” Draco challenged haughtily. 

“I imagine it means more coming from family,” Potter incorrectly acquiesced. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” he denied, leadingly. 

“I suppose I wouldn’t want to call them family either, aside from Sirius and maybe Regulus.” 

Draco knew of Potter’s history with Sirius Black, most of the wizarding world did after the war. The man had even gone so far as to attempt to get Regulus pardoned post mortem as well. However, Draco knew he could never empathise with the attachment. He would never be able to truly understand growing up without parents only to find a long lost family member then lose them almost immediately after developing that relationship and desperately hoping for more. The closest thing he’d had was Bellatrix and it was emphatically not anywhere near a similar relationship. He mentioned this to Potter who seemed stunned into silence. 

“I don’t understand how you’d know to feel that way, false memories or not.” He finally responded after what looked like a Hell of a battle under his stressed features. 

“Well then, maybe it’s not,” Draco proposed, sitting back up in his seat, closing some of the distance between them. When the other man continued to appear unable to contribute to the line of thought further, Draco decided to regress the conversation. “I just meant it all seems to mean much more coming from you, Potter. It’s nice to know it’s not optimism, it’s apparently a more widely confirmed thing.” 

“That affinity for my approval probably has something to do with the memory tampering.”

“It doesn’t,” he insisted, getting a bit annoyed with the presumption. “Even insults have always meant more coming from you, defeat always hurt more,” he explained, wiping some lint off the arm of the settee. 

“Er- Sorry?” 

“Don’t be. Being your adversary kept me going sometimes, now the idea that we could move beyond that motivates me similarly.” 

“I think when you get your memories back, you’ll be horrified to learn you wanted to befriend me,” Potter said, looking away, as if trying to focus on the tapestry once more. 

“I think I’ll be disappointed in myself for not getting more than friendship out of this,” Draco said, trying to tamp down the allure expressed by such an idea so as not to spook the other man. 

“Malfoy-”

“You called me Draco when I iced your glass for you,” he interrupted, brushing away imaginary lint from Harry’s shoulder. He cocked his head to the side at the jittery little shiver Potter obviously tried to shake off. 

“I wasn't expecting any kind of gesture like that. I was er- shocked; it was really great magic,” he commented, making eye contact again that Draco found as defiant as he did appealing. 

“I can think of other really great things you might find shocking.” 

“C’ mon, don’t put me in this position,” Harry shook his head, turning away again, just enough to avoid the eye contact Draco had wanted to hold. 

“What position, exactly?” 

He grumbled a bit, “You know what you’re doing.” It was clear in the set of his jaw that it was an accusation. 

“I do; I wish you’d play along,” he clapped his hand on Harry’s shoulder, more like a Weasley than he would have thought himself capable. Potter smiled at the more familiar contact before going rather broodish again. 

“It’s not a game though, it’s your life you’re toying with,” he said, his brow furrowing under his messy, dark locks. 

“What a toy it could be,” Draco sighed dramatically. 

“If it’s not in the same shape you left it in-”

“Potter,” Draco interrupted evenly and, surprisingly, Harry silenced himself. “Unsatisfying metaphors aside, I appreciate what you’re saying. I understand why you don’t want me lying to myself.” He was further surprised when Potter let him rub his thumb over the scarred declaration on the top of his hand. “The fact of the matter is that I’m in no way fooling myself. I’ve never been the kind of person to not know what I want.”

He looked up with a verdant worry that did bring Draco a moment of pause, a moment of speechlessness that Harry capitalised on. “I can’t let you lose your very real self chasing after a version of me that’s never existed, Malfoy.” He took Draco’s hand in both his own and squeezed with the perfect amount of pressure to be comforting, warm, and wholly not enough for Draco. Then the honourably insufferable prat just got up off the too small settee and left. Draco saw him clench his fists just before he disappeared from the door frame. He heard a brief pause in his footsteps not long after that and an explosion of breath, a sigh heavy enough to send shockwaves that Draco felt in a deep place he didn’t often have to acknowledge. 

Not twenty-four hours later, Harry was fed up. He was sick of not finding anything and it was driving him stir crazy. He’d taken to going out into the wizarding world to shake some trees any chance he got. Whenever Hermione came over to work on Draco, he left. Whenever Ron came over, he advocated for them to hang out without him so he could leave. He still hadn’t gotten anywhere. None of the shadier informants he had on retainer knew of so much as a whispered rumour of any plot concerning him or Malfoy. Although he did get a head’s up on a plan to humiliate Hermione that probably wouldn’t have amounted to anything anyway. He of course reported it and it was taken care of without hardly any help from either of them. 

He was at his wit’s end; relying on what felt like a last resort, he put his final feelers out. While Ron was with Malfoy for what felt like the hundredth time, yet couldn’t have even been a dozen, he headed to Knockturn Alley wearing his plainest robes and an off-the-shelf polyjuice potion from a stock he kept. When he got a response a couple days later, it already felt like the big break he was looking for. He met a squib in a muggle alley in London who had been hoarding magical items. Harry had let slip a rumor that perhaps the Ministry would be cracking down on such collections. He offered a price that was more than fair because of course the ministry had no such imminent intentions. 

When he returned home with the trunk, he rushed it into the drawing room and stashed it at the far end of the settee before showering to decide how he was going to proceed. 

“So, what’s in the trunk?” Malfoy asked in a pointed drawl, leaning in the hall outside Harry’s bedroom door as if he’d just gotten there, but had been prepared to wait for an unspecified and absurd amount of time. 

“You er- saw that?” 

“I saw you very clearly try to act like you didn’t bring it home. So, naturally, I’m very curious.” 

“Did you open it?” 

“I’ve made it a personal rule not to open containers that I don’t know the contents of. It’s right up there with not blindly following orders,” he drawled. 

“Right. Well, uh- that’s good then.” Harry tried not to find it too disconcerting when Malfoy referenced his past mistakes, but it was difficult. He wondered if it should be when the other man was comfortable enough with his past to address it so glibly. He doubted he should still feel so uncomfortable talking about Malfoy’s past when he didn’t worry Draco would make the same mistakes. Despite all that, he didn’t want to stress over his reaction. He couldn’t let himself be more concerned he might offend the blond, when he should be more concerned about making certain he wasn’t being fooled into misjudging the blond. “Following orders blindly has led to a lot of collateral damage on your part.” 

“Yes, Potter, that’s what I was referring to.” 

“Do you really regret it?” he prodded since Malfoy’s tone  had been a drawl saturated in ennui rather than irritation. 

“You mean, do I think I’m a terrible person because I’m supposed to with these new memories in place or do I feel that way because I genuinely know I was a terrible person and I’m trying to be better?” Draco addressed the implicit, tactless assumption directly. 

“For what it’s worth I hope it’s the second thing,” Harry said as if it were a casual thing. 

Draco sighed heavily. “I know what I’ve done, Potter. I know why I did it all and I know that doesn’t make it better. I don’t try to be better because I’m not sure I can, I try to move forward. I’ve sought forgiveness from Weasleys, and I’ve suffered obligingly at the rough cast of Granger because I know the harm I’ve caused, I’ve come to understand the effects my actions had, and still have. I’ve allowed and accepted far worse treatment from other people who hate me because I earned it,” he didn’t say it proudly, but there was a definite tone of defiance, but when he continued, part of that veneer seemed to wear thin. “I’ve given countless favours to Madam Rosemarta and Katie Bell, including paying for a muggle therapist before I was even doing well enough at my position in the Ministry to afford it. Later I assisted them both on any navigation of or errands done there, not to mention funding for various personal projects and plights that had nothing to do with me. I also know if they ask me for anything I can’t say no and that’s not because I fear what would happen if I declined; I know they wouldn’t retaliate to my withdrawal, just as I know I haven’t done near enough to make us square. I help them not because of guilt, I firmly believe I couldn’t have done anything better as a child, only worse. I was never going to be anything other than loyal to my family because that’s all I ever knew to be. I’ve changed myself as an adult because I wanted to, not because I ever thought I had to or because I thought I could truly find redemption or be forgiven. I work for the government and the order of law and empathy I once helped undermine because I want to do something different than what I knew. I want more out of life too, Potter, and I've come to realise that means doing more, and unfortunately caring more, not getting more, even if it's a lot of work and rarely as gratifying as I feel it should be.” 

Harry didn’t know what to say, he hadn’t thought to see how Madam Rosmerta was doing these days and had heard things about Katie Bell in passing without thinking of Malfoy. She seemed to have been doing well now and he hadn’t thought to check on her before. The rest of the war had unfortunately overshadowed the blond’s previously failed attempts at various treachery and Harry had dealt with so much after that once he was through it, he just continued to ride the moment forward, into his career, his relationship with Ginny, anything to move on from it all and stop thinking about all that had happened, about all the consequences and aftereffects. He just stared for a brief moment before declaring, “Well, that’s erm- good to hear.” He ran a hand through his hair, well aware his response was inadequate. “You could have opened the trunk, these shouldn’t be dangerous.” 

“Shouldn’t be?” Malfoy followed the change in subject gratefully. 

“I got them for you,” he decided to be up front. 

“For me?” the blond splayed his fingers over his chest dramatically as if her flattered. “Although, ‘Shouldn’t be dangerous’ is almost certainly my least favourite type of gift.” 

“Maybe more for both of us then I guess,” Harry qualified uncertainly before ploughing ahead regardless. “I er- someone I know, kind of, had been collecting these things, all things to do with magic. Some were more for experiments on himself, he’s a squib, you see, most of them are magic sensing, monitoring kind of artefacts. A few of them may be capable of doing more.” 

“How much more?” 

“I’m not sure, distinguishing, maybe tracking magic; he wasn’t even confident in his successes, much less results at large, but I- Well, I- erm,” 

“What Potter?” Malfoy prompted brusquely, as though getting irritated. 

“I was hoping to try some of them out with you and see what we can learn about the magic that’s been used on you.” 

“Meaning you want to experiment on me,” his voice seemed carefully flat and it was mildly concerning to Harry.  

“Don’t make it sound so clinical,” he tried, using a previous sentiment of the blond’s. 

“Why shouldn't I?” Draco challenged, defensive because Potter had used his own words against him. 

“Because this is driving me mad, Malfoy! I can’t just sit around and wait for whatever this is going to be! I need to do something! I need to help you!” 

“And you think this will help?” He asked, still sceptical, still wary. 

“I don’t know what else will,” Potter responded haplessly. 

“I suppose it’s worth trying, but it’s a terrible gift, Potter.” 

“Noted,” he claimed with a slight upward tilt to one side of his mouth. 

Harry opened the trunk with the blond looking on, clearly still apprehensive. He took one of the artefacts out, an orb, that was dark and soft. It felt warm to the touch. 

“What is it?” 

“This one should confirm that you’re a wizard and not a squib.” 

Malfoy nearly squawked. “We already know that!” 

“Call it a baseline; a control experiment before we move on to any of the other gadgets I was given. This absolutely should work, if any of them are to, but if it doesn’t then any other tests we do are invalid before we start.” 

“Why would they be?” 

“Variables like location, other interference, or maybe even me, this way we establish that the environment is conducive to testing.” 

“You sound far too much like Granger.”

Harry hesitated, he had of course outlined the experiments he planned with information he had gleaned from Hermione over time. “Well, she’s worked with me on several cases that have required more, er- rigorous investigation,” he couldn’t tell Malfoy much more than that without getting into Hermione’s real work as an Unspeakable. Mind Healer’s didn’t have all that much use for playing with muggle scientific theory and creating experiments using artefacts with unknown qualities and quantifying the possibility of unexpected results. 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “How does it work?” He asked instead of questioning what exactly rigorous meant and how Granger assisted Potter because the other man was clearly trying not to give out any more information than he had to. His discomfort was more transparent than a ghost, so Draco decided to leave it for later, when they had less pressing matters to attend to. 

“I’ll lay it on the ground, we have to kneel beside it and press our foreheads against it.” 

“At the same time?” Draco asked for clarification because it seemed like an oddly personal stance to begin these experiments on. 

“Er, yea, if it recognises that we’re both magical, it’ll glow. If you were a squib, it would just flash slowly on the side against my forehead.” 

Draco sighed and gestured for Potter to get on with it. Harry then placed the orb on the ground as he said he would, kneeling beside it. Draco resisted rolling his eyes and went down similarly. He waited for Potter to make the next step, a longer moment spent staring at eachother than he would have thought necessary passed before Potter brushed his fringe away, briefly exposing the iconic scar before bowing against the orb. Draco immediately followed suit, feeling strange and quiet inside. The sensation of the orb against his skin was disturbing, both warmer and softer than he’d thought it would be. Even though he knew it would, he was still oddly relieved when the orb glowed and Potter pulled away, signalling he could do the same. 

“Alright then, now that’s out of the way,” he declared as he went back to the trunk. Draco crossed his arms against his chest, feeling disconcertingly vulnerable. “This is supposed to create a visible trail from the cursed to the caster,” Potter further declared as he pulled out a very short, very thick piece of rope. He held out his free hand expectantly and Draco raised an eyebrow in silent question. “I- er, I need to tie it around your wrist,” he announced with clear hesitance. “Uhm, if you’re okay with that?” 

Draco raised his arm and stopped short, remembering the bruises that Potter had probably already been thinking about as he’d made his awkward request. He brandished the bare wrist as if it were a weapon before addressing the situation as poshly as he could, “It’s fine, Potter.” 

Harry didn’t seem entirely convinced, but raised the rope to loop it around and tie it off anyhow. He paused as if waiting. 

“Does it require an incantation?” 

“I’m not sure, I don’t think so. I wasn’t told it did.” He silently touched it with the tip of his wand but nothing happened. 

“Maybe it needs to be tighter?” Malfoy suggested as he spun the rope around like he was fidgeting with a mere bracelet. 

“I suppose,” Harry agreed reluctantly with the idea. He watched Draco’s expression carefully as he tightened the looped rope until it was snug against the blond’s skin. There wasn’t much change to the set of his jaw but when he looked up he saw he was being studied. Grey eyes were defiant and the direct challenge Harry saw there caused his stomach to do a strange sort of churn that felt acrobatic. He cleared his throat and looked back down at the rope, waiting for a glow or the ghost of some lengthening to the fibre. When nothing happened he let go of Malfoy’s hand and the other man let it drop. 

“Think this one’s duff?” He asked, sounding more disinterested than disappointed. 

Harry shrugged, non committal and thoroughly nonverbal about the consternation written all over his face. Draco was annoyed he couldn’t discern the expression. “Do you mind then?” He asked, proffering his wrist once more. He probably could untie the simple knot Potter had used but it would have been a nuisance and the man was just standing there.  

They tried a few more different baubles and trinkets that were supposed to react to curse magic but none of them did anything. Draco was starting to think maybe they had botched the baseline experiment somehow or that Poter had been taken for a ride and all the things in that trunk were just useless knick knacks. From Potter’s deeply and consistently furrowed brow he suspected he wasn’t the only one having second thoughts. 

Still, the man persisted and brought out another supposed artefact. It was a glass pane that appeared to be transparent, yet Draco couldn’t see through it, the arm Harry used to hold it disappeared at one edge and reappeared at the other side. 

“This thing supposedly calls forward magic of any kind,” he announced, looking at the piece rather sceptically himself. 

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know, but I’m willing to find out if you're not too tired of this.” 

“Frustrated maybe, but not too tired yet,” the blond responded stiffly. 

“Alright, here,” He said proferring the pane. “Hold it and then I’ll tap it with my wand.” 

Malfoy took the glass without comment and Harry was perplexed to see that he couldn’t see the other man through it. He tapped it and then he could, albeit momentarily, the glass turned appropriately translucent before swirling in a bluish, black hue. It was all dark movement with nothing discernable showing. 

“What is it, Potter?” 

“I don’t know.” He tapped it again for good measure and only saw the room around him reflected without his presence. He tapped it again and saw Ron. “Is that doing anything?” Malfoy asked before he tapped it again and saw only the room once more. 

“It changes each time I tap it.” He said before doing exactly that once more. He saw Hermione and thought at least that made sense; she had been casting at the blond repeatedly. He tapped it again and saw the shifting blue blackness reappear. He tapped it again and nothing changed. He took the strange pane from Draco. 

“Well, what did you see?” 

“Nothing helpful,” he determined before he informed Malfoy of the details. 

“Well, that seems rather dramatic, and yet also useless,” Draco commented feeling rather unsettled. “What’s next, then?” He asked, feeling a visceral desire to move on. 

Potter hunched over the trunk once more. “This is an old dowsing-rod, actually used by muggles in the past to find sources of water..” 

“I thought we were trying to find magic. Does it even work for that?” 

“Supposedly, according to some muggles it can find water, though not many believe it in modern times. My contact said they were customised, very old, and meant to find a very specific kind of magic,” he declared nonchalantly before taking one handle in each hand. 

“What kind?” 

“He couldn’t say, they’ve never worked for him,” he said and Draco rolled his eyes in response. He slowly dragged them through the air from his far left side heading right until they smacked together, crossing over each other as soon as they were in front of Draco. When he shifted past the blond they came apart. He moved back the direction he came and again the two ends forcibly collided and crossed once Draco was in front of them again.  

"Am I water?” Draco asked loudly, trying and failing to keep the panic from his voice. 

"Er- what?" 

“What does this mean?" 

"I dunno. Erm, I just did it ‘cause it was the last one in the trunk." 

"Well, what else did your contact say?" 

"Uhm, not much more than what I’ve already told you. Think about it less like a set of tools given to me with instructions and more like a hasty exchange in a dark alley." 

"Why would I think about it like that?" 

"Because it was a hasty exchange in a dark alley." 

"Knockturn?" 

"No, a muggle alley, here in London." 

"Somehow that makes it sound shadier, Potter," Malfoy commented with an amused twist to his mouth that Harry found more accusatory than the blond’s words.

"Yea, I know how it sounds," he snapped a bit defensively as he scrubbed his hand through his fringe. He knew the regulations on importing magical instruments or objects in from the muggle side was supposed to be a lengthy, secure, and documented process. “But it’s fine, he was compensated more than fairly.” 

“So it was hasty, but not shady?” 

“It’s fine,” he repeated more sternly. Malfoy raised a doubtful eyebrow, but said nothing more. “Hermione might know something about it, or be able to find out.” The blond crossed his arms. “I’ll just floo call her and report our findings. 

Harry gathered all the things into the trunk once more and levitated it, setting it to follow him down the stairs into the kitchen. Malfoy followed as well. 

“I want to know what she has to say about it,” he announced as Harry headed toward the hearth. 

“Of course, I won’t spare any detail,” he assured and grabbed the floo powder from the little dish on the mantle

“No, I mean I wish to be a part of the conversation,” Malfoy elaborated and Harry halted to analyse the man and his request. 

“Oh, yea, sure,” Harry affirmed, sensing only that the blond didn’t want to be left out. “Do you want her to come over then?” 

“I don’t think that’s necessary, have you not shared a floo call?” 

Harry couldn’t say that he had, not that he could remember, but when his head arrived at his friend’s hearth, Malfoy’s head popped up beside him. It was disconcerting to say the least. Once they got the niceties out of the way, Harry explained the results of his experimentation in broad strokes. 

"I suppose it could be some type of water-based elemental magic,” Hermione mused as she started pacing thoughtfully across her sitting room. Ron watched, silently taking in the information. 

"Elemental?"

"You know, spells channelling power from water, fire, earth, those kind of basic environmental things, something druidic or based on the tides, maybe?" she had already started to trail off into the world of speculation and the realm of endless possibilities coming to mind. 

"I thought spells made fire and water,” Potter commented, sounding confused, clearly wanting her to focus and tell them something useful. 

"It's old, primitive, comparatively ineffective spellwork; the advent of the wand made it obsolete. I don’t see how any that I know of would affect memory. The spell hasn’t been waning in time to the currents and hasn’t seemed weaker around fire or-”

"Excuse me, Granger,” Draco interrupted in the hope of a steering toward a more direct answer. “But if it's such pisspoor magic, how is it that it’s completely upended my life?" 

"I didn't say it was pisspoor," she snapped at the blond’s interruption. “There's just so many better ways to mess with someone's memory.” 

"Well, apparently, there isn't since we can't do a single bloody thing to correct it," Harry griped because he had felt hope, because he’d thought the dowsing rods had opened a path to answers, but instead it just led to another dead end filled with more questions than answers. 

Draco didn’t care for the shaky shudder of breath that followed Harry’s declaration; the sigh sounded helpless. He rose from his position on the hearth, withdrawing from the soot and green flames. He thought the lack of revelation called for tea and decided to put the kettle on. 

With Malfoy having apparently excused himself from the conversation, Harry admitted to Hermione how he came across the items. 

“Why would you go about this like that ?”

“I’m an adult, Hermione; I can make my own decisions.”

“Can you? Because this feels an awful lot like the kind of thing you’d have done as an obsessed teenager.”

“I’m not obsessed; I’m driven, motivated.” 

Ron decided to finally chime in. “Not to take sides, mate, but I feel like that is exactly how someone with an obsession would see it.” Harry wished he’d stayed out of it; now he felt like he was being ambushed. 

“It’s not like what I did was technically illegal.” He was still in the grace period for reporting such things and he intended to, though he would leave out the information needed to find his contact and the fact that he had paid for the supplies. 

“Should it be though?” Ron prodded. 

“Probably,” he shrugged despite the defensive tone he heard in his own voice and what would be perceived as a lack of shoulders, just a jostling of his disembodied head. 

“Why would you risk that if you’re not obsessed?” Hermione questioned, as Ron’s mouth pinched down at one side in an expression of concern at Harry’s answer. 

“Because I want this over!” Harry exclaimed, feeling like he was admitting to losing his mind a bit. “We’re not getting anywhere playing it safe. I’m ready to take risks.” 

“Is he?” 

“It wasn’t his risk to take,” Harry countered evenly. 

“Does he know how big of a risk you took for him?” Ron asked and Harry was immediately frustrated by the more insightful inquiry. He hadn’t told Malfoy every detail because he knew the other man would likely chastise him for being reckless. 

“He knows enough,” he attempted to evade. Ron shrugged but didn’t argue the point further, instead leaving to respond to the call of a child in the background of the house. 

“You tried to protect him from legilimency and now this; are you truly still willing to risk who he is right now to save him?” 

“Of course I am,” he claimed, offended. “And I’m not protecting him from legilimency. I never said you had to quit. It just stopped feeling productive.” 

“So you won’t mind if I take all these objects, analyse them, and still want to go back in his memories?” 

“Well, no. Not if you need to, not if you think it will help. I’ll agree to just about anything to get this solved, that’s why I got these things in the first place, Hermione: I’m bloody desperate.” 

“Alright then, send them through and I’ll let you know what I find,” she commanded with the air of accepting a challenge. 

Harry pulled his head from the floo flames, coughing on the dry, raspy feeling in his throat left by such an extended conversation in the ash and soot. He shoved the trunk through his fireplace and then the flames went red and orange again. He turned to see Draco watching him with startling intensity. “I thought you’d left the room.” 

“I just pulled away to put on the kettle,” Draco informed with a carefully even tone. He seemed guarded, having missed most of a conversation he knew had to have been about him and had gone on longer than he’d thought it would. “So Granger’s going to analyse our experimental artefacts?” He questioned, having clearly seen Harry send them through. 

“Yea, she hopes to glean some helpful information from them since I told her our results, but she’s a bit brassed I used them without letting her check them first.” He paused then continued, “Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.” The blond was silent and his stiff body language screamed discomfort to Harry. “This is something, I don’t know what, but it’s momentum; I think it’s progress. We have to be getting closer to getting your memories back.” 

"What if I don't want to remember those missing two weeks?" He finally spoke, but asked the question while turning back to the hob even though the kettle was only just beginning to quietly steam. 

"Don't you think you need to know what happened to you?" 

"Maybe, but at this point it feels more like morbid curiosity than an actual need,” Draco tried to explain. “It doesn't outweigh the fear of knowing what could have been done to me or what I could have done to start it, what I must have been a part of just to bring this down on you." 

"You haven't brought anything down on me, the other shoe still hasn't dropped,” Harry tried.

"And when it does?" He questioned further, sounding distressed. 

"We'll deal with it; it still won't be your fault." 

"It could be, we don't know that," he wrung his hands, realised he was doing it and stopped to put them back around his mug. 

"If this was your plot, I would have foiled it by now, or at least caught on to what it was you were up to,” Harry said with a lop-sided attempt at a small smile. 

"What did I go through then? What happened to me?” Draco asked and it sounded like something between an accusation and desperation. Harry put an arm across the blond’s shoulders because he knew he didn’t have an answer yet and it already felt like guilt. The man leaned awkwardly into it and Harry was reminded of the much more confident embrace on the night of Draco’s arrival. 

“”You were wet!” Harry declared suddenly and Draco pulled away just as abruptly. 

“Pardon?” 

“You were water!” Draco looked mostly confused and perhaps a little alarmed and Harry realised how his revelation sounded and decided to explain. “I mean, you were wet anyway, when you first got here.” 

“Do you think that means something now?” 

“Maybe it was a side effect of that magic Hermione was talking about. I’ll remind her tomorrow and maybe that will help us narrow down the kind of magic or at least point us in the right direction.”  

Draco remembered being cold, and wet, and so confused, then remembered the bruises again. “What if what happened to me had to be horrible enough to make me forget who I was?" 

"You haven't forgotten, remember what Theo said? You're still the same bloke he's always known, you just have all this made up baggage about me." 

“In addition to the very real baggage I already had because of you.” 

“Well, okay, sure, but you’re still you,” Harry pointed out evenly even though it felt like he was conceding. “Besides, you’ve been through some pretty terrible stuff, I doubt it’s trauma that’s made you forget. I’m sure it’s the magic, which means it’s something we can figure out.” He felt resolute, confident, and even a little optimistic; he thought he communicated the sentiment well enough from the half hearted smile he received from Malfoy. The blond didn’t say much for the remainder of the night, but they had supper and tea without further melancholy and Harry went to bed still feeling better about their situation than he had when he’d woke up that morning. 

So it was shocking to find himself in a vivid and disorienting dream about the blond late in the night. He heard Malfoy comment about his stag again and then watched as the frosty representation of his patronus leapt from his cup and out, growing exponentially. It was still his stag, but it walked through a blond, blurry, smirking bloke that was obviously Malfoy. It became cold; he was shivering and then Draco was dripping. “I wouldn’t have expected it to feel so . . . needy” but then the scene shifted in a swirling black and blue mass and they were repainting Number Twelve. He saw clearly the effortless way Draco cast and then the amenable demeanour with which he taught Harry those same spells. The icy stag watched from a corner, mostly out of sight. 

When he woke up, he knew he wouldn’t be able to surrender to a peaceful rest again. He stayed up, thinking, waiting for the sun to rise and send timid grey shafts of light into his room. 

Harry was already showered, caffeinated, and nearly done cooking a classic, full English breakfast by the time Malfoy came down the stairs. 

"I have a theory,” Harry started to announce as he was flipping over the bubble and squeak in its fry pan. “Well, it's- erm, not much of a theory." 

"Spit it out, Potter," the blond said shortly as he gave the black pudding an impressed look and began to load a plate from the various steaming pans Harry had left the rashers, beans, fried mushroom, and roasted tomatoes in.  

He was relieved by the straight forward directive and implied cooperation and explained as he flipped the eggs he was also frying. “I think maybe your magic has been affected as well as your memory.” 

“Why would you think that? There’s nothing wrong with my magic,” he defended staunchly as he went to the table. 

“It’s not like that,” Harry said exasperatedly, unwilling to lay out a fledgling theory he had in part due to a dream. “Maybe just cast a patronus for me after breakfast?” 

“I can't” 

“You can’t?”

“No, Potter. I never have.” 

“Why not?” Harry prodded as he added eggs and a crispy portion of the cabbage fry up. 

“Because I've never been able to, I’ve tried, and am unable. My father never could either, not that he bothered with it in earnest for very long, from what my mother told me,” he took a mixed bite of beans and sausage as if to end the discussion. 

“That shouldn’t matter; it’s not hereditary,” Harry negated, plating his own meal light on the pudding with a double serving of toast. 

“Regardless, I can’t. I don’t have the ability to call forward the kind of happy concentration required.” 

“Bollocks, how can you not?” he demanded again, dipping his toast in his egg yolk. 

“I just can’t, Potter; I lack the ability! Have you suddenly lost your grasp on what words mean? I cannot, I am unable,” he reiterated irascibly. “I am too much of a miserable bastard to successfully cast a patronus charm.” 

“You honestly think you’re too broken to cast a patronus?” Potter asked, glaring at his plate, a bit angrier than Draco had expected. 

“Yes, finally the man understands.” His retort was posh but stiff. He took another bite of his breakfast to dissuade the discomfort he felt.  

“At one point in my life, being able to cast a patronus was one of the only things that reminded me I wasn’t broken.” 

Draco stamped on the shame niggling at him, remembering how he’d made fun of Potter during that apparently difficult time. It had been too easy and he wasn’t proud of it now, but he had taken joy in it then. Maybe that was part of the reason he couldn’t summon a patronus. Happiness was an elusive, intangible thing that remained ill-defined. He stared at his plate rather than comment. It was still mostly full of very good food and he wished they weren’t having this discussion so he could enjoy it more.

“If you can find happiness then you can cast a patronus,” Harry commented, certain the blond had to have memories that qualified as happy, even if they might have very different standards for it. 

“It’s more than that, Potter. A patronus comes from within you, my happiness has never come from myself.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Harry asked, a bit more concerned than confused. Where else did happiness come from? He’d always had to make the conscious effort to not be miserable, an effort that came from very deep down. Harry had learned that happiness was relative and fleeting; if he wanted to hang on to it he had to manufacture it more often than not, sometimes imagining it just to conjure the charm. 

“I think it’s the kind of happiness that comes from the kind of selfless, intrinsic, unconditional love that I’ve been lacking my entire life.”

“Your mother loved you! She lied to Voldemort just for the hope of you!” Harry accused, almost belligerent, he was so indignantly outraged. 

“Of course she loved me. It was a mother’s undying love, but it had its conditions.”

“Just because you felt there were imposed conditions doesn’t mean it wasn’t unconditional love.”

“I never realised your grasp on the English language was so flimsy,” he drawled in a tone cloaked in vaguely disbelieving amusement. 

“I never had any kind of parental love and I could do it.” 

“So what did it for you?” 

Harry took a moment to remember when he first started successfully casting, not including when he saved Siriurs because he hadn’t needed happiness so much as he had just been certain it would work because it already had. “Imagining my parents, and mostly Ron and Hermione” 

“I’m sure you can see why thinking of my terrible father and recently dead mother might not do the trick. Furthermore, Granger and Ronald are the family you chose, I’ve never chosen people to love like that, even Theo was initially a part of my life because of connections and convenience.”  

“So you really think you don’t have your own intrinsic happiness to call on?”

“I know I don’t. You’ve always thought me a miserable ponce, why is this concept so hard for you to understand?”

Harry thought about it and reached the conclusion that some part of him wanted to teach Draco to be happy for himself, within himself, whatever that might mean for the blond. He thought he could teach the man how to cast a patronus and tried not to be surprised that he wanted to; he tried to convince himself it was like wanting to pay tribute to Remus, to pay forward all the hard work and dedication that had been spent on him. 

He decided to set the matter aside, "Well, then just cast some other innocuous kind of spell." Remembering it was there and cooling, he took a bite of his breakfast. 

"You're serious? How innocuous, what spell?" Malfoy asked, clearly happy with the change of subject and returning attention to his plate as well. 

"Whatever spell, I just need to see how your magic reacts, also I’ll likely want you to shield yourself from a less benign spell from me depending on results" 

"Why?" 

"To see what happens,” Harry sighed, exasperatedly. “We have to figure this out and I'm not gonna do that reading old case files on how surprised people were when they didn't hate working with you!" 

"Suddenly, I feel as though maybe this isn't entirely about me,” Draco chided. “Feeling cooped up, Potter?" 

"Yes, you prat. Now please, for the love of Merlin, Hell, even Salazar himself, please, consent to this second round of experimentation or whatever- trials. Please." 

"I'll consent to whatever you want if you ask me nicely enough, that was quite nearly begging." 

"Malfoy," he growled accusingly, a little threateningly. 

Draco couldn’t help how much he liked it, and that wasn’t fake or implanted. He felt it now; it wasn’t something he had to remember. “Oh, alright. You’re very little fun,” he lied, genuinely intrigued, passively wondering what Potter thought would happen as well as why he thought it and how he’d come to such a conclusion. However, they finished their breakfast without much further discussion. Potter was clearly ready to take action and Draco was happy enough to finish eating and no longer talk about it. 

They convened in the main sitting room, and Potter asked him to cast a disillusionment charm. 

“That’s a damn good disillusionment charm,” Harry said, squinting around him in Draco’s general direction and sounding sincerely impressed. 

Draco was surprised by how warm the affirmation made him feel. “And I haven’t even been practising,” he informed quietly and from much closer than he had been. 

Harry cast Revelio, and the invisibility drained away from Malfoy a bit slower than Harry would have anticipated, had he been thinking about it. Perhaps his focus had been a bit off from the blond’s proximity, but he wouldn’t be admitting it aloud. 

Harry announced he was going to cast a jelly legs jinx and that he wanted Draco to deflect it with a shield charm. They did and Draco felt he cast the protective spell a bit easier, but admitted he didn’t really see Harry’s point. 

“It’s been years since we’ve cast at each other,” Draco protested, even though he had memories that said otherwise. He assumed they were fake without bothering to ask at this point. Maybe he felt stronger in general because of the false memories of such practice.  “We’ve grown as people, hopefully and particularly me, so why wouldn’t my magic be a bit better? I certainly do a lot more complex magic than I used to in school, what with work and all.” 

“Then duel me,” Potter replied shortly. 

“Pardon?” 

“I challenged you to a duel; I’ll show you there’s a difference. How can you not tell? Doesn’t matter,” he waived off Draco’s hesitance as if it were a tangible haze in front of him. “Are you in or not, Malfoy?” 

“You’re on, Potter,” he accepted, feeling sly as his heartbeat immediately began to feel a bit excited. 

They went to the back yard and faced each other. In the moment before they pointed their wands Draco listened to the racing of his blood pounding in his ears and remembered duelling the other man as a twelve year old before fighting off memories of casting at Potter as an adult. He told himself he had not duelled Potter for practice or to relieve the man’s frustration after a tough day at work. 

“You look worried,” Harry commented evenly. 

“You wish,” Malfoy said mockingly as he smirked, just before slashing through the air. 

Harry shouted, “ Protego !” as soon as the blond’s wand moved. Whatever the spell was, it glanced off his shield charm with a bright flash. The shield charm was nonetheless depleted and he had to dodge the nonverbal but unmistakeable swish and flick of a wingardium leviosa that followed. He sent another jelly legs jinx at Malfoy only to have him shield against it easily. Then the blond once more cast nonverbally, a spell that looked a bit like lightning. Harry cast the back-firing jinx just in time, but Malfoy’s shield, unlike Harry's, had stayed up for more than one attack against it and the attack Malfoy had intended for Harry exploded against it in a shower of golden sparks. Malfoy shot a stinging hex that got Harry in the leg so he fired back with the same and then sought cover behind a tree. He heard Malfoy cry out sharply when it hit and then felt a strong spell reverberate through the tree just as he reached it. He whipped around the other side to disarm the blond and was nearly hit with the bright red glare of what had to have been a Stupefy. He responded in kind and again it hit a shield; he hadn’t even seen Malfoy cast it. 

The blond started running to the other side of the yard to get a better angle on him so he cast again, and again. First the orange light of a pumpkin head jinx glanced off the shield and then his levicorpus exploded in another shower of sparks, this time green. Finally when he shot a trip jinx at it, the shield dissipated, but in all his concentration on his repeated and relentless casting Harry had neglected to move far enough out of the line of sight and Malfoy smirked as he sent a fiery shot of red that caught the side of his shirt. It started to smoke and burst into flames so he rolled in the dirt. He sprang up and shouted “Petrificus Totalus” just as a second smaller fireball caught his shoe. He stamped it out, too distracted by the heat to enjoy seeing Malfoy bound, but he heard the dull thud of the man hitting the ground and grinned. 

Draco could admit to himself that he’d gotten a bit lost in the duel only after he lay frozen in the dirt of Potter’s back yard. He felt the cool, releasing wash of finite incantatem and his muscles immediately relaxed. He started lightly panting, the exertion catching up with him suddenly. His nerves were all still buzzing and his heart was still racing. He sat up but didn’t bother rising from the ground, instead he just watched a smiling, apparently pleased Potter approach him. 

He plopped down beside Draco, heedless of the dirt. “You don’t think that was better?” Harry panted into his space; he could feel the heat rolling off the other man. 

“Better than almost anything,” Draco agreed coyly, his breath catching slightly on a ragged exhale. He meant it though; it had been almost as gratifying as sex and left a nearly Quidditch-like charge racing through his muscles. If he never had the former again he could make do with his life as long as he still had the opportunity to do this and the latter with Potter. 

“Er,” Harry hesitated, still breathing hard, looking at him like he knew exactly what Draco was implying. “So, uh, this means I’m right, I’m on to something here.” Even though he declared it, Draco still heard a searching quality to his voice, something in his tone that made it clear the other man was seeking validation. He knew he was right, but it seemed like it mattered just as much that other people recognise it. 

“So my magic has gotten a little stronger with the implanted memories? Some kind of burn off or residual effect of the spell?”

“Seems so, doesn’t it? Maybe stronger isn’t the best description, but it’s more reactive, seems to take less effort at least.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Potter.”

“Not yet it doesn’t,” he agreed easily enough. “We obviously still have a way to go, but between this and the artefacts we’ve been testing, it feels like the start of some kind of understanding. Maybe it has something to do with the specific kind of magic that was used, some unknown side effect? It wouldn’t make sense to intentionally make your magic stronger if the perpetrator has been keeping a low profile this whole time. . .” He got up to start pacing and Draco knew his mind was racing. “Maybe it’s powerful enough to amplify what you have or maybe the caster is powerful enough to have left more than false memories behind, something residual like you said, maybe something we can figure out how to trace or track if we find the right spell or the right device?”

“Sounds like a considerable amount of speculation.” 

“I’ve gotta tell Hermione right away,” Harry responded, ignoring his sense of caution. 

To say Draco didn’t want to go from such experiencing such a high, from feeling so free directly into a visit with Granger was an incredible understatement. He felt deflated. “I think I’ll wash up while you do that,” he commented, emphasising the dryness in his voice that Potter was too distracted to notice. 

Harry rushed to down to the kitchen, guiding the kettle to the hob as soon as it came into view, even as he headed to the hearth. He sent a brash incendio to light the remnants of the last fire, wondering when Kreacher gave up on keeping the fireplaces going. 

Hermione seemed irritable before he even started to inform her of his further tests on Malfoy, but he proceeded anyway. When he started to speculate, repeating the thoughts he’d told the blond in the yard, she abruptly insisted on coming over. 

“Where is he?” She asked as soon as she was through the green flames. 

“Showering I think.” She paused to take in his own dishevelled, dirty, and slightly singed appearance. 

“Well, I don’t know what kind of stock we should put into this impromptu session of testing his magic, but there may be a way to do it more empirically. “I think I may be able to use the magic from soome of the artefacts you brought me in conjunction with less . . . standard magic at the Department.” 

“Do they even work?” 

“They do, most of them, I’ve confirmed. Most unsettling is the face the curse finding magical instruments do indeed detect curse magic, which means that’s not what we’re dealing with when it comes to whatever’s done this to Malfoy. 

“You mean whoever?” 

“I can’t even be sure of that much right now, Harry. This is very unknown territory. 

“What kind of curse magic did you test?” Harry asked, slightly worried she may have cursed someone. He regretted asking the question when he heard footsteps heading down the stairs toward them. 

“Actually,” she said pointedly, as if she heard the subtle implication in the question. She glared at the stairway for good measure. “I reached out to a consultant. He also told me a very interesting tale, after our work was finished. One that included a feast, games, and a tour of the House of Black.” 

“Er- what?” Harry asked. 

Draco put a hand to his forehead in preemptive annoyance, already regretting deciding to join Potter for his debrief in the kitchen. He pressed his hand against his skin in anticipation of further lecture and headache. 

“Theo,” he clarified while Granger offered the same response as if it were an accusation. 

“Knott.” Her expression soured further as they both realised their announcement had been in tandem and she huffed as he formed a scowl.

“Oh,” Potter said, suppressing his amusement from the unintended synchronicity because he realised she was disapproving of the visit. “Well, obviously I thought it would be good for Malfoy to connect to the people in his life that were er- important before he got all the fake memories.” He felt a bit slow for not having thought of the man as a resource after learning about the work he did. 

Granger’s eyes narrowed in suspicion but she didn’t continue to harp on the issue, and for that, Draco was grateful. “I’m going to take the artefacts with me to the ministry, Harry, but I need one last session with Malfoy before I go.” 

Draco was less grateful now that she eagerly turned her scalpel-like attention toward him. He would have liked to have bragged about the muggle inspired metaphor, but knew it would likely only make her want to cut deeper. 

“Why is that necessary?” 

“I want to see your duel for myself,” she claimed, but Draco felt sceptical for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint. 

Draco braced himself but tried not to put his mental guards up, a delicate balance between protecting himself from the intrusion and allowing her to poke around where she needed to.  They did watch Potter running around his backyard, avoiding jinxes and minor hexes with a glee that Draco hadn’t fully appreciated the first time around. The realisation was dampened by the sour disapproval he felt from Granger. 

Her search continued though, looking back further. She breezed over the visit with Theo, only watching it superficially which Draco was grateful for. She quickened the pace and skipped over most of Draco’s time at number Twelve until finally slowing to stop on a memory of Ron laughing outrageously. 

Whatever Draco had said in the memory left him feeling smug and satisfied; Weasel’s reaction was like an accomplishment even if it were a bit raucous for a public lunch. 

‘You don’t get enough of that ginger at home, you have to pause to fawn over him in my memories?’ Draco chided her, but his voice fell flat as it always did when he was here with her. He didn’t hear his words echo or feel them reverberate. There was no sound, no depth to his current tone when he was surrounded by the past, existing as only thought in a plane without true matter and thus without form. He knew the thought made it to her, though.

 She released her hold on his tormented psyche and he was brought back to Potter’s kitchen. The man himself was gone. 

She seemed to take pointed note of the absence before speaking. “I just don't understand how he could befriend you,” she replied with a painful sincerity he would have preferred to avoid hearing. 

“I’ve recently been reminded I’m deceptively polite?” He posed it as a question because he wanted a real response from her. He was fascinated by all that he didn’t know about her. 

She glared at him and opened her mouth for what he was sure would have been a cutting retort but she huffed instead and seemed to deflate a bit, slouching in her chair. “It feels like betrayal,” she insisted. Her voice was sharp and short; it seemed like it cracked and he wished they were back in his mind so he couldn’t hear such nuances. She was losing her composure. After all these trips, he could finally see that he wasn’t the only one upset by all that they kept searching through. 

“He mentioned that,” he tried in earnest because it bothered him more than he thought it should to see her in this new light. 

“He did?” She questioned, turning her attention back to him, rather than whatever inward ruminations she’d been considering. 

“Of course he did, Granger,” he drawled, dragging his tone across his frustration like a knife. He saw the way she scowled. He wanted to shout, already feeling the deluge of indignant upset about to flood over him. “Do you think it was easy becoming his friend? Do you think it was something I wanted just for the fun of it?” Draco sat back in his chair and dulled his voice in response to her once again narrowed eyes and semi-permanent scowl. “Look for yourself, see how loyal he is; he wouldn’t have given me a chance if you hadn’t been conditioning him since we were teenagers.” He took some solace in blaming her and by the way her scowl deepened with the clenching of her jaw, she knew it. 

She cast again and the memories started to speed by once more. Draco showed her flashes of instances to build up to his point. He had initially overcome his loneliness by befriending muggles, all of whom had proven to be good people and good company, but it wasn't the same. He saw Jacob ans his grandmother, making taffy with them, going for walks with them, helping with their grocery shopping. He saw conversations with the postal delivery girl speed by, he saw random conversations with random neighbors and shoppers that he’d let go on too long just for the connection. 

It had all helped but he had missed Theo and Blaise and even Pansy. He and Blaise both worked too much and things with Theo were still a bit raw after Paris, even though it had been years already by the time Draco set his sights on Ronald. They had written letters, and Draco showed a montage of long hours spent over parchment, but they didn’t see eachother often and it still wasn’t enough. Pansy had left the country almost immediately following the trials and she hadn’t returned for more than brief visits, a few of those sped by, but it had all left Draco wanting more. 

He could barely allow himself to make eye contact or polite greeting with Potter when passing by in the ministry for fear of incurring some latent but well-deserved wrath. The last thing he wanted was the man’s negative attention, despite that having been enough as a child. Ronald however, seemed more accessible; the stakes not nearly as high. Additionally, since he wasn’t an auror, their paths crossed more frequently, often directly. 

His and Ron’s voices overlapping in tones of different arguments and interactions all flooded together as he felt Grnager focus in on his train of thought. “Piss off, Malfoy” “Would that I could, Weasel” “Bloody git” “Absolute rubbish” “I don’t see how anyone at the ministry tolerates you.” “I’ve often wondered the same thing about you, but on a broader basis, more how anyone tolerates you in general.” “I’ll never forgive you!” “I never asked you to!”

A memory came into focus, one of Draco holding his head, gritting teeth that wanted to chatter and wishing to cover his ears as Hermione screamed under his aunt. ‘Do you think he let me forget it?’ He thought at her, unaware he was yelling at her in front of Harry who had just returned to the room from using the loo. 

He had noted as he passed by their rooms that his and Draco’s laundry was stacked in neat little piles on their respective beds and felt a bit of relief that Kreacher hadn’t decided he didn’t have to do that anymore as well as tend the fires. Then the sound of Hermione and Malfoy’s escalation had caused his eyebrows to draw together in concern before he’d even fully re-entered the kitchen. 

Harry vividly remembered yelling at Snape through the memories he’d rifled through, jerking back to reality because he was supposed to be fighting against the legillimens. He wondered if the twitchy movements and unsettling noises coming from the blond were at all reflective of how he’d looked as Snape had tried to teach him occlumency even though Draco was supposedly allowing the invasion. Harry took the water off the hob and summoned the tea things with a couple of shaky flicks from his wand as he sat down at his kitchen table to wait for them to re-emerge. 

‘Do you honestly believe I didn’t have to prove myself, that we didn’t struggle to overcome the past?’ Memories of Weasley slamming doors in his face, slipping hexes under the door when Draco reminded him they had to work together. “I could report you for this, Weasel!”  

He hadn’t, of course, he’d never reported the abuse. The return of his own prejudice with interest felt well-earned. The focus abruptly shifted to memories of being spat on, screamed at, blatantly ignored, even finding dragon faeces on a temporary desk he had been assigned (he couldn’t prove that had been Weasley, it could have been a lot of people, though he’d thought of the Weasel and his ruggedly good-looking older brother). So many more instances of harassment, punishments raced by, obviously not all from Ronald. 

Draco had built up such karmic retribution in reserves throughout his childhood and had become the kind of man who could handle it, the kind of man who felt he still deserved it when it came, and was quietly grateful when it didn’t. 

‘You think even when he started to be amicable I didn’t see what it cost him?’ A memory of Ron reluctantly accepting lunch from Draco, mid shift, knowing they’d have to continue working together for hours before they could go their separate ways. He’d scowled the entire time even though he’d agreed to it as his stomach audibly grumbled. He was recalcitrant and still verbally abusive until the first bite of sandwich at one of Draco’s favourite muggle delicatessens seemed to soften the ginger’s aggressive energy into resigned guilt.

Draco had suspected all along that the way to the Weasel’s good side would be through his stomach and he had been utterly pleased to discover he’d been right. Regardless, Ron had yelled at him on several occasions even after that first sandwich and they flew by, surrounding them in a flurry of profanity and inarticulate rage that often came in between sputtery groans of indignation and mild physical violence. Draco had eventually realised it was no longer about him at that point. It was principle to hate him, something the ginger had thought he had to stand for and it had been painfully obvious why. A memory of Ronald, weeks later, red-faced and loud. 

“Sure, I can accept free food from just about anyone, but why would I want to get along with you?” 

“Sake of simplicity?” 

“Setting aside all the many other reasons that exist to show how complicated things are between us, like school, do you really think it would be simple for me to explain to the love of my life that I’m getting friendly with the nephew of the demented psycho who tortured her, who stood by and let it happen?” 

Flashes of memories of Bellatrix again, it was compounded, memories within a memory. Again there was the night of their escape from the manor but there were also flashes of Bellatrix mistreating Draco. Remembering hurt the same as it always had, tightened his chest with the same aching anxiety and made his stomach lurch with the same sick feeling. “She was never much of an Aunt,” he’d admitted stiffly. “Besides, I didn’t survive picking the losing side of the war to stay trapped in it. I’m working for the ministry; it’s not fun, it’s not a good fit. It’s a struggle for me everyday, which is fine. I’m just asking to have lunch with someone I don’t really believe hates me all that much anymore.” 

Ron’s face scrunched together in agitated lines of disgust. “I have to hate you, Malfoy.” Harry watched Hermione blankly examining Draco on another plane while her eyes quickly accumulated moisture. He distracted himself with the final preparations of their beverages. 

“Of course, I understand; I’ve been there.” 

“It’s not the same.” 

“It never is once you’re the one who’s left with the obligation to blindly hate.” 

“It’s not blind; I’ve seen you do terrible things! You’ve helped beyond that to make sure others could do even more horrible things!”

“I’m aware, but it’s not based on anything you’ve seen recently, is it?” he’d asked diplomatically. 

“Look, you’re not the worst person to work with; it’s not saying all that much on its own, but I just can’t bring myself to embrace whatever it is you're asking.”

 “For the sake of magic, it’s just lunch, Weasel,” he drawled and rolled his eyes as if he couldn’t care less. 

“We could get lunch together regularly and still hate each other in public?” 

He was pleased and a little surprised that it didn’t stoke his temper to still be the kind of person Weasel didn’t want to be seen with. Then again he didn’t really want his desperation on display either. “You think I liked all the Slytherins I ate with in school? It’s just food.” He just wanted to be close to a wizard who was good and familiar and tolerated him without expressing seething resentment while they ate. 

“You’re buying, Ferret,” he conceded with a subtly sympathetic look Draco could have done without so he pretended he hadn’t seen it and smirked instead. 

“Wouldn’t have dared to imagine it any other way.” He was, after all, used to buying friends, if not literally then with the power and prestige he used to have. 

Abruptly, they were pulled from his mind and dropped back in Potter’s kitchen where the scent of warm, sweet drinks waited for them both. 

“What’s in this?” Hermione questioned as soon as the two of them came back to themselves. 

“Cider,” Harry answered, a bit taken aback by the roughness in her voice. Draco looked down to see he had his usual chocolate in front of him. 

“Splash some firewhiskey in it for me while I use the loo?” she asked as she promptly left the room. 

“Was it that bad?” Harry asked Draco, who was thoughtfully sipping his drink already. 

“I didn’t think so.” 

“What did she see?” 

Draco took a moment to think about the question. “I think she glimpsed me, as I am, without all the things I was, for the first time.” He was quiet and still clearly unnerved from the intrusion, but it sounded oddly hopeful to Harry. “She saw when Ronald started to see it; I didn’t want her thinking he betrayed her. He never has, he just tolerated me the way she would have wanted him to if I had been literally anyone else.” 

Draco watched Potter’s brow pinch, watched the same sentiment draw down one corner of his mouth in response to what he’d thought had been a rather eloquent assessment of Granger’s upset. He seemed to notice Draco analysing it and set about pouring the liquor in her glass. 

She came back from the loo, damp wisps hung loose and the wild curls that framed her cheeks clung with moisture from having washed her face. She smiled shakily at Potter and then sat down in the seat across from Draco. “I don’t know what to say, other than confess that I still don’t feel any closer to finding answers,” she announced needlessly as she grabbed the glass Potter slid her way. He sat down at the end of the table, a seat next to Draco without being right beside him, putting distance between the two of them that she hadn’t afforded him while casting. She took a long couple of swigs of her beverage and then sighed heavily. Draco waited expectantly, holding his mug with both hands overlapping, trapping the warmth under joints that felt like he’d been clenching his fists for hours. 

“You found some answers about Ron though?” Harry asked, sounding innocent enough. 

Granger glowered at Draco. “What? He asked.” 

“Just confirmation that he knew I’d be upset and did it anyway.” The way she looked up through her heavy hair and dark eyebrows reminded Draco of the genius teenager waiting in the shadows of her two best friends. Until the necessity of war pushed her past the mere academic success she’d always been heading for and had forced her to show herself for the legend that she had always been. Ronald was madly in love with that wildly intelligent, overly ambitious woman and she still wasn’t convinced of his loyalty. 

“You know that wasn’t the end of it,” Draco offered casually, but hesitantly. He didn’t really want to give her an excuse to send him back through his memories. 

“There’s more?” She asked as Harry’s brow furrowed in concern. 

“A different time, it took a long time, a daunting amount of conversation before I figured he’d finally accepted we would be friends.” 

“Would you show me?” 

“Hermione-” Harry started to protest. 

“It’s fine, Potter.” He nodded at her, she cast the spell once more, and he took them directly to Ronald. 

“Do you think Granger could ever be proud that you could overcome the ill will between us?” Draco asked, finally starting to feel comfortable enough to wonder aloud. 

“No, I think the most she’ll do is tolerate my betrayal because technically, I just took her advice about settling differences and putting the past aside long enough to come together for the common good,” he spouted off rapidly as if he had thought about it a lot. 

“The common good of the job?” 

“And of my stomach, and wallet, thanks again for buying, you absolute toff,” he grinned before taking another impolitely large bite. 

He scoffed, “Hardly, why do you think I work so much?”

“Pennance?” he suggested around his chewing. 

“Ha,” his laughter was even sharper than he’d intended. “No. I need the money, not now but soon. In the future my family would have nothing if I’d continued to do nothing.” 

“Seems fair,” he commented casually as he shrugged. 

Draco was ready to pull away, thinking Granger must have seen what she’d wanted to but he felt her hold on the memory and realised he was stuck again. He mentally scowled, aware that he’d have been happy to have Weasel die as the only one who’d heard him say the self-deprecating things that were to come. 

Harry watched Malfoy’s mouth sour with a mixed expression of discomfort that also reminded him of the distaste he’d so often shown at Hogwarts. 

“It does, doesn’t it? I’m not used to recompense being equal and earned, but it has been surprisingly . . . fair .” 

“No one hassles you then?” 

“I didn’t say that.” 

“Well, you keep showing up. I haven’t hassled you too awfully much and I have more reasons to than most.” 

“It doesn’t have to be personal when you’ve become notorious. I get ‘hassled’ by people I’ve never met, by people who’ve lost family I never even knew.” 

“Oh,” he paused. “And you still think it’s fair?” 

“I think fair doesn’t really matter because they have justification. I never believed in fairness before, but for reasons of entitlement. I recognise it’s different now. What I’ve been dealt is probably the least of what some people wish on me, so it’s fine.” 

“Fine?” he prodded. 

“Yes, fine,” Draco bristled and the stiffness reflected in his snappish tone so he calmed himself a bit before continuing. “It just is, has been, and will be and that’s fine. I’ll deal with it as it comes so it will be fine, Weasel,” he drawled, attempting to reel in his defensive posturing. He’d had this argument with himself a dozen times or more. 

“What if someone thinks you deserve to die?” Ronald asked, looking at his sandwhich as if it no longer appealed to him. 

“Then they’ll probably try to kill me someday,” he responded, trying to sound casual.  “Someone has once already.” 

“That’s not fine, Malfoy.” Ron said with his features all scrunched, pulling in different directions as if he couldn’t tell whether he wanted to be protective, offended, or just confused. 

“It is, I’m alive and whoever it was must have felt vindicated enough with the attempt because they haven’t tried again.” 

Suddenly they were ripped from his mental state and back in a solid plane where he felt heavy and everything seemed harsher, brighter. “Who was that? Who was your would-be assassin?” 

“Assassin?!” Harry yelped. 

“I feel that label sends the wrong message, Granger; I’m not important enough to be assassinated. It was only an attempted murder.” 

“Semantics won’t distract me, who was it?” 

“It shouldn’t matter who they are; if they’re in Azkaban, they couldn’t have done this,” Potter said threateningly. 

“They never faced any repercussions, Potter. They weren’t warranted, they had every right to try, but I never knew their identity and they no longer matter.” 

“How can you say that?” Potter questioned, incredulity and concern battling for control over his features. 

“Because he thinks it justifies all the terrible things he attempted if he obliges such a thing.”

“It’s not justification or obligation; it’s empathy, albeit belatedly learned. But, yes, I understand why they feel they could do something terrible if they had to for their family, even just for the memory of their family.” 

“You didn’t kill their family,” Potter declared with sincerity Granger frowned at and Draco found heart wrenching.

“That hardly matters,” Draco and Granger negated simultaneously before realising it and glaring at each other. 

“You wouldn’t think so because you’re you, but some people do feel that way,” Draco continued to elaborate while Granger crossed her arms and seethed. “Even if I didn’t kill their loved ones, I facilitated a step and when the staircase leads to the death of someone you love I imagine you blame each tier. I answered the hateful, angry post I received because I feel it; every word, the sentiment behind it, it all speaks to me. I’m not saying I want them to succeed; I didn’t even really want me to succeed back in the day, but I want them to be able to try because I know how hopeless it feels when you can’t even do that.” 

“You-” Hermione started then pursed her lips. “I- I’ll take what I’ve gathered, review my recollection of all we’ve seen in my pensieve and research what I can based on my findings from the artefacts.  I’ll leave you alone until I have substantial evidence or some kind of redirection for the investigation,” she finished looking pointedly at Harry and not at Draco. 

“I could help,” Harry started, his curiosity and his recently perceived helplessness compounding to make him feel ineffectual and needy. He was pretty sure he could get clearance to help with whatever it was she intended to do with the artefacts in the Department of Mysteries. 

“I’m sure you could, you have, but just stay here, with him. If I think of anything I need  either of you to help with, I’ll let you know.” 

“What have I been doing this entire time? I do believe it’s Potter’s turn.”

“Firstly-” Draco interrupted her with a heavy and dramatic sigh, but she continued as if he hadn’t. “Harry has been working diligently this entire time; he’s certainly put in more hours than I’ve spent on our sessions. Not to mention all the time he’s spent obsessing without my direct oversight.” 

“Could you have not mentioned it then?” Harry asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, clearly a bit embarrassed by the comment. 

“Someone needed to,” she responded haughtily as she stood from the table. 

“Your career has ruined what little sense of fun you may have ever had,” Draco jabbed, feeling defensive. 

“Being around you ruins my sense of fun, my career is going to save your sense of reality. Secondly, you don’t get to play at having turns, this is your full-time problem.” She turned to the floo without further comment, leaving Potter looking disappointed and disgruntled. 

 After a quiet moment of sipping their beverages passed Potter asked, "Would you tell me what you showed her?” He sounded insecure, but genuinely curious. 

"Won't you and Granger go over all the painstaking details when you next compare notes on the case?" 

“It’s not like that, she hasn’t- I don’t know anything, Malfoy.” He stated it like it was a failure, like he was ignorant and possibly useless and Draco realised the case truly was taking a toll on the man. 

"There's nothing," he confessed. "That's what has Granger in such a fit. No matter how hard she digs, how deep she scratches at it, she can't even find replacement memories for the two weeks I was missing. The only thing of value I can show her was how Ronald and I came to be amicable." 

Harry remembered the blond joking that he'd ceased to exist and felt a brief pang. “What about the rest of it? This assassin you mentioned?” 

“She’s grasping at straws, if someone wanted me dead, they wouldn’t make certain I was delivered to the hero of our generation,” he drawled. 

“I- I’m not that,” Harry denied haltingly, put off by such a declaration. 

“You are. Everyone aside from you knows it so I don’t think whoever’s doing this has ever wanted me dead. Miserable, sure, but alive.” 

“Why’d you befriend Ron?” He asked to change the subject. 

“Because he was hungry,” Malfoy replied shortly. 

Harry snorted on some laughter he tried to repress. “No, I mean really though?”

“That’s really what it boils down to.”

“There had to be other, more agreeable wizards to feed.” He thought of the minister’s aid who seemed like he would have been eager to go to lunch with Malfoy. 

“I didn’t want agreeable. I wanted someone who would challenge me to continue to do better, not someone who accepted who I had been without actually know who that was. I wanted someone who couldn’t forget what I’d done, not because they’d heard about it but because they’d been a part of it. I wanted someone who would expect me to work for any forward momentum and someone I would find interesting. It wasn't easy.” He refrained from adding he would have liked to have attempted lunch with Harry if he had thought that would have been remotely possible. 

“And he did all that?” Harry asked, still wondering why Malfoy would even have wanted all that. 

“Mostly,” he replied evenly. 

Harry wanted to ask if he would have been able to stand his presence for lunch but knew the answer would be yes, because the spellwork would say it was. It was meant to convince the blond that it always had been. Instead, he focused on his tea and watched the blond return his attention to his chocolate.

Chapter Text

Draco could tell Potter was restless, but not because he was so very in tune or even deeply analysing the man. It was obvious from the way he paced regularly, as well as the increased amount of baking, particularly sweets, and outside his typical time frames for cooking. It was apparent in the way he would sit down to read, only to get up ten minutes later to do something else instead. Potter’s room was spotless, Draco could see that even from the brief passing glances he had of the man’s private quarters. His broom was polished and trimmed to perfection and even his outfits seemed to be slightly more thought out. 

Draco could empathise, of course. Waiting on Granger was nerve wracking the way an under-maintained train screeching to a halt was; it was quite nearly unbearable, took far too long, and you just had to wait for it to come to an end, there was nothing else for it. Draco also tried to read and was typically just as unsuccessful. He more often found himself cleaning, repainting, or idly reupholstering; he didn’t change much without Potter’s input, just freshened and updated the existing furnishings. The kitchen was practically spotless because he absent-midedly cleaned as Potter cooked. They did often talk about mundane, inoffensive things, like work, quidditch, and food. Occasionally they broached the subject of school or their childhoods and both tended to speak around the more untoward aspects of such history rather than facing them head on. 

It was a few days since they’d seen Granger that they seemed to give up on being so careful. They were both trying to read in the parlour but Potter seemed to give up on the notion rather abruptly. 

“Do you still see your dad?” he asked, apropos of nothing. 

Draco considered mocking the man for the rudeness of the inquiry, but thought better of the urge. “Not so much, unless I’m invited, which isn’t often. I remind him of his own failures, as should most things in this world, and of course he doesn’t approve of my place of residence.” He paused, reflective, “Why do you ask?” 

“No reason really, just wondering,” he paused to take in Draco’s arched eyebrow. “I still sometimes wonder what I’d be like if I’d had parents growing up,” he elaborated further and Draco realised he must have begun thinking about his loss and therefore had been unable to focus on his book. 

“Eh, parents are overrated. They lie to you about one thing or another your entire life and when you’re finally ready to forgive them, they’re apt to die,” Draco attempted a glib reassurance. 

“I was lied to plenty without them,” Potter replied, setting down his book. “One of the earliest lies the Dursleys told me was that my parents died in a car accident.” 

Draco followed suit, and shut the novel he had only just started. He realised this was apt to be an entire conversation and was duly intrigued. “Well, that’s absurd. You didn’t believe it.”

“For ten years, I did; there was nothing to contradict it.”

“Other than the mere existence of magic,” Malfoy countered. 

“Yea, they didn’t tell me about that either,” Harry said drily, smirking at the horrified and outraged expression he received from the blond. “I don’t think they could really let themselves actually believe it. They would often deny it even when it happened directly in front of them.”

“How could you have not known? You were rather adept at school. I thought those kinds of rumours were started about you by your fans and followers to breed sympathy and cast you in a more tragic light.” 

“Wild fantasy, Malfoy. I just thought I was some kind of freak, it was something I heard often enough to internalise, I think.” He realised how embarrassingly forthright and introspective that was and decided to change the subject. “Besides, Hermione had never known about magic before school either and she was far better at it than most everyone.” 

After a brief moment of consideration in which he studied Harry with something close to surprise he acquiesced to the tangential topic. “I’d always thought she was an exception, now I know that’s mostly because she is exceptional.” He paused but couldn’t help but add, “I think it’s much more wild that you haven't snapped and polished them off already.”

“Already? Implying you think I still might?”

“Implying I think I would have by now and possibly could be easily persuaded to instead,” he said darkly, raising an imperious eyebrow that demanded someone had the right. 

“Maybe don’t vaguely threaten muggle family members while you’re part of an active  investigation by the ministry,” Harry advised evenly, not feeling all that upset about it. 

“If we were being monitored in any way we would have been confronted by now,” Draco pointed out. “Also, I didn’t think I was being all that vague.”  

Harry smirked, “Reckon not.” He stood and stoked the fire but instead of returning to his seat he began to pace, likely thinking about the casework he’d brought up. 

“I’ve never met someone who actually paces,” Draco commented idly. 

“What?” Harry asked as if he'd been called out, stopping the noted behaviour as he did so.

“You pace, when you’re thinking too hard, deliberating; it’s almost cliche, Potter.”’ 

“Right, cause you’re always so novel and authentic.”

“Maybe not, but at least I don’t futilely try to walk off my anxiety.”

“Sometimes it helps. I’m just so sick of waiting,” he sounded exasperated and nearly listless. 

“We should go out then,” Draco offered. 

“What?” he asked again, more curious than offended this time. Draco was pleased by the progression as well as amused by the repeated cluelessness. 

“We should do something, go somewhere,” Draco explained. He could admit to himself he wouldn’t mind hitting up a pub or even a dance club. He then repressed the frown he felt tighten his brow and the corners of his mouth when he realised he had no idea when the last time was that he’d truly done either because most of the last several he remembered included Potter. 

“I wouldn’t mind getting out for a ride,” he acquiesced agreeably. 

“Flying?” Draco immediately started to feel excitement, despite the setting sun and the steady drizzle that had adorned the windows all day. 

However, the feeling dissipated somewhat when Potter continued. “On Sirius’ bike,” he clarified. 

“Oh,” Malfoy responded shortly. He seemed uncertain. 

 Harry had his heart set on the bike as soon as the thought had come to him; it had been a while since he’d gotten out on it. However, Malfoy’s hesitance had him thinking he would be willing to compromise. “I mean brooms would be okay too, I just think a really long ride would do wonders for me.” He paused because he realised he probably wasn’t the only one feeling cooped up, needing a preferred outlet. “If you’d rather-

“No, it’s fine, that sounds . . . exciting,” he commented as if it were the first time he’d ever used the word. 

“You could stay here?” Harry offered. “I could have Ron come over, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind a one-on-one game if you’re scared-”

He scoffed derisively. “I’m not scared, I’m reasonably concerned; it sounds like a deathtrap.” 

Harry felt himself smirk at the false confidence and defensive commentary because he felt it was just so classic Malfoy. “Alright then. It’s in the backyard.” 

They headed out but Draco realised he didn’t remember seeing a motorbike when they had last been in the yard. “Do you have it under an invisibility cloak?” 

“Er, no, not quite.” He dragged his wand across a stone bench that sat alone off to one side of the yard and it began to transform. It doubled up once, twice, three times and then began to unfold. It eventually transitioned into a sizable shed with stone steps and foundation, the stone from the bench stopping about halfway up the wall to turn to smooth, cherry coloured wood-siding that led to a simple thatched roof. 

“Has this always been here?” 

Harry chuckled, “Nah, I built it myself, with a bit of help from Hermione and Ron, of course.” 

“It’s impressive, Potter.”

“Er, thanks. I had to make a nice, dry place where I could work on the bike. Some other projects came later since I had the space.” 

There was a modest front door but again, Potter dragged his wand along the low stone on one side and the entire wall opened up to reveal a messy work space. There were pieces of things and other items Draco couldn’t tell if they were whole or fragments. There were some things he recognised as specifically muggle and other things he knew to be powerful magic. There was a broken sneakoscope and a few items that appeared burnt beyond all recognition. In the centre of the single large, surprisingly high-ceilinged room was the bike. It was black as ink in a well and just as shiny. There were silver parts that were reflective enough to show warped representations of the room around them on their surfaces. It was very large, taking up a good potion of the space available; it looked powerful and dangerous to Draco. 

“It also looks like a deathtrap,” Draco commented with obvious trepidation as Potter approached the dark, metal beast. 

“It could hold Hagrid’s weight, in addition to mine and a side car I took off. We’ll be fine,” he responded as he swung one leg over a double tiered seat cushioned with burgundy leather that seemed like a more recent addition. 

Draco had to admit to himself the bike suddenly did seem like a more attractive adventure with the other man astride it. He sighed dramatically, but walked toward the bike. “You let him borrow this monstrosity?” 

“He took care of it before I inherited it.” 

“Does it require very complicated maintenance?” Draco asked as he gingerly clambered up and onto the back part of the seat. It wasn’t terribly uncomfortable and he immediately appreciated the close proximity to Potter. His legs sat astride the bike on either side, laying against the other man’s thighs. He jostled considerably as Potter cranked some pedal and the bike roared to life. 

“A bit, he did fine with it,” Harry said sternly as if he were one more question from admonishment. “But I’ve done a lot of work on it since.” 

He cast an impervious charm and disillusionment over the both of them before accelerating out of the shed. It was smooth, but sudden, and Draco found himself closing his eyes and gripping the other man even tighter around the waist. His arms angled up toward Potter’s chest for a bit more leverage; his hands held onto the man’s ribs for dear life when his stomach sensed they had left the ground. 

He opened his eyes in time to see Grimmauld Place shrink away and felt a sudden homesickness, as though he definitely should have stayed and faced Ronald on broom instead. He focused on his survivalistic embrace of Potter instead and tried to appreciate the feeling of flying even though it was dramatically different from the type of flight he preferred.  

Potter continued to climb the bike higher despite Draco’s thoughts that they had plenty of altitude already. He dared to look down, rather than at the back of Potter’s head, where his dark locks whipped about chaotically. He was rewarded when the lights of London sparkled surprisingly brilliant through the fog below them; Draco could even see the bright spots of reflection they cast along the Thames. He could no longer hear the sounds of traffic and the din of city noise over the rushing of the wind around them and the noisy purr of the engine between his legs.  

They’d been flying long enough and had gained enough altitude that the rain, which had gotten colder the higher they flew, hissed off the hot metal of the bike, steaming a bit as it did so. Draco imagined it looked a bit like they were dragging some clouds along behind them. 

Potter messed with a lever and a couple of buttons and suddenly the bike was nearly quiet; they were gliding. 

“It’s beautiful,” Draco couldn’t help but comment immediately. 

“It is,” he paused as if taking it all in himself. “The countryside during the day rivals it easily though.” 

“Maybe next time then?” Draco proposed, feeling rather brave for having done so. 

“Yea, maybe,” Potter acquiesced a bit less hesitantly than Draco would have expected. He let his head fall, resting against the back of Potter’s shoulder, still looking down to watch the lights. After a moment, Potter rested his arm across the one Draco had laid across his midriff. Draco sighed, feeling content for the first time in a long while according to the memories he had that he could safely assume weren’t manufactured. 

The optimism and comfort dropped as suddenly as his stomach when the bike started to nose dive and Draco realised the additional contact had likely just been a safety measure to the other man. “You have to see the Tower bridge from here,” Potter shouted over the rush of air as he released his grip. They began to level out and dip into the thick fog bank. They emerged above the Thames and the Tower bridge loomed brightly, ornately in front of them. 

They didn’t get to go to a club, but Potter did bring them down to land in an alleyway near a pub. He cast a few nonverbal spells on the bike and then led the way to the cosy establishment. It was exactly what Draco expected and yet like nothing he thought he’d known. The bartender clearly knew Potter, but it was equally as obvious that he knew him as Harry only. It was a muggle place filled with muggles and no one recognised either of them for their respective roles in a war because they didn’t know it had happened. It was a relief and a disappointment to Draco at the same time. He would have loved to have seen confusion and the more probable anger that many would suffer if the two of them had walked into such a place in the wizarding world, especially with their hair wind blown and faces alight with the excitement of being swept up in the night. He would have loved the challenge of not looking too smug while being thoroughly satisfied. He wouldn’t have felt vindicated by any means, but he was certain he would have felt giddy knowing no one approved, because he’d be just as confident no one would dare to say so. At least not to his face while Potter was around. It wouldn’t have been the pride of appearing with the man; it would have been the affirmation of being chosen by him and having that known. 

He begrudgingly reminded himself that wasn’t what this was as they slid into a booth in a corner. Potter took the seat that faced the entry, so Draco had to sit with his back to the exit but he didn’t mind much. Potter would be on the lookout and that in and of itself was reassuring. 

They ate what Draco found to be surprisingly good food, albeit a bit greasy, but that helped even out the warm lightheadedness he started to feel after drinking two of what Harry had informed him were called Turmeric Twists. He himself had only ordered soda. Draco had been flattered and pleased when he offered him a taste. Until he tasted it. 

“That was offensive.” It wasn’t the warm fuzziness of a fizzing whizbees or even the smooth bubbles of butterbeer. They were sharp bursts that quite nearly stung. “Why drink a beverage that assaults your mouth?” Harry laughed a bit outrageously, but it only warmed Draco further. They continued their conversation about their families, Draco shared what he though was a reckless amount of information from his childhood and the dynamic between him and his family members. He listened intently when Harry told him about his brutal and oafish cousin and the troubles he’d had at muggle school before Hogwarts. He blamed the alcohol when he nearly teared up at the realisation that if Potter had been talking to anyone else, Draco himself would have likely been the next bully he talked about, had the conversation continued. 

Eventually, they moved on to lighter topics; the hijinx they got up to with their respective housemates, adventures each of them were fairly sure the other hadn’t heard about. Harry told him about a trip into the Forbidden forest following spiders and being saved by a car. Draco told him about how often he used to sneak out to the greenhouses at night because he missed the gardens at the manor. 

The ride back to Grimmauld Place was even better than seeing the bridge on the way there. The lights were still dazzling and the wind still exhilarating, but Draco was warmer, more comfortable, and much less anxious after having survived one trip already. He leaned into the ride and the excuse to hold onto Harry. He was less afraid and could take time to enjoy Potter’s strong legs and bony hips, his flat stomach, hard ribs, and muscled shoulders. 

Harry dismounted the bike, surprised by how disappointed he was that it was over. As he walked to the door of Number Twelve he realised he missed the warmth and pressure of Malfoy close behind him. He decided he could use a drink after all, now that he wasn’t driving anymore. He made his way to the kitchen while the blond followed, still delighted by his food and his alcohol, asking how long Harry had been going to that place and how he had found it. 

Draco’s cheeks were flushed pink and Harry couldn’t tell if it was from the wind or the alcohol. The man didn’t seem interested in any more of the latter, waving off the bottle when Harry gestured to it after pouring a decent amount in a tall glass. “Tea?” he offered after he took a drink. The other man nodded and Harry set the kettle on the hob. He explained that Seamus had been the one to show him the place a handful of years ago, when he and Ginny had first broken up. He took another long drink of liquor; it wasn’t a time he liked to think about. He still internally cringed sometimes when he saw her, not because of the relationship they’d had, but because of how he’d reacted to losing it, especially now that he knew they were so much better as friends. 

“I still don’t understand how anyone could give you up,” Malfoy commented. His tone wasn’t lecherous or leering, but it was a bit wistful and the way he looked at Harry made him feel warmer than he thought he should from only having finished half his drink. 

“You have to stop doing that,” Harry complained, leaning back into the counter and slouching a bit, as if pouting. 

“But I like how darkly you blush,” he smiled a bit more coyly and Harry swallowed thickly. “Yes, there it is now. . .” he trailed off, maintaining determined eye contact. 

“This is what I’m talking about,” he took one more drink then set his glass down on the counter between them. 

“What’s the matter with it? I understand you don’t take it seriously and most of the time it at least makes you smile.” 

Harry shook his dark locks looking dour, “The matter is that, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, I realised I find you attractive when you’re not being an insufferable prick, but it’s not something I could ever entertain with your memories altered,” he rushed the words out, now was not the time to be uncertain. He needed to be clear on why he thought there should be boundaries, even when his feelings didn’t seem to reflect what he had to keep reminding himself of almost as much as he had to remind Draco.  

“But you want to?” The blond posited, sounding hopeful and seeming to lean in closer. 

“What?” Harry tried to retrace his words, wondering how much he’d been leading Malfoy. He recognised he had admitted attraction before insulting him and swallowed a bit drily. 

“You want to act on how uncomfortably attracted to me you are. If the situation were different you’d at least entertain the notion.” 

“Why does everything sound worse when you say it?” He was right of course. That made it all the more difficult to rebuff advances when the other man knew he didn’t mean it, just thought that he should. 

“It’s an art; I can’t really explain it,” Draco drawled. He was rewarded by insistent laughter Harry snorted on in his attempt to smother it. “You could act on it,” he tried again. 

“No, I couldn’t,” Harry negated, sounding concerned, “because I know I shouldn’t.”

Draco leaned forward, grazing his fingers lightly on the exposed forearm Harry had laying on the counter, outstretched toward his drink. The skin there immediately responded by raising in little bumps. “ I could; I don’t care much about should.” 

“I’d still have to act after whatever it is you think you want to do,” Harry grumbled. He thought it almost sounded like a threat, but he couldn’t bring himself to remove the comforting weight of Malfoy’s hand. 

“That would merely be re acting,” He raised the hand to brush under Harry’s jaw where it fell to his collarbone. “It’s not the same,” he said reassuringly and the pressure on Harry’s chest felt like agreement. “That burden of responsibility borne of instigation isn't on you at all in such a scenario,” he continued to reason, sounding casual but informed. 

“When you put it that way,” Harry started. Malfoy’s hand slid toward the back of his shoulders and a bit up toward his neck as he spoke. Harry shuddered before he’d finished talking. His nerves were alight, not on fire, but like there was a consistent stream of miniscule flashes of bright sensation bursting along a path that both tortured and tickled him. “I could almost believe you,” he finished, feeling a bit breathless but fairly confident it hadn’t shown. 

Draco’s fingers raked along his scalp and Harry endured a pleased shiver. “You should.” 

The other man’s second hand set on the side of Harry’s jaw and he realised he’d leaned back and into the first that was now taking hold of his hair in a slow, firm way that weakened his knees considerably. He opened and closed fists he hadn’t realised he’d balled up, then opened eyes he hadn’t meant to close at the arrival of the second hand to find Draco had gotten much closer. His eyes seemed darker, more pupil than sparkling silver, but it still seemed to shift like molten lead around deep darkness in a thin, bright iris. 

Harry’s eyes were drawn to Malfoy’s mouth because his lips were parted just slightly, expectantly, and when he met the man’s gaze again he could tell he was inspecting Harry’s mouth in turn. “Er-” he stammered. Malfoy brushed a finger, feather-light, over his bottom lip, and Harry realised he hadn’t been resisting because he really didn’t want to. “Yea, okay,” Harry allowed, now breathless enough that he knew it was obvious but no longer cared. 

Draco’s reaction to explicit consent was instant; his lips were on Harry’s before he could fully inhale after speaking. His nose was flooded with the clean, bright, botanical medley of scents coming off the blond. He could taste the distant memory of scotch that still lingered from their dinner out. His hands clutched Draco’s hip as if on instinct, or maybe more likely a desperate hope to steady himself. Regardless, the blond leaned into Harry because of it; Harry felt the kiss deepen like diving, like falling, like flying. It was pressure, but it felt like speed. It made his heart race and his adrenaline spike. And suddenly, all at once, it was too much. He pulled away, feeling his own reluctance like a terrible resistance he had to move against. Then he reminded himself it was also probably very wrong of them to have done it in the first place. 

“Wow,” he said, unable to feel anything but a buzzing all along his lips and groin and the base of his spine. “I erm- Yea. I need to not do that again.” 

“What about wow?” Malfoy smirked, but it was drawn in a subtle way that sat like ice on top of the tumultuous feelings in Harry’s stomach. He didn’t want to rebuke the blond or cause him to feel rejected. After allowing such an interaction, he didn’t think it was fair for him to make Malfoy feel like he’d done something wrong. 

“It was. I mean, I am . . . wowed.” Harry thought he stumbled over his feelings like they were overlong, baggy pants. “We shouldn’t have done that.” 

“Maybe not, but so far it’s been worth it.” Harry heard the warning in the emphasis, despite the cloak of the confident drawl. 

“Draco,” he said, feeling like he could be asking for a favour. “I mean it.”

“One snog and you’re wowed enough to call me Draco. So familiar all of a sudden,” he responded, crossing arms that seemed longer when they laid on his chest. “I wish my false memories were this flattering.” 

Harry hated that he could tell the flushing warmth in his cheeks was manifesting from the sharper twist to the blond’s smirk. He hadn’t even noticed he’d called the other man by his given name until it was pointed out. “Thanks for catching that,” he said drily. 

“Well, if this is going to be a naughty secret you deny, then we wouldn’t want you slipping up,” Draco commented glibly feeling freer from the interaction despite Potter’s misplaced guilt. 

“Oh no, not at all. I was already debating with myself whether I could get away with just telling Ron and Hermione through the floo or if I should have them come over or-”

“No spread out, reluctant interactions to grow our shameful romance in secret? I was so sure that would be your thing.” 

“I wouldn’t call one incident of snogging a romance,” Harry defended. 

“In my memories we met casually and then kept up a more intimate secret for months before you confessed to your friends.” 

“One more point to honesty and reality despite your expectations.” 

Draco took a moment to think about how different Granger was and factor that into what he now knew. “Oh Merlin’s bollocks. If you’re going to be all noble and they’re going to be all morally outraged, please do call on them at the Den. The kids might help keep Granger from getting too shrieky and reinforce Ronald’s effort not to lose his temper despite our friendship. I think I’ll enjoy a hot shower in the meantime.” He smirked again before turning toward the stairs. “I’ll remember you fondly,” he called casually over his shoulder. Harry tried desperately not to conjure up an image for such a declaration. 

Since Draco announced he’d be busy elsewhere, Harry decided to get it over with and stalked over to the hearth before taking a deep breath. He realised he didn’t actually regret having kissed Malfoy, just that he’d allowed it when their lives were being so blatantly manipulated. He frowned and threw some floo powder into the flames. 

Despite Draco’s wishes, as soon as he’d admitted what had happened both Ron and Hermione decided they would come over. 

After anxiously pacing the kitchen, thinking about how he would defend himself when they arrived, he greeted the both of them as they stepped out of the green flames. “I didn’t need an intervention,” he protested immediately. “I’m just a bit worried I might be taking advantage by allowing it.” 

“That’s what’s got you worried, mate?” Ron asked. “Not that you could be playing directly into some kind of trap set for you both?” 

“There have to be more efficient traps that would be far more likely to succeed.” 

“That’s not the point,” Hermione finally contested. “He’s not himself, Harry. You’re right to feel like you're taking advantage.” 

“I really didn’t mind,” Draco announced, coming down the stairs, freshly showered, hair still mussed. 

“Of course you don't, this is what you’ve been angling for since you got here,” she accused blatantly. 

“I’m not angling toward anything,” Malfoy responded evenly, going so far as to sound sincere. 

“I didn’t want you over to argue,” Harry said sternly. 

“Then you shouldn’t have done something arguably wrong!” She insisted, her voice rising just enough to not quite be yelling. 

“It wasn’t wrong!” Harry yelled back before remembering what exactly he was defending. It hadn’t felt wrong, but he obviously knew that didn’t mean he should have done it. He lowered his voice, “It just wasn’t as right as it should have been.” He put a hand to the nape of his neck and looked apologetically at the blond while Hermione crossed her arms. 

Draco glared at them both. “Why don’t you and I go for a walk, Malfoy?” Ron said into the stilted, but charged silence. 

“Why do we have to walk? Why can’t they go walk?” he questioned impetuously. 

“Come on, I could use the air,” Ronald insisted, still sounding friendly enough. 

“Ugh,” Draco huffed dramatically. He wanted to know what Potter had to say, but realised the man would likely be more honest about it if he wasn’t in the room to hear it. It was a paradoxical unfairness, but he recognised all he could reasonably do was follow Weasel and hope to hear about it later. 

“Would you let anyone else play on your feelings like this?” Hermione began to interrogate him the second they heard the door close upstairs. “If he wasn’t in danger, would you be so recklessly accommodating?” she pressed on without giving him the opportunity to answer the first question. 

“I don’t think it’s much of a game to him,” Harry responded to the first anyway before petulantly adding, “and I’m not being reckless.”

“Maybe not consciously,” she countered without making it clear who she was talking about because she likely thought they both weren’t thinking. 

“What would the point of seducing me be? How could that possibly benefit anyone?” 

“Aside from Malfoy you mean?” 

“You’re not paying attention if you still think he might’ve done this to himself, Hermione,” he defended sternly. He was certain of at least that much. 

“I still think he’s being used to get close to you,” she tried, plaintive worry now the dominant tone in her voice rather than disappointment, reproach, and outrage. 

“We were never close! If someone wanted to get close to me they should’ve wiped your memories, or Ron’s, or any other Weasley for that matter.” 

“Anyone who knows anything about your time in school would know that Malfoy has always been the one to get under your skin, to make you act foolishly.” 

“It’s not foolishness!” Again he raised his voice defensively without meaning to. He worked to calm himself because he didn’t want to lose his head arguing over Malfoy, thereby proving her point. “Besides, there’s no proof that whoever did this went to school with us.” 

“There’s nothing to indicate otherwise either. We don’t know anything which makes this such a delicate predicament. What is this impulsive behaviour, if it’s not foolishness?” she demanded as if he couldn’t possibly have a reasonable answer. 

He realised he wasn’t sure he did. “I don’t know, Hermione!” He exclaimed, getting frustrated again. His hand whipped through his fringe as if that would help focus, help him find a response. “It’s just an attraction and it’s only that because he- he-” 

“Did he pressure you?” She asked, her tone dropping to a low and dangerous sounding octave. 

“No,” he huffed. “It’s not like that. He just- it’s been a lot better than I would  have imagined with him stuck in my house for weeks.” 

“I think you should go back to work, Harry,” she said evenly. 

“Because of this?” 

“I’ve been thinking about it for sometime, this just reinforces my conviction.” 

“I don’t think he’s ready for that yet, and I don’t know what help I can be from the ministry until you tell me what you’ve been working on.” 

“Harry, it’s just not something we can work on together.” She sighed before elaborating. 

While Harry listened intently to Hermione, Draco tried very hard not to take in any of the rather decent points Ronald was making about his situation. 

“I want to know what he’s saying about me,” he interrupted the ginger as they walked the frigidly brisk streets of Islington at night. 

“Of course you do, haven’t you always?” Ron chuckled slightly, but there was a slight exasperation to the sound. 

“Will you tell me?” 

“I will probably be advised not to,” he responded diplomatically and without specifying by which party. 

“How could things be more right?” Draco demanded, referencing what he’d last heard Harry say because he couldn’t stop hearing it in his head. “What does that even mean?” 

“He obviously just wants to know that you, yourself, your true self, with all your memories and prickish sentiments would still feel- you know, the way you’re feeling,” he paused as if gathering strength to continue, “Y’know, before he does that kind of thing with you.” 

Draco realised it was an awkward subject for a friend who thought he was protecting him, but it didn’t help him be any less annoyed. He was positive the truest version of himself wanted his false memories to reflect reality. Dancing with Potter, living with Potter, even grieving with Potter, all seemed preferable to having done those things without the other man. “I don’t even know how I could have been that other version of myself.” Draco thought again of losing his mother and wondered how he had survived it without Potter. 

“We’ll get him back, mate,” Ronald said as if it were some kind of reassurance. 

“I don’t want that other Draco back!” He announced frustratedly, and it felt great to finally say aloud. 

“But. . . that’s the real you,” he countered, sounding genuinely confused. 

“Was I happy being me?” Draco asked, hoping to be able to prove his point to The Weasel without getting too specific. 

“You were confident and stable and successful considering your less than ideal history,” he offered, as if he thought that should be enough. 

“Was I satisfied? Pleased?” Draco prodded. 

“Are you now?” 

“Of course not! But I could be,” he’d started loudly and hated that he ended up sounding wistful. 

“You could be happy with your real memories too,” the other man insisted sincerely. 

“So what then? You think I could be righted, my faculties restored and then try to strike up something genuine with a man who will be assuming I hate him again and possibly even blame him for the trauma I’ve endured?” 

“Yea, that does sound like him, but no, I mean- Look, you didn’t really hate him a month ago, or however long it’s been,” Ronald said, sounding like he thought it felt much longer even though that was about right. “Hell, maybe you never did, you just hated yourself for wanting him to like you and took it out on him when he didn’t.”

“Get to the point Weasel,” Draco snapped with a hum of a growl in his throat. 

“Well, that kind of was my point: he won’t be like that cause neither will you. It’ll just be that you’ll both know the truth, or what could be true if you both still want to pursue it.”

“Don’t you see? That’s how it already is,” Draco pointed out, hating that the ginger sounded so reasonable. 

“What d’you mean?” 

“He knows, I definitely know; is it really so wrong to just skip the part where we jam some unhappy bastard who had no one when he lost his mother back inside my brain?” He finally admitted one of his truest concerns and felt deflated for it. 

“It might not be wrong, but it’s not the way to set things right,” he grimaced a bit with one side of his mouth while the other side pulled down in something that Draco thought looked dangerously close to pity. “You know, you didn’t have no one when Narcissa passed.” 

“How would you know?” he scowled with narrowed, suspicious eyes. 

“You really don’t remember?” 

“Remember what?” 

He sighed and it seemed heavier than Draco would have thought possible for the ginger. Being brought so low, so suddenly and acutely seemed wrong, counter to his personality. It didn’t suit him in a visceral way and it caused Draco discomfort to see it. “It was me.” He huffed and his ears went a bit red. “I was the one you called over to sit with you at the manor.” 

Draco only remembered getting angry and resentful at the ministry until, despite the secrecy they’d maintained at the time, Potter took him to his office and helped him through the panic attack he’d been holding off for days. “At the manor?” 

“Yea,” Ron admitted, looking uncomfortable. 

“How was I?” 

“Well, you didn’t cry in front of me or anything, but I could tell you had been. Your eyes were all red and puffy even though the rest of your face was paler than ever,” he paused, looking Draco over. “Otherwise, you were uncharacteristically quiet; I was a bit disturbed. But I wanted to help, I don’t think I did, I’m pretty sure I heard you fighting with your father as I left, either that or you were smashing his things and screaming about him instead.” 

“I apologise, that sounds uncomfortable,” Draco allowed. He didn’t know what else to say, he had no recollection of such a thing ever happening and was starting to feel bereft for having lost the true occurrence of his grief. 

Ronald paused to give him an assessing glance full of consideration. “Nah, don’t bother saying sorry. You were also really gracious to me when I left and I realised how much it had meant.” 

“Oh?” Draco prompted haltingly, it was beyond disconcerting to be told how he had handled his mother’s death but he was helpless to the need to know.  

“Well, Theo was out of the country. He couldn’t make it.” He scoffed, “You made it a point to let me know I wasn’t your first choice.” 

“I did?” 

“Yea, even drowning in grief, you’re kind of a prick,” he chided. 

Draco laughed, but it felt like the sound caught on something in his throat on the way out. Ron’s words felt real even though he couldn’t remember them. “That does sound like me,” he conceded, a bit wistfully. “Potter really wasn’t there at all, was he?” 

“Nah, he felt bad about it when he heard though,” Ronald offered. 

“Did he say anything?” Draco asked, trying not to feel hopeful. 

“It was more about the way he was quiet; you know how he gets, all stiff, thoughtful broodishness,” he answered. 

Draco felt like laughing again, just a little, so it didn’t amount to much more than a small smile. “Thanks, Weasel, for everything.” 

“Not necessary, Ferret. I haven’t done any of this for your gratitude, if I‘d had, I would've given up long before ever getting it.” 

“Why then?”

“I did it because I found myself entertained and challenged, it’s hard to be your friend most of the time, but every now and then it’s worth it,” he admitted, smiling a bit as well. 

“When has it ever been worth it?”

Ronald went on to share some anecdotes of times when it had been. Some of them Draco remembered and a few he didn’t, but he was happy to hear the ginger recount them all. For the first time since this had all started Draco thought that maybe he should get his old self back. He considered that maybe he was missing out on some real memories that would be worth starting all over again with Potter as the miserable bastard he was convinced he had been without him. 

As they neared Grimmauld Place, Draco thought to return some of the comfort and reassurance Ronald had provided him. “How have things been with Granger?” he asked, looking for confirmation that the memories he hadn’t wanted to share had afforded the ginger some leeway with the woman. 

“It’s been a bit rough, obviously she’s busy so the distance I get, but- Well, I mean, it’s alright.” 

“What’s alright?” 

“I don’t want you to feel bad about it,” he prefaced. 

“Out with it, Weasel.” 

“I just think I’m going to have to be really patient and really apologetic for a long time before she forgives me for this,” he said, gesturing the the space between the two of them. He then shrugged, resigned. “It’s understandable though, I could’ve handled it better, I’d had plans but obviously it’s all been too little too late to her, and I don’t hold that against her.” 

“Still?” 

“Well, it’s only been about a little over two weeks since she found out.” 

Draco realised Granger hadn’t shared anything from their last trip into his head and was suddenly so angry he couldn’t bring himself to say anything else to Ronald, for fear he would say something he would regret. 

They were informed Harry had already retired to his rooms when they found Granger sitting alone in the kitchen waiting for their return. Draco suspected that meant whatever conversation happened between the two of them had not been pleasant. 

Ron went through the flames first. 

“Granger, wait,” Draco called insistently. 

“What, Malfoy?” 

“I know you don’t give two knuts for my opinion, but you should forgive Ronald,” he said with confidence he didn’t feel. 

“Like I’d take your advice on anything,” she scoffed derisively. 

“It wasn’t supposed to be a secret,” he insisted. 

“Then why did he hide it from me?”

“Can’t you see how much he hates to disappoint you? Because he knew you would see it as exactly that, a disappointment, a betrayal, even if he’d told you right away, so of course he put it off.” She was quiet and marginally more pensive, less confrontational so he pushed a little harder. “He wanted to tell you, that’s why he talked to his mum about it.” 

“Why though? Why do it in the first place?” 

“You saw the memories, same as I lived them,” he pointed out, because she should already have come to this conclusion herself, but was fighting it. Understandably so, but he knew both she and Ron would be better off if she would just accept what she’d seen and process it. “He eventually saw that I’m not the same villain I was in school, for one simple reason, I don’t have the same motivations.”

“You only think that-”

“No,” he interrupted her sternly but calmly. “I know you think I believe this beautiful lie of redemption and acceptance because of whatever’s been done to me. I only believe a fraction of that sentiment can still be true because of people like my muggle neighbours, friends like Theo, even the rare few people I work with that don’t hate me as well as Ronald and his family,” he finished, feeling impassioned and worried he sounded desperate on behalf of a friend. 

“He would-” she swallowed and when she spoke again her voice had grown steady again. “He would take what I’ve said about tolerance and inclusion so literally as to have it come back around and bite me.” 

“I’ve never laid teeth on either of you,” he said shortly, without thinking. 

She seemed caught off guard by the brief, scoffing snort of laughter she emitted so she rolled her eyes and frowned to compensate. “Don’t think this changes things between us. Or you and Harry.” 

“I only hoped to put things back between the two of you with this conversation. I never expected to get any trust in return or even credit for doing so. I just wanted you to blame the person you’re really upset with and we both know that’s me, not Ronald.” 

Her eyes welled up and she looked away, taking in a gasping breath as if she’d held it in to protect against the emotions that threatened to overwhelm her. “I can be mad at you both, but maybe I want to be mad at him a bit less.” 

He realised that was all he was going to get from her, but it was more than she’d allowed herself when he’d shown her Ronald’s loyalty so he hoped being confronted with a fair analysis of it would indicate enough change in sentiment for the Weasel at least. 

“Alright then?” he prompted, uncertain. 

“Goodbye, Malfoy,” she said before stepping into the hearth. 

The next day Harry expected Draco to be up and around when he woke up half past eleven, but heard the shower still going when he walked down the hall. He made tea of course and ruminated about the night before while he made a simple breakfast since it was already rather late. When Draco finally joined him in the kitchen, wearing simple black joggers and a plain, white T-shirt, he served up the hot cereal and fruit then resisted the urge to tell him Hermione’s plans despite her specific instructions to keep it secret for now. 

“I decided to start reading another book by the same author I read outloud to you. Would you be interested in hearing it?” He asked uncertainly. Draco clearly had no desire to talk about last night, otherwise he would have by the time they’d finished their breakfast. Instead, the blond had started sipping his tea in stubborn silence, and Harry felt the quiet like chalk settling on his skin. 

“Why not?” he answered with lacklustre faux enthusiasm. Harry frowned, not knowing exactly how upset with him Malfoy was, but unwilling to prod the man into telling him. They went again to the sitting room and after several pages, the blond started shifting around in his seat. 

Ultimately, he laid his head in Harry’s lap as if it were a perfectly normal thing to do, it wasn’t. Harry was acutely aware that the closest they’d come to such an arrangement was when Draco’s head had lolled onto his shoulder the last time he’d read aloud. Harry had been frozen in place until Draco had shifted and slumped, waking himself up. Harry had suggested they both go to bed then. 

He admitted to himself he did like having one arm on the settee’s rest and one on the warm, firm plane of Draco’s gently rising and falling chest. “I’m ready,” Malfoy’s announcement made Harry realise he’d been staring. It was different than how he’d read to the blond before, but somehow it was more comfortable. Harry thought that could be because of how much he appreciated the pressure of Draco against him. 

After reading for a bit Draco did fall asleep again. His jaw hung open, lightly puffing calm breaths through a soft ellipse that brilliantly white teeth peeked out from behind. Harry stared for a long moment at the fine but plentiful, platinum eyelashes, laying still against skin that was flawless even as close as he was and despite his intent inspection. 

He was flooded with the memory of their kiss and before he knew what he was doing, Harry’s finger had gently tugged Draco’s bottom lip down. The skin was softly lax and compliant against his light pressure. He exposed just slightly more of the perfect teeth and then let his hand travel to the blond’s fringe. It was almost shockingly lighter than his own hair, thinner in that way that made it fine and almost too plush, able to fall perfectly whether the blond was standing or laying. 

He wondered how tired the man had to have been to fall asleep and not stir at Harry’s mindless exploration. He drew his hand from the shimmering locks to summon a blanket and a pillow. He shoved the pillow behind his own neck and covered Draco up with the blanket. He felt warm enough from the contact not to need one and was soon fast asleep as well. He didn’t dream and he didn’t wake for a few hours. When he did, the blond had gone to his rooms and it was late enough to start dinner. So again he cooked, preoccupied and alone, until the smells caught Malfoy’s attention and he came down to share another mostly silent meal. 

That night Harry couldn’t fall asleep as he would have liked to. He was unable to stop staring at his ceiling, seeing Draco’s sleep slackened features every time he closed his eyes. Eventually he gave up and wanked, his orgasm atypically draining and involved. He wasn’t by any means a virgin, or unaware of his own inclinations, but he suspected he hadn’t needed to masturbate so badly in his life. Even after such a release he was still frustrated enough to have nightmares that woke him twice. One he couldn’t remember and in the other he treaded water in a rough sea. It wasn’t so typical for him to be unable to sleep anymore, but he also hadn’t felt that bad lately either. Relatively speaking. 

Meanwhile, Draco had laid in his bed with his eyes closed and his mouth partly open, tugging his bottom lip down with one hand while the other worked the erection jutting out of his pyjamas. 

Draco knew there wasn’t much to do but sit around and wait on Granger. He didn’t want to talk about the night before last because he didn’t want to dredge up Potter’s guilt, but he was getting bored and sick of playing the quiet game. He hovered around Potter more the next day than he had the one before, deciding he’d rather lurk than retire to his rooms alone again. 

Potter looked as though he were battling a headache, though it didn’t seem nearly as bad a fight as when they were younger. Draco noted that it did look similar to how he remembered seeing the man as an adult coping with the same symptoms. 

“Is it a bad one?” He asked when Harry took off his glasses to rub his eyes and temples simultaneously. 

“Standard sort.” 

“Were the ones in school worse then?”

Harry was taken aback by the question and felt himself frown. 

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to, obviously. I was just contemplating the way I remember you having headaches then versus memories I suppose must be fake. Neither are quite like this.” 

“The ones in school were loads worse. For one thing, I haven’t passed out from a headache as an adult. I do get bad ones at work sometimes. This one is just stress, maybe dehydration, definitely insomnia.” 

“Running yourself ragged won’t solve anything.”

“You’d be surprised how often it does.”

“Not surprised, dismayed and concerned, but not at all surprised, Potter.”

“Concerned?” 

“Yes, it’s concerning,” he responded evenly. 

“Because you remember us being close?” 

“Very close, but no. It’s concerning because wearing yourself thin shouldn’t be the solution to so many of your problems.” 

Draco decided to take pity on the man when he couldn’t find a retort and instead winced and closed his eyes to start rubbing them again. “I’ll cook supper and then you should probably try to get to sleep early.” He summoned a tall glass of water for the man and turned the lights down lower before heading to the kitchen. 

Draco of course didn’t know much about cooking. He had learned to call for delivery from his local restaurants in the muggle neighbourhood his flat was in and could work the toaster and microwave when he watched Jacob in the child’s home. 

“Kreacher?” He called timidly to the empty kitchen. 

Even the pop as the elf apparated in sounded tired. “Yes, Master Malfoy. How can Kreacher be of service?” 

“Will you help me cook dinner?” 

The elf agreed with absolutely no enthusiasm and despite their teamwork approach, it did not go all that well. “I don’t understand how we overcooked this,” Draco said as he took the roast out of the oven. 

“Master Malfoy left it in too long while Kreacher was busy with the gravy, the potatoes, and the salad. 

“I helped with the salad and could you call me Draco?” 

“Yes, Master Draco’s spell work made quick but sloppy work of the carrots,” he commented idly, as if he were talking to himself while he carried heavy serving platters to the table. 

“Your cucumbers may look better but they’ll taste the same, once we slather them in the dressing I made,” he defended poshly even though the elf was right; he’d been distracted, of course. 

Draco set the roast on the table, resigned, and when the rest of the dinner was laid out Kreacher disappeared with a pop without further comment and before Draco could even tell him thank you. “I appreciate the assistance, Kreacher,” he again called to the empty kitchen. 

He went upstairs, surprised to see Potter awake, despite being horizontal on the settee. “I thought you might have fallen asleep. 

“I think I did for a bit, my headache seems to have gone but I wasn’t feeling brazen enough to sit up and test that theory yet,” he commented. 

“Well, dinner’s done, for what it’s worth, I don’t cook.” 

Harry smirked as he sat up, “I’d have never guessed.” 

“Don’t take the piss out of me too badly, I tried, I even got Kreacher to help.” 

“Really?” Harry sounded genuinely surprised. “He doesn’t cook anymore either.” 

They ate dinner, Potter’s headache apparently gone, and he seemed to appreciate the effort despite the roast being very dry and rather tough. 

“I remember my roast cooking for several hours at the manor,” Draco commented, “but I suppose they were much larger. It had been for just the two of them so it was a modest hunk of meat, now much smaller with most of the moisture cooked out of it. 

“It was great, Malfoy. I feel loads better,” Harry responded with a smile. 

“Well, don’t expect me to try again,” he replied, still clearly disappointed, having only picked at his serving, despite eating all the salad and potatoes he’d plated for himself. 

“Er, I was thinking about reading a bit before bed,” Harry ran a hand through his hair, already regretting opening his mouth. “Did you want to- erm-?”

“Yes, Potter, I would care to join you,” Malfoy spared him again, this time with a smirk. Harry smiled sheepishly, maybe a bit grateful, but rolled his eyes despite the fact. 

After cleaning up the kitchen, they read for hours, the blond casually leaning against Harry’s side until the warmth and comfort began to slow his voice and muddy his comprehension of the text. He glanced at Draco to see he was still alert and interested so he continued on. 

Harry woke slowly, still in an upright position, to soft fingers brushing the thick scruff threatening to become a real beard on his jaw. He was slumped forward a bit but didn’t move as the fingers headed toward the soft place behind his ear. His breath caught, but he evened it out with some effort. He wondered what Draco was thinking about when a second hand sent questing fingers under his short shirt sleeve to lightly wrap around his upper bicep which he let remain still and untense. He felt Draco’s breath warm the shirt on his abdomen as the blond turned his head, dragging his head across Harry’s thigh. Like he was snuggling into him to fall back asleep. Harry abruptly had to ask himself, ‘what if Draco was still sleeping and was enjoying contact he wouldn’t want to be if he was aware of his strangely rigorous sleep touching?’ Harry’s eyes opened to find the man already staring raptly at his face. “Was it the arm or the ear that woke you?” 

“You knew and then still-” he stopped himself, realising belatedly he was just as dishonest in his reaction. “Neither; it was my beard.”

“Really?” he sounded mildly impressed. He started to bring himself to a sitting position but he paused as he did so and turned, pressing his face into the hollow of Potter’s throat as he had done the first day here. “I was awake for it before.” 

The heat on Harry’s throat spread at an alarming rate with severe intensity. “I’m sorry-” 

“I’m not and I wish you wouldn’t be. I’d get by with pretend sleep as long as possible to have you touch me like that again,” he laid his hand flat against Harry’s chest and let his head continue to rest in the cradle of his shoulder for just a moment before, retreating a bit, giving Harry room to breathe. 

“I hardly- I mean, just your hair.” He hung his head in his hands, feeling guilt and shame. “Also your lip,” he admitted without looking up. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, certain he was some kind of weirdo for having done it to the blond first, as an impulse. He should have thought about it for half a minute before acting on it. He should have-

“Stop berating yourself, Potter,” the command was softened because it rode on a drawl thick with ennui. Harry looked up again to see the earnest and casual dismissal. “I feel I’ve made it clear such advances are not unwanted.” He paused, a complicated slant to his mouth. “It was innocuous and yet, intense, despite that.” He sighed and it sounded like defeat. A dark, lonely place under Harry’s ribs contracted as if his very soul was wincing. “It was real; it didn’t make any sense for you to do it and never in the wildest dreams of the memories I often wished were real did I ever think you would. Feeling the difference . . . you are so achingly real.” He looked away, sounding hopeless, his shoulders slumped as if reality itself had been the one to defeatehim. Harry supposed that it had in some ways and the realisation cast shadows in that hollow feeling space in Harry’s chest. Draco glanced up with clear apprehension, but his gaze fell momentarily to Harry’s speechless mouth when it was clear he had no verbal response for such a declaration. In that fraction of a second he seemed to hope for a better reality, one that didn’t cause him so much pain. 

It felt like pure instinct motivating Harry as he connected their mouths again. He didn’t hesitate; he knew his actions were warranted, plainly wanted, and he didn’t want to resist it anymore. This time his hand went to a low place on Draco’s back and he let the other go to the man’s hair, since he’d already been called out. Draco made a low noise in his throat that Harry wouldn’t have thought anything of if it hadn’t set fire to the nerves and tightening muscles in his groin. He realised his grip had tensed considerably after hearing the sound and subsequently loosened his fingers a bit. Draco leaned in closer, charging the scant space left between them with a magnetism Harry felt uncharacteristically helpless against. His swiftly hardening cock brushed against Draco’s very obvious and full erection and he couldn’t help but lean into the blond. He barely registered that the gesture very well could have seemed full of intent even though it felt entirely out of his control. 

Conversely, Draco felt measured and careful; he didn’t want to do something so forward it would cause Potter to take pause and reconsider what they were doing. The man had truly started to open up to him, to listen to him, and now he had instigated intimacy. When Potter leaned into him, he wrapped his arms around the other man. When he heard Harry stutter out a guttural groan as their hips touched, he simply leaned in. He felt the other man’s hands travel up the back of his shirt, setting fire to his skin and merely returned the favour. Through it all they continued to kiss, a frantic, desperate thing that Draco felt in his bones. As their lips slid hotly across each other, their tongues teased wetly against one another, and Potter’s stubble scraped across his skin, Draco felt warm and somehow safe, as if he’d finally gotten to a place he knew after a long time spent wandering. 

As distracted as he was, Harry still heard the fireplace in the kitchen roar and his wards tingle, a clear announcement of a friend in the floo. His heart had already been racing and feeling suddenly caught out didn’t help any. He pulled away from Draco again, once more lamenting not that they’d done it, but only that they’d been interrupted. He was nowhere near done rifling through the man’s hair and was certain he’d been seconds from taking off Draco's shirt just to feel more of him, to see more of him. Harry hadn’t been infatuated with anyone since he had last obsessed over Draco and all of a sudden that felt very apparent in a very new way. 

Rather than meet them in the kitchen Harry took a moment to attempt to smooth down his hair, clothes, and catch his breath. “Er- Sorry,” he told Malfoy. “The floo- I uh, we have visitors,” he explained as he tried to ready his appearance. 

“Oh,” he responded shortly, looking disappointed and sounding sceptical. 

Harry saw the disheartening reaction and reminded himself that it was exactly why he shouldn’t have indulged in the urge in the first place. He was scurrying to look presentable as if he were guilty because he knew that was how he should feel about the indiscretion. He sighed heavily just as Hermione called his name from the foyer. 

“In here,” he replied, feeling deflated. 

Ron followed her into the sitting room. Harry noted Malfoy’s cheeks and lips still seemed a bit pink but his hair had settled evenly. He could only guess as to his own appearance but they both seemed immediately suspicious so he guessed it wasn’t great. 

Draco already felt some cold, hollow, shrinking feeling from the way Potter had sprung away from him as well as the tragically apologetic and guilty expression the man tried to even out unsuccessfully as he’d done so. Seeing that Granger appeared to be here on business from her brisk walk and air of heightened importance only further dampened his increasingly terrible mood. 

“Lucius has gone to the Ministry for help finding you,” she announced and his stomach dropped out from underneath him even though he wasn’t sure why he would have such a reaction. “He thinks something may have happened to you, but since Harry had filed the case under strict confidentiality-

“Due to instinctual paranoia,” Ronald interjected, likely annoyed he couldn’t be talking to anyone and everyone about Harry’s latest case. 

“Paranoia that has historically paid off more often than not,” Potter glowered. 

“He’s worried, but no one can tell him much of anything until Harry reclassifies the case.” 

His father. Worried. Worried? That didn’t make sense. His father didn’t worry; he demanded action. He paid for peace of mind. He made sure he never had to worry. As disparaged and ostracised as his family had become after the war, Draco was certain that his father hadn’t changed, likely couldn’t. 

“Malfoy?” Harry’s voice called his name. That made sense. It wasn’t supposed to though. Draco thought he might be holding his breath. His chest burned. 

A cool hand closed around his wrist. It was a pleasant upgrade of the extraordinarily intense contact he had with Potter when he’d initially arrived at Grimmauld Place, unaware he was already lost in falsehoods. 

“Draco!” Harry demanded, holding his wrist tighter as he nearly shouted his given name. It made sense, but it felt wrong; Potter was concerned. 

Granger was scowling already. 

“Something’s off,” Draco finally directed, feeling like he was waking up. “My father doesn’t worry.” He couldn’t explain it. 

“Well, have you ever gone missing for two weeks?” Harry offered 

“No, but we go months without speaking to one another.” 

“Maybe he heard about the concern of one of your co-workers, several of them-” Ronald started to rationalise. 

“He wouldn’t worry,” Draco insisted evenly, unsure how to explain without seeming like he was as entitled and privileged as he had always been. 

A pinched expression overtook Harry’s features, one Draco couldn’t ever remember seeing so very up close and so centred on himself. It was compassionate and full of concern and Draco would rather get lost in it than have to confront this unexplainable dread he felt from Granger’s announcement. 

“I thought you felt like you were taking advantage,” she reminded Potter accusingly, breaking the silence that had fallen while Potter worried. 

Draco glared indiscriminately; he was immediately upset with the lot of them. 

“I know, yes I said that, and honestly, Draco,” he responded to the scowling look of disapproval. “It does still feel like that, you know, after the fact.” 

“Just because you doubt yourself after-”

“ You shouldn’t trust yourself in the first place,” Granger interrupted, scornfully responding to Malfoy in Harry’s stead. 

“The point is, I keep feeling like that so it’s probably something I should try harder to listen to,” Harry followed her jab while frowning at her. 

“What about what I keep feeling?” Draco demanded. His blood had started to pound in his ears and with it came the need to be heard, to be considered and understood. 

“Harry, could you make some tea?” 

“Hermione-” 

“I want a brief word, that’s all. No casting, I promise.” 

“Fine,” Harry huffed guiltily as if his perceived crime bought her the right to this private discussion that was undoubtedly going to be about him. Ron took the implied hint and followed Harry out of the room. 

“I could learn to forgive you for being a coward,” she began, again, apropos of nothing. Her tone was precise and cutting. Draco crossed his arms, already deeply uncomfortable and ready to absolutely wallow in it. “In fact, I’ve already forgiven you for wanting to protect your terrible family as a foolish, ignorant child. I doubt I can forgive you for being a hateful purist because you could have changed earlier. You should have wanted to change sooner,” Hermione said and her voice shook before she was done speaking, the inherent scorn emphasising exactly what she wanted it to. “And it should have happened long before you attempted any of the truly awful tasks assigned to you. Even if you had your memories and Harry wanted a realistic version of you, I fear I would always need to question it, even if he brushed me aside repeatedly. I cannot forgive you for still having chosen to do nothing after watching people get hurt and die.”

She didn’t have to say she was one of those many people. They both knew it; it was the elephant trumpeting and stomping in the room every time they were together. “I’ll spend the rest of my life proving that I’ve changed,” Draco promised thickly. The sound of his own voice caused him significant concern; he abruptly realised he was terrified he may start crying in front of her. He had known nothing about Hermione Granger, about who she was when she wasn’t pretending to cleanly fit into the mould of tenacious swot, righteous warrior, or dutiful employee. She could be bitter, rightfully so, and she could be traumatised still. She was indignant with cause to be, and she was judgemental, brutally honest, and emotionally connected to her every verdict because she believed with every fibre of her being that she was right. And just as importantly, he was wrong. 

“You’d better,” she said sternly before mercifully turning away from him so he could catch his breath. “I hope it never feels like enough, then I’ll know it’s at least a genuine attempt.” She left and he let himself soak in the misery of redemption he’d convinced himself he didn’t want and would be damned if he ever thought he needed. She was right, it would be never ending. It was already too much, yet it felt nothing like the memory of his acceptance, a past that hadn’t happened and now seemed whimsical and just as farcical as Granger had found it to be initially. He respected her more now, knowing how different she was in reality, but he let himself hate her again, just a bit, for being right about everything. 

After a moment that he hoped was long enough for Granger and Ronald to have said their piece and left, he headed toward the kitchen stairs. He was relieved to have been right as the green light from the floo flashed brightly up at him. “Er- hey,” Harry said in that bashful way Draco was realising was the man demonstrating awkward fondness and concern. Draco hadn’t thought he’d ever see it, having not realised there was a need for such an expression. The odd man rubbed the nape of his neck and Draco let go of the breath he’d been holding to keep himself from breaking down in front of Granger. Harry looked briefly nonplussed before, “I hadn’t expected it to go great, but-” 

“Hot chocolate?” Draco interrupted unabashedly. He was far too tired to act like he could put up any pretence. 

Harry smiled lopsidedly in that way of his, but Draco noticed the high corner of his mouth didn’t get as high as it normally did. “I’m sorry,” he said and let the smile fall completely as he set about making Draco his beverage. 

“How absurd for you to feel guilty over mine and Granger’s discussion,” Draco commented, suppressing his own nerves from said discussion by turning his mouth into a subtle sneer. 

“I just meant in a general sense,” he said, looking guilty again and Draco hated that too. 

“How ridiculous for you to take responsibility for my general circumstances.” 

“I get that,” he huffed his annoyance, but Draco saw the low corner of his mouth get dragged up too. He moved about the stove in that automatic way that meant he was already lost in his own thoughts. 

“What are you thinking about?” 

“Erm, why?” Harry asked as he handed over a steaming mug. 

“I’m curious.” He smirked in a way he knew the other man could find challenging then took a drink of his cocoa. 

“It felt nice to be told that taking responsibility is ridiculous and my guilt is absurd.” 

“I’m sure people have told you as much before, maybe not as eloquently,” he drawled with forced poshness that he didn’t really feel. 

“Yea, but only when I was a kid and they thought I couldn’t do anything, now it feels like that’s a primary objective for me, to feel guilty and take responsibility to fix it. 

“You’ve proven yourself capable Potter; it’s a cross to bear.” 

He nodded as if that really made sense to him. “Well, I was also thinking Hermione doesn’t have to come over here to give us updates or new information. I could go over there or-” 

“Potter, stop.” 

“Well, it’s not fair to either of you to keep forcing interactions between you.” It hurt Draco to learn that Harry saw the relationship as a lost cause. He clearly didn’t know what to do with that hopelessness. “She could only come over if she has to get in your head again.” 

“It’s fine, Potter. I’ll do what I have to do until I don’t have to anymore.” 

“We don’t know how much longer this could all take. It could be weeks or months of this.” He reminded himself that even though he liked how Draco was now and was obviously falling for all these moments they kept having, it was a present that was transient and disconnected from the real version of their past, untethered to the reality they would have to return to. 

“I’m aware of that.” It felt like fatalism, but Draco didn’t know what else he had left to protect himself with. 

“I was also thinking that I should be more clear about how terribly I think it will end if we start something while you’re like this. Hermione’s right to be frustrated with me.” 

“Harry, can’t you let me have tonight’s kiss for a single night before ruining it?” 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again. 

“But you did, we have. Can’t we move forward rather than sweep it under a proverbial rug?” 

“It wasn’t right- not that I- It’s not okay for me to- I don’t want to have to put you up somewhere else. You seem comfortable here for the most part. Obviously, I think it’s best to keep you under a protective detail, but if it feels like too mixed a message, we can get you placed with a different auror, maybe a couple, in a safehouse somewhere.” 

“I wouldn’t want to be stuck anywhere else, and that includes my own flat, Potter.” They had gone back once, to watch Jacob on that Thursday and Draco had grabbed the Witch Weekly Harry had left in the sitting room. 

Harry remembered going back, how good Draco had been with the kid who still seemed slightly suspicious of Harry. He had asked when Draco would be coming back and was clearly disheartened when they couldn’t give him a real answer. Draco had seemed to feel that disappointment of not having an end in sight more acutely with the boy than he had at any other time at Number Twelve. It was a reminder to Harry that Malfoy had a life to get back to. “Aren’t you worried that you feel that way?” 

“No; I don’t think that’s the part of this that should be worrisome.”

“Then what is?” 

“I’m worried we’ve been missing out on something, for most of our lives.” He felt desperate, but he kept it from his declaration by using an even tone as if it were a casual observation. 

“I don’t understand why and how you’re not more concerned about that feeling; it could be just as implanted as your memories,” Potter pointed out, his voice rising and cracking from the strain and stress of fighting something Draco was certain he wanted. 

“Is that how you feel or is it what Granger told you to think?” he accused venomously. 

“It’s not like that,” Potter denied. “I know we shouldn’t act on any feelings we think might be here until we solve what’s happened to you, I’m sorry I keep forgetting how important that is.” He paused, looked uncomfortable and then continued. “Especially if we want any of it to be real.”

Draco felt like he was teetering on a very unstable edge. Potter wanted this but was too insufferable to think he could continue to explore it for no other reason than because he thought it went against some code of honour that Draco didn’t give a damn about. “What’s real to me is there has only been exactly one person who has ever understood me and I can no longer talk to him because he suddenly doesn’t exist now that I know he never did!” He forced the scream down and the effort of it made him wonder if his throat would tear. It was so right to feel furious! To have been this betrayed by someone he had believed in so infallibly; he was justified to feel this broken. 

“What could I possibly say to that?” Harry asked haplessly, looking lost and melancholy. 

Because he hadn’t known, he couldn’t know, and as much as Draco wanted to blame him, Potter hadn’t done this to him. “I shouldn’t expect you to understand. I apologise,” he said stiffly, standing from the table because he very suddenly wanted to be done talking about this. 

“I’m sorry learning that we don’t really know each other has ruined your life,” he said. His cadence practically dripped regret and Draco hated him for it a little bit once again. How dare he be so righteous and so understanding and still so untouchable? 

“It’s not that we don’t know eachother. Everything about me has always been so blatantly obvious!” Draco shouted. “But only to you! Do you know what that does to me? To feel like no one else knows me, no one else has ever been able to figure me out, aside from this one man who’s never liked me and wouldn’t ever bother to try after all the bad I’ve done?” His voice cracked and he hated that even more so he let the venom back in, let disdain drip from an accusation he didn’t want to be true, “I know you; you wouldn’t let yourself have this even if Granger gave you her blessing outright.” His face held a sneer as if he were cradling something precious; he couldn’t help it. It was instinctive and protective. 

“It’s not about her,” he insisted, imploringly. “It’s about this intensity you’ve been showing me: was it real? Can I trust it? How do I know when you get your memories back it won’t be taken away? It’s not just you that would lose something if I let this happen!” 

“All you’ve ever done is take from me while single handedly giving everyone else everything they ever needed.” Draco said, devastated. He was taken aback by how much it hurt that Potter not only wouldn’t trust him, but apparently couldn’t . He left the room without looking back, but announced from the stairs as he left, “The wizard we’re up against must be supremely powerful to have convinced me that you could ever do anything else. I won’t forget again.” 

Harry watched, speechless, as Malfoy disappeared up the stairs, unable to tell the man how much it hurt to suddenly feel fifteen again. The blond wasn’t understanding, didn’t care to hear the moral side of an argument, would blame Harry for any ill he chose, and Harry would suffer, driving himself mad wondering what Malfoy would do now, while being wholly unable to ask. 

Chapter Text

Over the next couple days they deftly avoided one another, however Malfoy did so with noticeably more intent. Harry didn’t demand he come down and eat; the blond knew when there would be food. Often, Harry was cleaning up as Draco came down to get his portion and would then sup in the drawing room instead with only a stiff thanks in return. Sometimes he would be finishing up a sandwich or leftovers when Harry came in to start preparing the next meal of the day and would then promptly leave, regardless of how much or how little he had eaten. 

Harry continued to go over the details of the case and Hermione’s plan. It stressed him to the point that, had it not been the weekend, he likely would have gone into work to harass her. He would have had to find someone else to guard Malfoy though and that seemed like an unfair assignment to spring on someone, especially during off duty hours. 

When next they spoke they began a similar fight. Which, if Harry was being honest with himself, he had purposely ramped up Malfoy to that same level. He hadn’t been able to get their last argument out of his head, thinking about all the things he supposedly took from Malfoy. What bothered him most when he thought about it was what the other man had said about Harry figuring him out and knowing him. It stung a bit because he vividly remembered laying awake at night trying to determine what the blond had been up to on many more than one occasion. He remembered knowing Malfoy’s plans before anyone else even accepted that the blond had been scheming, realising that more was going on with Draco when even Harry’s closest friends didn’t believe him. He doubted he’d ever be able to forget the image of Malfoy’s steps on the marauder’s map, or how wide the blond’s eyes got when seeing Harry unexpectedly, at school or at the manor. It was true, he had always been trying to know Malfoy, to learn about him, even if the motivation had been very different. 

“This is stupid,” Harry declared abruptly as once again, Draco set about leaving the hallway just because he’d walked into it. It appeared they had both been headed toward the larger, shared bathroom. 

“Oh, is it?” he drawled, that one damned eyebrow threatening to raise in dramatic fashion at Harry’s outburst. 

“Yes, you can’t keep avoiding me; we’re going to have to work together on this once Hermione’s finished with what she’s working on.” 

“Yes, of course; what is that again and when will it be done?” He asked evenly, nearly politely. 

Harry huffed and gritted his teeth, trying to think of a retort that would tell the blond nothing. 

“As I suspected,” Malfoy said in what was clearly an accusatory tone. “So in the interim, we can avoid one another. I don’t understand why you’re so bothered by it. You don’t want to get along, not really; if you did, you wouldn’t make up reasons why we shouldn’t get along as well as we obviously could.” 

“You’ll regret being like that with me when your memories are restored and I don’t want you to resent me because of it. I’m not making anything up,” Harry insisted. 

He sounded so certain and it was the confidence that bothered Draco so much. Potter was just so sure that he would be a pissed off prick of a man the second he got his memories back. But Draco couldn’t believe it, he wouldn’t, not when he could see and feel so much evidence to the contrary. “The only reason I’ve ever resented you, the only reason I ever could again, is through rejection. If you don’t want me to resent you, you should quit this back and forth; stop playing with me while I’m trapped here with you.” 

“You want to really talk about resentment?” Harry challenged, realising Draco was throwing his own sentiment back into his face, after all he’d admitted to himself, after all he’d allowed despite his better judgement. “You think that this has been easy for me? I decided to dedicate myself to this, I don’t feel trapped because I willingly gave up everything else I could be doing so I could focus on you, so I could help you, Malfoy!” 

He hated hearing him use his surname as if Harry were scolding him. “Learn from our past, Potter,” he spat his name like he had at school, but could feel there was no real venom in it. “Otherwise we’ll wind up nearly killing each other in this bathroom.” He gestured to the door between them. 

Harry still couldn't get over the fact that Malfoy thought him such a bastard. After all this time, even after having memories of loving Harry implanted. How could anyone have ever thought the foundation to a successful plot was to have them in an assumed relationship? It was farcical. Yet he didn’t find it at all funny, which was why the question tormenting him fell from his mouth, sounding like he was entitled to the answer he demanded rather than confront the barbaric statement Malfoy used just to get a rise out of him. 

“What have I taken from you then? If I’ve always been so terrible, enlighten me,” he prodded, ignoring the memory of a rapidly paling Malfoy laying on tiled floor. 

“You really don’t think you’ve done anything wrong?” 

“I never said that. Everyone’s wrong at some point. I’m not perfect, not a saint, ” Harry sneered pointedly. “What did I take from you?” 

Malfoy paused thoughtfully as though he was pleased the topic had come back around and Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from sniping further. “You took hope from me.” 

“What?” Harry asked, aghast and immediately incredulous at the ridiculous and hyperbolic accusation. 

“I’d hoped you’d be my friend,” he responded plainly, as if it were simple and reasonable.

“I took one entitled expectation and a handshake from you, then,” Harry attempted to correct the misinterpretation.  

“And every handshake that could have followed. Every conversation we never got to have. I reminisced often about my loss,” Draco elaborated, embellishing a bit for dramatic effect. He wasn’t lying, he had of course obsessed about how things could have been different. He had always thought about the different paths his life could have taken, even though he was convinced he’d gone the only direction he ever would have. “I fantasised about how everything could have been different; how the war could have gone, how I could have changed if only we’d become friends instead of nemeses.” He’d more often had angsty projections about how powerful he and his family could have been if Potter hadn’t been on Dumbledore’s side, but that admission wouldn’t win this argument so he kept it to himself. “Those daydreams were all you left me with and all it did was foster my resentment.” 

Harry was perturbed by the accusation and took a moment to answer. He couldn’t bring himself to believe the sentiment in full, but Malfoy didn’t seem as though he were lying. He at least believed what he was saying, so Harry didn’t feel comfortable calling him out on such a bold declaration. “Then at most, I took one friendship from you, whatever the consequences. And by the way, I’m a bad friend, so really, you should be grateful.” 

“I’m sure your friends would disagree with you.” 

“Of course they would! They’re good friends. They don’t let themselves ruminate about how often I nearly got them killed on a regular basis because I involved them in all my bullshit!” Harry elaborated, his voice rising and his fists clenching. 

“Well, you personally almost killed me once and I never even got a lousy handshake!” 

“It wasn’t my fault you and your family picked the wrong side, Malfoy!” Harry shouted defensively, shaking at the persistent memory of Hogwarts’ bathroom tiles flooding with blood. 

“No, of course not,” he looked away before continuing to speak. As though the secret hope had been real and it hurt Harry to realise he could believe it, even if it was after the fact. “Do you think I was so steadfast in my convictions that a true friend, an outsider with reasonable views of muggles and a knack for honesty whom I was infatuated with could have persuaded me to quit the losing side. . . If only he’d tried?” Malfoy asked, thoughtful, piercing eyes returning to bore into him. 

Harry knew he was trying to hurt him, by making him question himself. Draco had always seemed to know exactly which switches released the insecurities he desperately tried to ignore in himself. “Maybe you shouldn’t have given into being a nemesis so easily. One spurned handshake doesn’t make a villain.” 

“Do you think me a villain then?”

“No, but you used to lean into that because it was easier to hate me than to admit you could have been better.” 

He froze, briefly, as if he’d been slapped, but recovered in a second. “Piss off, Potter,” he said before shoving rudely past Harry to head to his room. 

Harry knew Malfoy was wrong and that he’d won the argument, so he didn’t understand why he felt so much worse off because of it. 

Draco didn’t come out of his room for a day and he wasn’t surprised that Potter let him wallow and starve. He did feel as though it was warranted, not that he necessarily deserved it, but he’d made his bed and was allowed to lay in it. He still drank water, he had a tap in his room and did get thirsty, but there was no appetite to even rail against. He felt only exhaustion, as tired as he had been when he’d first shown up at Number Twelve, only now that damp cold was an internal frost that he nursed reluctantly. 

He couldn’t say he was sorry; it wasn’t enough while simultaneously not being something he could sincerely mean. He had felt everything he’d said to Potter while releasing in hindsight that some of it shouldn’t have been known. On the second day he came out only for lunch when he heard Potter go out to the backyard. On the third day he tried for a sneaky breakfast, thinking it was early enough that the man wouldn’t be in the kitchen. He’d been wrong and had taken the tea offered with an averted gaze after grabbing leftovers from the previous night’s dinner he had missed. He also went down again in the evening when he heard Potter go to the backyard once more. He lurked and realised the man was spending time in his shed. On the fourth day, Draco realised he was being a coward, but was no closer to apologising or moving forward. In fact, the recognition made him lose any appetite he’d regained and he sulked in his rooms, mostly laying in bed, thinking about nothing with great intention. 

“Malfoy, I need to talk to you,” Harry said into the dark grain of his recalcitrant housemate’s door nearly a week after their fight. 

“So speak,” came the blond’s answer from inside. 

“I want- er it should really be a face to face conversation.” He heard a heavy, exaggerated sigh and then footsteps so he leaned back from the door a bit. 

“What is it, Potter?” He asked as he opened the door, before even making eye contact. He looked paler than usual and a bit thin. 

Harry could have winced just from the stilted, aloof tone, but to see Malfoy looking nearly as unhealthy as he had when he first showed up was worse. It felt like they had lost all ground between them and it didn’t sit well with him. He repressed his discomfort though, they had business to tend to. 

“Hermione’s done, so we need to be heading to the Ministry.”

“What exactly is it that she’s finally finished?” With more than three words uttered, Harry realised there was a dry, gravelly tone to Malfoy’s voice, as if from disuse or abuse, he couldn’t tell. He wondered if the blond had screamed or cried when he’d realised Harry was in the shed and had more privacy. He began to speculate about how loud one would have to be for him to have heard noise in the house or if the blond had cast muffliato recently. 

“Well, she used a lot of the information from the experiments we did here and some of the magic from the artefacts I handed over and then did a lot of her own work with runes and Merlin knows what else to make a device that should really clear some things up for us.”

“And why do we have to go to the ministry for it?” 

“It can’t leave the department,” Harry said vaguely because he truly did not know the specifics of the project she had been working on, she’d only made it clear that there was no way for them to do it anywhere other than the Department of Mysteries. 

“I didn’t know mind healers had such strict rules,” he commented sceptically, clearly sensing there was more to the announcement. 

“Erm, well, they er- they don’t. It’s in the Department of Mysteries because she’s actually an Unspeakable,” finally telling Malfoy the truth felt like releasing a valve of some kind, all the pressure and tightness from constantly evading the truth just released from him in one giant, nearly tangible whoosh of relief. Though it didn’t last long after Harry took in Draco’s expression.  

He was stunned, shocked and possibly horrified, from the look of his wide eyes and round, open mouth. The expression quickly turned to outrage. "She's an Unspeakable?! And we've been letting her into my head? Those people are broken, Potter! Empty and depraved! It's practically a job requirement for them to lose their sense of empathy and she understandably didn't have any for me to start with!" 

"Oh, you're going to lecture me and Hermione on empathy?" Harry asked, indignant. He reminded himself it was rightfully so despite never having been a huge fan of her career. He’d supported her, of course, but it was clandestine to the point that on some occasions she even avoided talking about it to him and more pointedly to Ron. 

"Harry, she's-" 

"Don't! Don't talk to me like you and I are closer than me and her. We're not anywhere near it, Malfoy," he reminded the blond more sternly than he would have intended, had he considered the matter for even a second before speaking. He abruptly realised that even though Malfoy had been the one to retreat, he wasn’t over their argument either. 

"Of course,” Draco acquiesced stiffly, misleadingly, because he recognised their fighting and not speaking over the last several days had done more damage than he’d thought. “So you know what she's been working on lately, before all this? You know the degree of experimentation to which Unspeakables are encouraged? You feel confident she's told you everything she knows about this area of magic?" He proposed the questions leadingly, as if they were hypotheticals because he was sure what Potter’s answers would be. Unspeakables didn’t talk about their work, and with good reason; it was often controversial to say the least. More often than not it was disturbing and ambitious to a fault. 

"Of course she has," he replied too quickly, defensively, clearly avoiding addressing any but the last question Draco had presented. 

"What has she told you? Why don't we know anything yet? She has to have at least partial answers with access to that kind of unfettered, unregulated knowledge, so either you're lying to me or she's hiding things from you!" He felt certain about this and needed Harry to open his eyes to the dangers he clearly ignored in favour of trusting his friend. 

“I couldn’t tell you before now,” Harry elaborated, feeling that Malfoy’s true upset was not at her career, but at having only just now been informed. “She wasn’t sure she’d be able to get it functional so she asked that I held off just in case there was never any reason to complicate things by letting you know.” 

“Never any reason? Again, Potter, we’ve been letting her dig into my head, and I was under the impression she was a qualified professional!” 

“She is! She always has been, she just got bored with healing magic and wanted to do more; the DoM had an opening. You probably still shouldn’t know, but you kind of have to now that we’ve got to go there. I didn’t keep it from you to hurt you, it was just protocol, it’s not personal.”

“You simply don’t understand then; it’s absolutely personal! Everything has been personal between us, since long before I showed up on your stoop and it’s only gotten worse, because of course it has! You’re hurting me so much more by not telling me how your life really is in a misdirected effort to spare my feelings and to keep some professional distance between us. All I’ve ever wanted was to know you and now you’re actively keeping not just personal things, but massively important information from me when I need to be able to trust you!” 

Harry felt taken aback and he could tell it showed from the way tension seemed to syphon off the blond. “I’m sorry, Draco,” he said earnestly. “But we should get going. She’s expecting us.” 

“Of course,” he drawled, but Harry saw the way a tendon in his jaw flexed. He was still upset, obviously, but he was also genuinely scared. 

The walk through the ministry left Draco’s nerves a wreck. He felt jittery and weak as soon as they left the floo and stepped into the atrium. The promise of answers pulled him along though, and Harry led him confidently toward a Department that Draco thought probably should have been defunded after the war was over. 

“I’ve made inroads on some of the artefacts,” Granger began to explain as soon as they entered her office. “I focused more on the ones that elicited a response like the glass and the rods. I dismantled them, a very risky, complicated business, separating their magic, and I’ve infused it into a room of my own construct. I’ve reinforced it with runes and other powerful spells. Once I’ve tuned to Malfoy in particular, we’ll all step inside to see what answers we can find.” 

“So I’m to walk in and you’ll just shut me in there, casting whatever you see fit at the door behind me to ‘tune’ it?” 

“Yes,” she answered stiffly. “Unless you have a better idea?” 

He didn’t, his only idea was to leave but that wouldn’t give them answers and she knew that. He sighed and it was meant to be frustrated but it felt shaky. He looked at Harry to see a downward slant to the man’s mouth and was pleased. He should be concerned and uncomfortable. 

Draco opened the door and the handle was warm. He stepped inside and the room was silent, but in a thick, heavy way that felt like expectation. The door shut behind him and he jumped, immediately relieved he’d had to go in al;one so no one had seen his nervous display. He heard scratching on the other side of the door that was minorly upsetting but he didn’t have much time to consider what Granger was doing before he was suddenly overwhelmed by what felt like waves of air, magic undulated in a rhythm that didn’t leave room for him to breathe and soon he felt as though he were drowning in an empty room. The walls and floors swirled with inky ripples and coils, whirlpools of dark blue light that barely glowed enough for him to see the shadows smothering him. He fell to his knees under the nonexistent pressure and expected his hands to sink into the liquid like apparitions warping the floor but he felt the blessedly solid, strangely warm, very real construct of the floor beneath him. 

Abruptly the movement and the magic stopped, the room was flooded with a large rectangle of more natural light and he heard Potter’s voice. “Draco?” he sounded cautious, but not overly concerned and since Draco had just caught his breath, he found he could be annoyed by that. 

“Why didn’t you tell me the room would try to suffocate me?” 

“Suffocate you?” Harry asked, reaching out to help him to his feet. Part of him wanted to ignore the gesture, even slap away the outstretched hand, but mostly he was grateful that Potter decided to show concern once again, after all they’d recently said to one another. 

“How could I have known?” Granger answered evenly. “The connection is between you, the room, and the magic affecting you.” 

“You had no idea what it would do to me and you shoved me in here anyway?” 

“You walked in of your own volition, Malfoy. I knew what I needed to know, the room’s spells would do what it needed in order to bond with the magic that’s been done to you.” 

“What if you hadn’t opened the door in time?” 

“I opened the door when the room was finished acclimating to your presence. It was never going to hurt you,” she chided him as if the magic she’d set up hadn’t literally knocked him off his feet. 

“Are you sure this is safe, Hermione?” Potter asked. 

“It’s as safe as it can be,” she responded, sounding slightly annoyed. “Now, Malfoy, think about the two weeks you were missing.” The room remained calm aside from the floor beginning to rush and swirl underfoot. It was starting to make Harry feel a bit nauseous. 

She dragged her wand across the wall beside her, while staring at the one on the far side of the room. She seemed to be writing a series of runes that looked vaguely familiar to Harry even though he had no idea why he thought that. 

Draco tore his gaze away from her and stared at the same wall, squinting his eyes in concentration. Abruptly, it was like falling, it was an abyss, colourless, shifting, swirling nothingness that seemed endless. The door disappeared in the chaos and Draco started to panic that they wouldn't find their way out through the whipping sensation that seemed timeless and eternal. He wondered how such a state could even exist in him and he felt that stuttery, anxious feeling rustle at the back of his skull. 

“Malfoy!” Granger shouted at him. 

“I’m trying!” he shouted back at her and then a scene formed from the movement and magic to surround them. It was Ronald again, what else could he be expected to show her after all the intrusions? 

It was before his mother had died, but after they had started having lunch together. That much he could tell and that was about it. “Most of the time, I still can’t believe this, Malfoy. Sometimes I still don’t trust it. I was poisoned by a poorly executed plan of yours; some things take time, and some things haunt you, even with time. I know you didn't mean for it to be me, but for all I knew at the time, you also didn’t give a damn when it was,” he paused, expectantly. 

Draco had to look away. “I cared later, after everything, some things were easier to let myself forget than others. The three of you were good at haunting.” 

Ronald sighed heavily, as if he had truly accepted that there was nothing to be done for it. 

“Not that, focus,” Hermione instructed, scowling. 

The swirling, rushing waves of darkness and darkly glowing blue shifted again, around them, washing away the scene and disorienting them once more. Harry thought for a brief, panicked moment that Malfoy had disappeared in the flurry of motion and magic but he reappeared as soon as another scene began to take shape. They then saw another, bedraggled Draco on Harry’s stoop, and Harry realised the runes she had cast had reminded him of the ones he’d seen carved into pensives. The room was like a pensive and yet it was very obviously much more than that. There was a direct connection to Draco, not just to his memory but to his thoughts, to his person and his energy. A brisk wind tore through the memory and Harry felt a coldness so severe it was as though his clothes were wet. He watched the memory of Malfoy shiver as he raised his hand and his sleeve fell to reveal horrid purple bruises Harry had forgotten had looked so bad. He rubbed his own wrist, a ghost of a feeling of pressure he must have been empathising with all too much. 

Hermione again dragged her wand along the wall in an even more convoluted symbol and the scene around them began to rewind, Draco's fist dropped from the door. 

Suddenly, they saw a Draco in the middle of the room, which was the burrow’s living room; he was playing with Victoire. 

“That’s not real, focus on what could have been happening in reality.” 

“I can't!” 

“This is a facade, focus on what’s underneath!” 

“There’s nothing else, Granger, It's gone!” 

Harry felt as unsettled by the blond’s tone as he did the proclamation. Those two weeks couldn’t be gone, the blond hadn’t actually ceased to exist. There had to be some imprint of reality still there, some faint remnant of the time that had passed, and some memory of the culprit who had done this to him. 

“It’s not gone, you’re just not seeing it. Think about something else, something you don’t think you remember.” Malfoy raised a dramatic eyebrow and didn’t have to express the folly he found in such a demand. She huffed and reworded her demand, “Go back to your earliest memory.”

Draco was so small and still his steps were confident. He was in the garden with his mother. He was happy, but they could see Narcissa was clearly preoccupied. 

“This is the earliest? Your first memory?” 

“Yes, Granger, do you want to tell me I’m lying about that somehow?”

“In fact,” she said with the confidence and joy of her younger self correcting another student. “I want to show you you’re lying.” She drew the same symbol and Draco and his mother walked backward into the house at an increasing speed. They re-entered a room with Lucius Malfoy in it and words were exchanged at a pace too brisk to even guess at the content. But Hermione traced the pattern backward and the scene froze before playing out in front of them at normal speed.  

“ . . . worse than your mother!” Lucius Malfoy finished yelling as he wobbled a bit on unsteady feet before allowing himself to collapse into an intimidating high-backed, winged leather armchair in front of a cold, dark fireplace. 

“I will not be spoken to like that. If you weren’t so embarrassingly drunk,” Narcissa drawled with biting venom in her tone, “you could have remembered that before making a fool out of yourself in front of our son.” She turned briskly away from him and Draco’s father’s face flushed but more significant and alarming was the moisture that accumulated behind his bright, hard eyes. “Come Draco.” His mother called and he followed without hesitation. They headed in the direction of the door that led to the garden but the tiny blond boy spoke. Harry’s chest tightened at the sound of such a worried, high pitched voice. 

“Do you hate him?” 

“Of course not. I love him dearly. Which is one reason I will eventually forgive him.”

“What are the others?”

She smiled at him. “Forgiving someone you love, who loves you back, is one of the kindest and most powerful things you can do, dragon.” 

“How?” 

“The power you have over someone seeking forgiveness because they know they’ve made a mistake is the power to cause pain, sadness, all manner of awfulness because they need it. Giving that to them is to say that you see their desperation.” 

“Does it make him weak?” 

“No, it makes him repentant, which is sometimes all we can ask for.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he may make the same mistake again.” The two of them entered the garden where Draco had remembered them, the young version of himself moving on quickly to be delighted by the flowers and butterflies of Spring, already unaware his mother was still thinking about a moment in the past he wouldn't even remember.  

It was memory; it ceased to exist when he didn’t think about it. But it had really happened, and he could see it now over and over if he stayed focused. It was real and was in his head now. That was how it worked. Except when it didn’t. He wondered if some part of him had always known his mother felt that way, if her sentiment had been subconsciously driving him forward, especially recently after losing her, after realising he wanted more . 

He risked eye contact with Granger and saw her scowl had deepened despite being able to have shown him he was wrong. She seemed to swipe the wall more than drag her wand this time and the room around them shifted once more. 

The memory of Harry comforting him when his mother died began to form. He recognised it immediately, but wondered if he’d ever actually seen Harry's office and desk. He watched himself shake as tears streamed down his face and Harry wrapped his arms around him. 

“This didn’t happen,” he said. 

“That’s right,” Granger sounded pleased. “Show us what really happened, this day?” 

“I don’t know, I don’t know what day this is supposed to be,” he realised in this room he could feel how untethered it was, how the memory seemed to exist outside of time. “I know it was Ronald who comforted me when my mother passed and it was at the manor, not the ministry. But I don’t remember that.” 

“How do you know it then?” 

“He told me, when we took a walk that night you came over.” 

“Try to remember it then,” she said begrudgingly. She had to believe that it was real because Weasel had been the one to say it happened. He tried, he thought about the words the ginger had used, about the scene that had to have been unfolding in his father’s study as Ronald had left him to his grief. The room shifted and he felt a brief glimmer of hope before the scene solidified into a street lamp lit night in Islington. He could remember only the conversation about the memory.  

Hermione swiped at the wall again and Harry could tell she was getting frustrated. “How did you get past the Fidelius Charm?” She interrogated the blond who was starting to slump and look a bit sallow. 

The room shifted, a copy of Harry in a bar he didn’t recognise was looking flush and leaning in very close to Draco. 

He slid a paper serviette across the table with his address at Grimmauld Place on it. “I want you to visit me, it doesn’t have to be tonight-” 

“I’d love for it to be tonight.” 

It stopped, “No,” Granger said with her wand on the wall, “Remember what really happened, it wouldn’t have been years ago, it was weeks ago, focus!” 

“You could manually steer this show when we were in my head and you couldn’t find it. What makes you think you can direct us to the right place now?” 

“Because I think there was something about the magic specifically preventing me from finding it. You have to do this, Malfoy. Put in the work, Focus.” 

He tried, he really did. He thought about how he could know, who could have possibly told him. 

Suddenly Ron was on the wall again. He was with Harry, sitting in a big leather booth in the corner of the bar Harry had taken Draco to via flying motorbike. 

“You keep staring, mate.” 

“Er, sorry.” 

“Is that blond guy up to something?” Ron asked with a strange tilt to his mouth, as if he were trying not to poke fun. 

“What? Er, no. I was just thinking about my last spectacular failure at attempting a relationship.” He’d started stabbing the ice in his nearly empty drink. 

Hermione took advantage of the pause in dialogue, “Was Malfoy anywhere near you two this night?” 

“Not that I know of,” Harry said, his voice stiff from embarrassment. Why did it have to have been a blond? He hadn’t thought of Malfoy when he’d started fancying his coworker and he certainly hadn’t been thinking of the man during this outing with Ron. There had been plenty of other attractive men he’d fancied slightly with brown hair, or black, even a red-head who’d wanted to dance with him one very drunken night. 

The memory of Ron continued talking after a moment of considering the memory of Harry. Draco watched, fascinated he was apparently remembering something he’d never seen. 

“I could go up there, tell him you need another drink, but I’ve got to head out?” 

“God, no, he doesn’t know me, he’s just some random, albeit attractive bloke at a bar.” 

“Maybe he’d like to know you; he’s looked this way a couple times. Doubt he’s looking at me.” 

The memory of Harry took a long moment to look uncomfortable before speaking again. “Did you give your address to that guy, Harry?” Hermione again capitalised on the Memory Harry’s hesitance. 

“What? No,” Harry denied as he felt his face flush with warmth and the memory of him finally responded to his best mate. “We’re in a muggle bar, Ron.” 

“I never even knew his name, I mean, I never approached him.” 

“I’d noticed,” Memory Ron commented, sounding bored and a little toasted. 

“I know wizards do- and obviously, I’m not against it, but I don't think I could start out a relationship on a lie like that.” 

“Do we have to keep watching?” Harry asked, his discomfort increasing with every word his past self spoke. He’d thought of the Dursley’s knowing that magic had existed but never telling him. He’d known he’d never be able to do that to a partner, even if the reasoning behind the withholding of such information would be very different for him. 

“Maybe it doesn't have to be a relationship yet,” Memory Ron interjected. 

“I should find out why and how this is being shown to us, if I miscalculated, if you're interfering somehow. . .” Hermione continued to study the room they were in, apparently trying to make out every face in the room. She even walked up to the wall, a flat surface that somehow held dimensions, the longer she stayed near the impossible depths of the memory the more Harry’s stomach struggled with the feeling of vertigo. He stuck his hands under his glasses to rub his eyes as he heard her wand start to drag and tap against the surface. 

“It took me years to build up to what I had with Ginny,” Memory Harry elaborated, sounding sullen. “And hours, cumulatively, days stuck together in life or death situations with Stephen. I’m not into anything less than a real relationship. I just wish one would work out.” 

“Hermione?” Harry said, nearly pleading, looking at himself moping, still glancing furtively at the attractive blond at the bar while mourning the loss of the relationship he’d had with his co-worker. 

Draco stopped it, he didn’t know how really, but Granger turned to glare at him, which made it clear she hadn’t been done analysing the night of Potter’s chagrin. 

“I wasn’t there Granger, I’d never been to that bar before Potter took me,” he defended. 

“He took you there?” She asked and it already sounded like an accusation. 

“Yea, well, we were bored, we’d been cooped up for weeks, Hermione. I wanted to ride Sirius’ bike so we went and got dinner. Malfoy tried a muggle drink, that’s all that happened there.” Draco was pleased he left out the connection of that night being the same night Potter confessed to his friends about their kiss. “It’s not the answer to how he got past the Fidelius.”

"Then how do I know it?" Draco asked, irritable because he was confused. Harry continued to furrow his brow in silence. 

“Maybe I should ask Ron about that night?” he offered. 

“That sounds like a good place to start. I need to work on this room, but it won’t be tonight. I can take Malfoy back to number Twelve. We’re done for now.” 

Harry looked at Draco and saw him nod nearly imperceptibly. Still feeling uneasy, they took separate floos from the ministry and Harry headed to the Den. 

He loved Ron and Hermione’s home. It was clean and bright in a way that Number Twelve simply could never be. It was always warm and always smelled of Vanilla or Lavender or some other, soft inoffensive scent. Things had their places and tended to be returned there; Harry was always impressed with how well they kept up after the whirlwinds that were their children. The kids were already in bed and Ron was in the kitchen, working on a late, second dinner for Hermione when Harry arrived. 

“Should I double the recipe?” he asked, food being the first concern. 

“Nah, I doubt I’m staying, Hermione was taking Malfoy back home- well, er, I mean to my home.” 

Ron raised a furrowed brow but didn’t comment further so Harry plowed ahead and told him about the memory Malfoy shouldn’t have had. 

"I never told him all that, mate; I swear it. Might have implied certain aspects, after he’d already been tampered with, but he wasn’t there, how does he know what I was saying, what you were doing?” he questioned, sounding concerned. “He wasn’t there,” he insisted again. 

“Well, if that’s the case then Hermione thinks it might be the room. She said she’ll have to put some more work into it to make sure I wasn’t interfering somehow.” 

“Oh, I guess we’ll see what she comes up with, then.” He turned back to the stove and Harry stood there, feeling displaced. “Something else bothering you?”  

He took the time to tell Ron about everything else they’d seen in the room. 

“So what’s the problem?” 

“What if it really is gone? The memory of those two weeks?” 

“Maybe it’s for the best? Couldn’t have been pleasant.” 

“But that means our biggest clue is a dead end.” 

“Well, maybe there’s more to Malfoy than the memory. You’ve already gotten a lot of progress from his magic, and you’ve seemed to be able to rule some stuff out from what he does remember. Maybe you should focus less on what’s happened and think more about where it’s going to go from here.” 

“But I don’t know-”

“Yea, I know you don’t, that’s why I said you’ll have to think about it. I didn’t say it was an easy alternative. If we could just look in that blond head and see the answer, maybe we’d’ve done it already. I won’t tell Hermione I think she should give up trying, she thinks there’s still a chance and I wouldn’t bet against her, but maybe you should go about it from a different angle. Not put all our mandrakes in one pot, right?” 

“I guess,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, yea, you’re right. We’ll figure it out.” 

“That’s the spirit,” he affirmed, clapping him brusquely on the shoulder. “Sure you don’t want to stay for supper? You could bring Malfoy?” 

Doubting that would go over well with Hermione, Harry politely declined, said goodbye and apparated just before the Den’s floo turned green. 

However, as Draco had stepped toward the ministry’s floo with Granger, there had been a pit in his stomach, a heavy stone of weight that seemed to grow with each step. He wanted to leave the ministry, he wanted to curl up in Grimmauld Place and be done for the day, but his feet seemed to grow heavier with each step. He didn’t want to see more things from his memory that he hadn’t known were there, who knows what kind of horrors he could have repressed? And he certainly didn’t want to try and fail to find things he knew should be there but no longer appeared to be. But he felt drawn to that room in the Depart of Mysteries regardless. 

When they stepped out of the hearth at Number Twelve, Draco tried to tell Granger as much. She waved it away, explaining that she had designed the room to specifically cater to his mind so of course there would be some attachment. 

“Do you really think you can get it to show the answers we need?” 

“Well, that depends a lot on you and a not insignificant amount on exactly how you came upon all this information that apparently no one has given you.”

“What does that mean exactly?” 

“There’s too much you couldn’t possibly know, the Fidelius, that memory of Ron and Harry, my watch, things about Harry’s home, about his work.” 

Draco didn’t appreciate the implication that he was still somehow involved. “Well, I apparently didn’t know anything about your work, even after agreeing to let you poke round inside my head. That seems rather convenient.” 

“What is it you think you’re implying?” 

“How can I trust you?” Just because Potter still did, didn’t mean Draco could. Besides, Potter had a habit of trusting people who cared about him just enough and Draco knew Granger didn’t care about him at all. 

“How can you trust me ?” she asked, incredulous and indignant. 

“It’s just as likely that you're behind this as I am. Since you’ve been helping with it, we haven’t gotten anywhere,” he accused without any real conviction. He didn’t know how it could be, but was certain he could no longer rule it out. He felt he had to worry that something else was going on. 

“I could still say the same about you; we haven’t found any definitive evidence that confirms you’re innocent in all this. Besides, I hate everything about how this has played out, I wouldn’t have orchestrated such a thing, but perhaps you would have. What if you really are a worse person than you remember?”

“My journals don’t-”

“Did you journal everyday? How much of it was telling the story of your life versus how much of it was looking inward? How much could Draco Malfoy really truthfully admit in writing?” 

“Did you read-”

“Of course not,” she bristled at the insinuation, which Draco thought a bit dramatic considering the things she must have done without regards to privacy as an Unspeakable. “ I simply remember who you are, Malfoy, and I know how practised you are at telling stories to make yourself look good. What if how bad you really are, the thoughts you can’t confess aloud, the ideas and feelings you only let yourself know about, what if all that is just something else you forgot?” 

“I don’t feel like that anymore,” he insisted stiffly. She was too insightful, too good at insinuating the worst. 

“That’s my point.” 

“No I mean I don’t feel like I was that person, I feel like someone who grew from that a while ago.” 

“And what if that’s just from the spell? If you really do feel that empathy now, don’t you agree that putting Harry through this kind of . . . attachment when you’ll just be reverting back to that dishonest, conniving person is wrong?” She posited as if she were being reasonable. 

“I don’t think I lied to myself in my journals, those were for me, not for anyone else to be impressed with any embellishments. I’ve always known how unimpressive I really am despite any and all indications I thought otherwise,” he admitted to her even though it pained him. 

“You’re telling me that your journals include a factual and humble, honest retelling of your time at Hogwarts, your part in the war after?” She asked with thick layers of both incredulity and scepticism folding into sharp angles in her voice. 

“I don’t want to tell you anything about my very personal writing processes but no, of course not. I had convinced myself that I had to be like that, had to do those things, for my parents, for my reputation, other inane reasons and rationalisations and my entries from that time reflected that. But later, as an adult, as someone trying to be more that the sacrificial pawn in a game played mostly by people with no interest in my survival, I revisited old regrets on days when the memories weighed more heavily on me than when I was a deluded, terrified, indoctrinated teenager. As an ostracised, and shamed adult I have learned to look inward, whether I wanted to or not. At least in short stints; it’s not ever been pleasant.” 

“Okay, so you brought those poisonous inward machinations and inclinations wrapped in helpless packaging, to Harry. Harry who is arguably one of the least deserving people for such a burden.” 

“I didn’t though, I didn’t do this !” he practically hissed. He knew he was getting defensive because she was getting under his skin. He’d had the same depressing suspicions about himself before, but Potter had convinced him he was being self deprecating to a ridiculous degree. He had realised with the other man’s help that of course he hadn’t done it to himself; everything he knew about himself solidified his belief in his own innocence. Besides if Potter could believe it, then how could he doubt it and why was she still so convinced they were both wrong? 

“How can you be absolutely certain of that when you don’t remember?” 

“I’ve always felt what I was doing,” he elaborated, desperate to convince her still and hating himself for it. “I leaned into it when I needed the armour, the camouflage, the perceived safety in numbers and a supposed shared ideology. If I was scheming, I would feel it, I remember what that feels like!” He made an effort to calm himself. “You don't forget that kind of insecurity, that desperation, the intrinsic need to succeed.” 

Draco watched her pause and furrow her brow with an uncertain kind of surprise. He almost had himself convinced she understood and maybe even sympathised with him. “I’ll bet you wished you could.” She said with certainty and a lifted chin. “I’ll bet it would have been easy for someone who felt like that to jump at the opportunity to forget everything else. Do you find comfort in not remembering? Doesn’t that sound like something you would be willing to scheme for considering who you were and who you claim to have become?” 

“I remember all the worst things,Granger,” he responded acerbically, as his nails bit into the tender flesh of his palms. 

“I’m sure the people you helped hurt remember them much more vividly.”

“I know it’s easy to believe that, subjectively, it may even be true,” he paused, not sure how much he really wanted her to know because he wasn’t convinced he could make her care about any of it. “After you all escaped my home, liberating prisoners right under my nose, with my wand, as bad as my punishment was, as long as it lasted, I never stopped hearing your screams superimposed over my own.” 

“My- over- your punishment-?” she faltered and it felt like finding a chink in her armor. 

“You think those monsters were any more considerate, any more lenient or forgiving of those who had sworn allegiance? You think we weren’t all terrified of Voldemort and the pets he kept like his snake and Fenrir? Disrespect and disobedience was expected from the heroes pulled off the battlefield and taken by force, but it was entirely unforgivable from the minions he demanded remain loyal and underfoot. As much as I suffered, I was one of the luckier ones, at least I lived.” He heard the self-deprecating undercut his tone and couldn’t help it; sometimes he could still be so bitter about what he’d put himself through. 

“Isn’t it easier to believe yourself to be a victim?” she asked with narrowed eyes. 

“Only the victor of a terrible war could ask such a counter intuitive thing.” 

“ We were the ones victimised by that war, a war fueled by your hateful ideology!” 

“You were, of course, absolutely, and it wasn’t easy, was it? Furthermore, you had the courage and morality you needed to stand up against what was objectively wrong. You had something just and righteous driving you to seize opportunity and victory. You rose above all the worst things to become the winners, the writers of history, the heroes . There are victims in every facet of war, some deserving obviously, but aside from Potter, you lot can’t even wallow because at least you won and you know it. Even Weasel-” 

“You don't get to call him that like you’re friends while simultaneously discussing the trauma you helped to inflict on him!” 

“It’s a pet name by this time, he doesn’t care-” he noticed she was clenching her fists and her knees had locked, her cheeks had darkened with a furious flush. “Oh, I see; it’s not even about him. Do you hate it as much when he calls me Ferret or is that something he does just for my benefit, only in private? Because he uses it, Granger. All. The. time.” 

He once again had the experience of never seeing it coming. He didn’t understand how she could be so quick and still impact his face with enough force to knock him to the ground. 

He leaned up on one elbow, pressing his already wet cheek with the other. “How honest are you when you journal, Granger? I can't help wondering if you’re not a worse person than you could admit.” His hand came away bloody and a bone somewhere in his face felt every word he spat at her but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. 

She pursed her lips into a fine, dangerous tightrope of a line and he finally realised he was pushing too hard. “If I wasn’t a good person, I would have already sunk everything about you deep into the Department of Mysteries. If I wasn’t decent enough to care about Harry’s need to solve this, I could have buried you so completely people would stop wondering where you’d gone, including him. If I didn’t value justice and instead only focused on revenge, you wouldn’t have even made it to the front door of Number Twelve.” She pulled out her wand and he flinched, instinctively throwing his hands up, because his wand was pinned in his pocket under his side. “ Episkey! ” she spat the spell at him and he felt the bone below his eye crunch and grind back into place with sudden force. 

“Ah!” he shouted shortly from the pain that came before sudden relief. 

She left the room, heading down to the kitchen and Draco heard the whoosh of the floo. He sat up but didn’t bother moving more than crossing his legs and lowering his head into his hands. He thought he might have started crying if he’d had enough energy to do so. Instead he felt hollow, uncertain and afraid, confused and conflicted, but mostly exhausted. 

He didn’t hear the floo the second time, so wrapped up in the empty feeling inside him that it had caused him to dissociate just enough to not even hear Potter’s footsteps until the man had cleared the stairs. The sharp rapping of his boots on the tiled floor of the foyer acted like an alarm. He rose his head abruptly just to look away immediately. The quiet concern on Potter’s features was too much to interpret and not enough to raise him up from the spiral he’d been intent on riding down. 

“Erm, well, Ron has no explanation.”

Malfoy let out a low, satirical chuckle that felt dark and surprised even himself. “Of course not.” 

“Are you alright?” There it was, concern again. How could Potter sound like that while not actually caring about how he felt? 

“How could I be?” 

“Did Hermione-?” He started and Draco realised he wasn’t sure his face had cleaned up after Granger’s assault. He could have dried blood on it for all he knew. 

He interrupted as he brought himself to stand again. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t ask for,” he felt the tacky residue on his cheek and smirked because it hurt in a different way for Potter to see him bloody. 

“What does that mean?” 

“It was your all-knowledgeable Granger who was left here with me so whatever happened between us must have been informed and just,” he snapped, feeling spiteful remembering the pain of a broken orbital bone. “Do you really care?” 

“Of course I care, Malfoy, why do you think I’ve been doing any of this?” Harry responded, feeling insulted. 

“Do you care that I’ve been sent against you or do you care that I’m suffering?” Malfoy asked, finally looking him in the eye. He didn’t look as though he’d been crying; Harry would never forget what that looked like. He did look defeated, an expression he no longer cared to see on the blond. 

“Does there have to be a distinction between the two?” He asked not because he wanted to avoid answering as much as he didn’t want either answer to pose a problem, because it was both, how could it not be? 

“Yes, that’s why I asked, Potter,” he informed drily as he walked out of the room, toward the foyer. 

Harry followed, desperate to get past this, to get to the bottom of all that had happened tonight so they could move forward and start to figure this all out. “It can’t be either/or right now,” he knew he cared that Malfoy was suffering, but he couldn’t let that be what mattered, not now, not when they had so much new information to focus on. He couldn’t let himself be distracted and he knew that was exactly what Malfoy was, and alway had been, a distraction. 

“If it doesn’t matter how I feel or what I think, then why did you even bother opening the door to your house for me?!” 

“Because you needed help,” Harry answered, a bit hapless, because that was the obvious answer. 

“Huh,” Draco said as if it were a truly quizzical preponderance he’d just come to terms with, because that was how it felt. He thought about what Hermione had said about who she thought he was, who he had always been. He walked toward the stairs, to head up to his room. “I think I just realised I’ve always needed help.” He stopped with his hand on the bannister, his chest wanting to hope, but his mouth wanted to wound since his brain was suffering. “What’s really changed, Potter?” 

“Haven’t we?” he challenged. 

Again he could think only of his interaction with Granger. “How would I know?” His rebuttal met only silence and he couldn’t find the courage to turn and see Harry’s expression so he continued up the stairs with squared shoulders and a victorious tilt to his jaw he in no way felt. 

Harry hated the way they’d left things. He tried to talk to Draco the following day when the blond didn’t avoid him. He came down for breakfast, was alert and polite and did the same for lunch. He even read in the sitting room and didn’t leave when Harry came in and made a fire for the room. But Harry felt awkward, and guilty, and very confused. When he asked Malfoy how he felt about yesterday over dinner the blond stared at him for a long moment before telling him, “That was yesterday.” 

The next day he even floo called the Den to ask Ron what had happened between Hermione and Malfoy. 

“I don’t rightly know, mate. She told me she’d lost her temper, but she fixed it, insisted there would be “no lasting damage” and then rushed back into work. This has turned into one helluva mess.” 

“Would you mind coming over, talking to him, so I can go talk to Hermione?” 

“Not at all.”

After Ron sorted out the kids and came over Harry made his way to the DoM. 

“I want to talk to you about the day before yesterday,” he declared as soon as he stepped into her office after knocking and being told he could enter. He didn’t want to interfere with any other work she may have to do in between all the work she was doing for Malfoy’s case. 

“Oh Harry, I’m so glad you’re here,” she pronounced as if she hadn’t even heard him. 

“Er- yea?” 

“Yes, I think I’m about ready to test the room again,” she said as she started off briskly toward the room. Harry followed, a bit nonplussed and irritated that she didn’t seem to care why he’d come, but if he could help, he wanted to. “I haven't changed anything, just done diagnostic work. The last thing I want to check is to see if that memory in the tavern could have come from you.” 

She let him step into the room first, alone. Though she closed the door, he didn’t hear her writing runes on it, activating and tuning it, like she had done for Malfoy. When she stepped into the room with him after several minutes, it was still calm, quiet. There was no movement, no momentum leftover from the magic that it had displayed. Yet Harry could almost feel the swirling, rushing of the floor. As if he were standing in ankle deep current, a shadow of the motion he’d seen before pulling at his consciousness. 

“Could you focus on a memory? Any memory?” Hoping it wouldn’t work, he thought of flying Sirius’ bike with Malfoy. Nothing happened. “Try another?” she suggested after drawing on the wall with the tip of her wand. He thought of the first day Malfoy had shown up at Number Twelve. Again, he felt that cold and the subtle sense of motion remained but again the room showed them nothing. 

“Do you feel that?” he asked her. 

“Feel what?” she asked without looking at him, continuing to draw on the wall in between writing on a piece of parchment she’d fished out of her pocket. 

“Didn’t it get colder?” 

“No, Harry, I’ve not noted any temperature or even barometric shifts in the atmosphere of the room since you entered. It’s doing literally nothing,” she explained distractedly. “Which is exactly the response I wanted and expected,” she further commented, looking anything but satisfied with the results, despite the announcement. She still didn’t have an answer as to why or how they’d seen what they had if Harry wasn’t the cause of the interference. 

“It got cold like when we saw Draco’s arrival at Number Twelve.” 

“I don’t recall it getting colder, Harry. Are you coming down with something?” 

“So you don’t feel that movement?” He asked instead because it wasn’t an illness and he wasn’t crazy. 

“What movement?” 

“It’s like an uneasy shifting, like I might fall down,” he tried to explain the unsettling feeling, remembering the vertigo he’d had during the session with Malfoy present. 

“I think you might be getting sick Harry,” she cast nonverbally at him, as if testing her theory. 

“No!” he negated and waved his arm, as if that could nullify her spell and her inability to listen to him. “It’s like the motion from the mirror. It kind of reminds me of the swirling in it, the way it reacted to him, and changed, eventually showing Ron.” 

“Well, yes, Harry, I used the mirror to make this room, the magic is here,” she reminded him, sounding impatient and annoyed that she’d had to. “Besides, t here’s all different sorts of projects with all kinds of pull and magnetism here. You might be getting a sense of it that I’m not because I’m around it all day, desensitised.” 

“You work with magnets?” 

“It’s so nice to be at work and have someone understand what magnets are,” she said distractedly. “Not that my coworkers are all ignorant, we’re just still very understaffed and the others who work here are all pureblood- I probably shouldn’t have told you that.” She started ushering him back down the long mess of convoluted halls that led them back out of the department. “Anyhow, I think I have all the data I need. I’ll reach out again when I know more.” 

“Alright then,” he said reluctantly as they neared the exit. 

“Harry?” 

“Yea?” he turned to see her looking the least distracted since his arrival, her focus was sharp even though she was fidgeting a bit with her hands. 

“Tell Draco I’m sorry that I lost my temper, not really for anything I said beyond that, but let him know would you? If he doesn’t want to hear it I’ll tell him face to face later, but I thought he should know sooner if possible.” 

“Sure, I guess,” he responded hesitantly, taken aback by her use of his given name and the apparent sincerity in her request, despite the lift to her chin while refusing to acknowledge that she’d said anything wrong. He wondered exactly what the exchange had been as he headed across the bustling atrium of the Ministry once again. 

Draco felt more resigned than anything else. He didn’t feel sad about it anymore, he didn’t think of it like he was serving some penance any longer. He just felt done. He was tired of fighting, sick of feeling dismissed and decided that he would just dutifully wait it out, help when he could, and oblige when he was asked. He decided he would be happy to go back to his flat once all was said and done. He didn’t feel that, but he decided it would be so. He would deal with how he felt after he learned how that would be. 

So he was rather annoyed when he heard Ronald’s voice carry through his door. “How you holding up, mate?” 

“Just dandy,” he returned without getting up. 

The Weasel opened the door, but didn’t step in. “Sounds like it.” 

“Gather that from your wife?” 

“No, from your tone. If you don’t want to talk to me, I’ll piss off,” he offered, “Or I could come in, sit down and you could not be alone.” 

“I’ll still be alone, and that’s fine.” 

The ginger made his way to the edge of the bed. “I know this doesn’t help you, but what you told her mattered, I don’t know what you said, but she’s been better, at home. I mean, she still works too much so it’s not a lot of the time, but the time she’s been with me, with the kids, she’s been better.” 

“So glad I could help,” he drawled as drily as he could possibly manage. 

“I just mean, all this isn’t for nothing, even if it feels like all that you’re working toward is some kind of reset, we’ll all still remember the time you spent here. The effort you put in, we can all hold on to that when this is over.” 

Draco hesitated before answering because what Ronald said meant more than he thought it should have when he felt so deflated. “Thanks Weasel, that’s actually slightly helpful.” 

“Don’t sound so shocked,” he smirked. 

“I am a bit, but I guess I shouldn’t be; you really are a good friend.” 

“Yea, I’m the best friend.” Draco scoffed. “You want to go down for some tea then?” Ronald stood up from the bed. “Maybe we can find something to eat, I’m starved.” 

“I think you might have a parasite; are you ever not hungry?” 

“Well, yea, once I’ve eaten,” he grinned broadly as Draco stood to follow.  

They did find some random leftovers and spare ingredients to pick at until the hearth turned green and Harry returned from his trip to the ministry. 

“Thanks Ron,” he said as soon as he was finished dusting off the soot. 

“Not a problem.”

“Yes, he’s my preferred babysitter, I behaved very well,” Draco added before popping a berry in his mouth. Ronald had told him Harry had gone but not what he had been up to so he felt a bit defensive already. 

“Despite the attitude, he seems to be doing a bit better,” Ron reassured. 

“Actually the attitude is the sign I took to mean he was doing better.” 

“Very funny, Potter.”

“I thought so,” Harry said, sensing he had some explaining to do, he continued. “Anyway, I think I was able to help Hermione get started on figuring out what was wrong with her . . . I dunno, memory room? So hopefully we’ll have something to do again soon.” 

“You have an affliction, this chronic need to see a glass half full even when it’s a terrible beverage.” 

“Well, I think it’s great news, but I should probably get going, got to fetch the kids, told mum I wouldn’t be long.” 

“You look better,” Harry commented awkwardly after Ron left. 

“You look the same,” Draco responded flatly. 

“I get that you’re still mad-”

“I’m really not.”

“Well, I mean I understand that you’re upset-”

“You really don’t.”

“Hermione shouldn’t-”

“It’s fine, Potter.”

“It’s not! And would you stop interrupting me?” He exclaimed, feeling exasperated. 

“Please, do go on, tell me everything will be okay, we’ll figure it out, and all will be well.” 

“I wasn’t going to say it like that.” 

“I’m sure you weren’t. I’m fine Potter,” he raised his hand when Harry acted like he was going to protest. “I’m not great, and I might not be fine for very long, but for now, I’ll get by. I’m not mad at you, I'm not even upset with Granger anymore, again that might change the moment we’re in the same room again, but for now, I’m fine.” Harry gave him a suspicious sort of look that challenged everything he said and everything he wanted to feel. So he stood up from the table. “I’m going to run with this feeling and go to bed with the kind of optimism I so often mock you for. I think I might actually get a good night’s sleep.”

The next morning Draco considered not going down for breakfast and lamented his acquiescence when Potter insisted on letting nothing go. 

“She’s sorry you know,” he said, catching Draco in the hall, as if he’d been waiting, lurking. 

“Oh really?” 

“She told me to tell you.”

“Sorry for what?” 

“She didn’t go into specifics,” he admitted, running his hand across the back of his neck, looking uncomfortable. 

“Not surprising,” Draco responded before making like he was going to walk past the man. 

Potter moved accordingly, not quite blocking him, but halting his departure nonetheless. “We can’t keep on like this if we expect to get anywhere. I need to make this right.” 

“Between Granger and I?”

“Just you, Malfoy.” He paused, looking sternly pensive. “I need to know you feel safe, that you trust me to put in the effort here. What do I need to do to get that back?” 

“You feel we had that?” Draco questioned. 

“I do,” Potter responded confidently, but a bit morosely, as if he actually did feel the loss of Draco’s trust. 

“Well, I have this feeling,” Draco started, not certain where he was going with it, but wanting Potter to understand. “And it didn’t seem impossible. I need this thing I know could be exactly what I’ve wanted. I feel like you're the only person I've ever actually needed in my life. I've never loved anyone the way I love you, the way I remember loving you, and I know that things are different now, but the memories of falling in love with you feel better than flying. I presently love you more than anyone I've ever known. Including my own family. Because none of them can make me feel like a real person like you do. You're my reality, not the implanted things I’ve been led to believe. You make me real, now, in this moment. You make love a real thing to me. Not some passing of hormones and daydreams. You make pain real for me too; that’s how I know it’s real. I know it hasn't been. I know things won’t be perfect between us and it certainly won't always be easy but I want you in my life.”

“But I haven’t done any of that for you,” Harry said, looking pained. 

“You have since we were kids even if it felt entirely different when we were younger, everything always does. You taught me what it was to really want something and not get it. You spent years teaching me how to be a person instead of a brain washed sycophant; I just wasn’t paying attention at the time. If it weren’t for the antagonism of you and your loyal lot I don’t think I would have learned empathy. You taught me what it feels like to be rejected. That’s not something I could ever forget, but it’s a lesson I’m growing tired of repeating.” 

“It’s not right for me to accept a declaration like that. When you get your memories back-”

“What if there’s no way to reverse it and all you're doing is wasting our time?” Draco interrupted with the proposition of a terrible thought he’d had more than once, despite being unable to utter the possibility aloud. 

“Well, if you can’t even remember how you truly feel about me-”

“I bloody well know how I feel about you! Utter git that you are, complete lack of awareness that you so often have, even despite the way you disregard general safety and self preservation, I love you!” 

“You can’t though,” Harry uttered it like a plea, without missing a beat because he couldn’t leave room for anything but the proper refusal his nagging morality insisted on. 

“I do. And it was there . . . before,” Draco said, falteringly, hesitatingly, uncertain how much Potter would be put off by further pronouncements. 

“What do you mean?” he scowled. 

“I mean I hated you, Potter.” Draco stalked forward, emboldened by his own need to make the man understand. Harry’s scowl melted into surprise when Draco invaded his space in the confines of the hall but he didn’t retreat. “I hated you with the fervour and passion of obsession.” He stabbed him in the chest with his index finger. “All I wanted was to know every way to break you, any way to get under your skin.” He’d left the finger poking at Potter’s sternum as he’d talked, specifically challenging. Potter seemed frozen. He splayed his fingers out flat and could have sworn he felt a heart beat get skipped over when he stretched his fingers and let his nails bite the thin fabric of Potter’s shirt. “Since you first turned me down, all I could do was hate you because the alternative- the alternative was to have lost you.” 

“What? This is exactly why we shouldn’t-” 

“I realise now the true loss was not getting to know you better. All I knew was what you showed an antagonist. What I remember in between very real time with you then and with you now shows the false memories in a different light. I recognise they’re not something I should want, because they’re shallow lies. The truth means more to me. This thing that keeps flaring up between us, that you keep trying to smother, is real and it . . . feels better.” His other hand just barely reached out to brush along Harry’s forearm. “It’s more .” 

The reference to Harry’s previous admittance of his own wishful thinking was like a blossoming heat, spreading warmly under the hand that felt suddenly so light and tentative against him it might leave. It spread and pooled at the lingering shadow of pressure from Malfoy’s nails. “I don’t want you to come to your senses and hate me for letting this happen,” Harry breathed, his words barely a whisper.  

“I’ve never come to my senses; I’m not going to start now.” He took his hand, “And if you’d been listening, you’d know hating you has never really mattered.” Draco raised a hand to Harry’s ear. 

“We shouldn’t, not yet, not while we’re investigating what’s still happening to you,” Harry hated the way his voice softened like he was begging for Draco to accept what he was trying so hard to convince himself of. 

“I don’t care about that and you know that by now. Do you really want to be the only thing that keeps us from trying?” 

“We could give it a chance later, after this is all over,” he tried to insist, fascinated by the softness in Draco’s tone as he questioned him. 

“Or the other shoe could drop and it could be over for one or more of us before we even get to try.” 

“Don’t talk like that; I don’t appreciate the sentiment behind the argument that we should give into base instincts just because we're about to face death,” Harry said, his voice more even. “For one thing, I’m fairly confident the person behind this doesn’t want either of us dead. Secondly-” 

“Yes, I know, it would still be a moot point because even if you were literally about to die you wouldn’t suspend your aggravatingly staunch moral convictions,” he rolled his eyes as of none of this were all that serious and the levity did give Harry room to breathe, to think. Was it really even his moral conviction anymore? If he thought it was so wrong, why had he already allowed, and even relished, the contact and bursts of intimacy they’d already had? 

“I just need to know that the Malfoy I’ve always known would be okay with this,” Harry lamented. 

“The same Malfoy who set you up to get caught at midnight in the trophy room would have secretly conspired to this end, had he known it was even a remote possibility. You caught my eye before school even started, before I even knew who you were, and from the beginning, from the moment in that robe shop, I was infatuated with you, Potter. I’ll sign a legal document if it will set you at ease. All I really need is for you to let us have this, to enjoy this with me.” 

Harry knew what he’d told Hermione, he also knew it hadn’t felt like the entire truth even when he’d initially said it. It seemed even less like the truth after he’d spent more time with Malfoy. He wasn’t different except in the ways he’d been since he started growing up. He’d re-read his own journals, re-opened old wounds, and rehashed previous conflicts, yet still he gazed pleadingly at Harry with heat like steel in a forge. “If you’re sure-” he started, barely able to focus on words while his heart started to beat harder and his skin still felt distractingly flushed in all the places Draco had lightly touched him. 

Again, Harry was surprised by the immediate action. The blond was fast, but didn’t lack precision and care, his hands closed around Harry’s wrists to pull him close enough so their mouths could collide. Draco kissed him and it tasted like masochism. It did already hurt, in a carnal, driving way. The longer the kiss lasted, the longer the moment could be; the more time he had before the pain of ending it would settle like a heavy knot in his chest. They couldn’t be doing this and not just because of Hermione’s staunch disapproval and almost certain reproach. Harry knew he was committing to pain by indulging. This would hurt at least one of them, more likely the both of them. But he’d always chosen to hurt for the people that loved him. 

Potter drew his wrists away and Draco was certain the kiss was short-lived but to his surprise Harry’s hands went to his hair, embedding and then pulling to the side slightly so Harry could move his lips from their interlock and begin to hesitantly mouth Draco’s neck. Draco leaned into the other man and gasped a string of vowels which apparently gave Potter the impression he was doing something right. Draco felt the slight sting of teeth as Harry’s hands moved down from his hair, sliding along his back, across his ribs, and down to his hips. There was more intent to the man’s movements than there had been before. It had all been reactive, instinctive, but when Potter’s hands smoothed his palms over the pockets of his jeans and then gripped, he could feel the desire, the plain motive in it. Another wanton noise rose from his throat, something between a purr and a moan and he started to pull the hem of Potter’s shirt up. The other man acquiesced but then went right back to Draco’s mouth with enough enthusiasm that he found himself pressed up against the wall. The teasing tongue and lightly gnashing teeth danced with his own like they had practised the movement between them for years, despite the moment being nothing like the soft, gentle memories he had. 

Harry’s hands began to slide up his shirt and he redirected them to his pants. It was Harry’s turn to groan when Draco felt the other man’s hands graze his pubic hair. Draco smirked into Potter’s neck as he worked the button and the zip respectively. The smirk abruptly disappeared into whatever passionate grimace he was unable to control when Harry gripped his already erect cock. He then sighed and clutched handfuls of thick locks of dark hair, leaning into Potter’s ear to kiss it lightly as he panted slightly when the other man moved about, exploring with one hand while the other continued to work on completely removing his trousers and pants. He stepped out of the pooling fabric and found himself against the door of Potter’s room.

Harry paused for a moment before raising a dubious, uncertain gaze to Draco. “I swear to Salazar if you ask me anything one more time-” Potter smirked then gently pushed Draco back into the room as he opened the door. Draco had no time to marvel at finally being in Harry’s room before he was being roughly, excitedly kissed again. Then he was being guided again, pushed gently but insistently against the bed. When Draco was down, Harry ran his hands from just above his knees up to the crease where his legs met his groin. He shuddered lightly and pulled Potter back up to him so he could run his hands over his bare back and feel the weight of the other man above him. Harry obliged and kissed him again, moving down to lavish moist attention on his collar bone while Draco grabbed at Potter’s denim pockets and wished he’d had the forethought to remove them in the hall as well. The material was rough on his overly sensitive and leaking prick, Potter’s weight was mindful, but teasing and he moaned, a sound plain with want, obvious in desire and he didn’t care. 

Harry returned his attention to Draco’s inner thigh, causing his erection to jump but didn’t seem to be in any hurry as he mouthed his balls, causing Draco to raise his hips. Potter’s reaction was not to move on with it but to move his hand to press Draco’s hips in place, and then to take his sack deeper into a wider reception of his warm, wet mouth. “Harry, please,” Draco finally asked, in short, breathless exclamation, only just realising his nails were biting into the other man’s shoulders. Abruptly, Harry took him wholly into his mouth, he felt not one trace of teeth, only the thick protection of firm lips around his shaft and steady suction that drew him to the back of Potter’s throat. He felt himself encompassed in the tight rhythmic grasp of Harry’s mouth and wasn’t sure how long he’d been pulling at his own hair or how long his eyes had been closed, losing himself in the sensation. He opened them and looked down to see Harry staring avidly at him, curious, bright emerald surrounding pupils he’d never seen so wide and he lost himself immediately. He felt Potter swallow around his increasingly flaccid cock a couple times before the man moved away, leaving Draco feeling spent, gasping and again touching his own hair and chest, uncertain what to do with hands that felt like flailing. 

He’d had a blow job before of course, more than one, but everything had paled in comparison to this moment. He felt the adrenaline leave his body, replacing all the shivering muscles with a relaxed and free feeling then grabbed at Potter and the man lowered himself over Draco once again. He wrapped his arms around the other man, kissed his collar bone and moved to his mouth despite a slight hesitancy from Harry. He didn’t taste his own spunk so much as he tasted the other man’s sweat. After a split second Potter leaned in to the kiss and then fell beside Draco. 

He started to reach for the trousers he’d neglected to remove, intending to return the favour. 

“Oh, uhm, that’s- that’s alright,” Potter said stammeringly, placing his hands over Draco’s, all the while sounding sheepish and uncertain.

“What? Are you cold?” Draco mocked good naturedly. 

“No, I just, erm- Well, I already . . .” He seemed as though he’d rather trail off than finish the sentence so Draco interrupted, sparing him. 

“Oh, really?” 

“Yes,” he responded evenly as if he could be getting defensive. 

“Delightful.” Draco responded easily before curling into the other mans’ side feeling flattered. “Let me know if you change your- well, I was going to say mind, but let me know if anything changes.” He added a mouthy kiss with just a hint of teeth to the man’s shoulder for emphasis and Potter chuckled. The sound warmed him deeply. 

“I will.” His hands found Draco’s hair again and he was happy to submit to the ruffling of it. 

They spent a brief, but exceptionally comfortable, time languishing in bed but before long realised they hadn’t had breakfast and it was nearly lunchtime. Reluctantly they headed to the kitchen and had good food and warm tea. They spent the rest of the day together, not really doing anything in particular, but occasionally kissing and snuggling when the activity afforded the opportunity. Dinner was downright playful and they fell asleep reading on the couch once again when evening came. 

The next morning, Harry reflected that it had been a brilliant day. He could even admit to himself that part of him wanted nothing more than to have another just like it. This however, only reminded him that he owed Malfoy answers and that he was still resolved, maybe more than ever, to solve his case. He wanted days like yesterday to be guilt-free and he knew they couldn’t be until he was no longer worried about the inextricable shadow of uncertainty that loomed over them. 

“I’m going back to work, Draco. On Monday,” he announced, having held off through breakfast because of nerves and lunch because he hadn’t wanted to spoil the light hearted, affectionate attitude the blond still exuded. 

“Hm, so that’s what’s been nagging at you all day?” Draco said rather shortly. “That calls for some Frangelico in my afternoon tea. Potter?” 

“That sounds disgusting,” Harry commented without addressing Draco’s intuition. 

“I think you’ll like it,” he offered after he summoned the bottle. 

“Because I do in your memories?” He asked tiredly. 

“Because you don’t, and I’m sure whoever replaced my past would think it an unattractive beverage as well. You won’t understand something like this until you’ve tried it,” Draco tried so hard to not sound coy, but it was irresistible when he still felt so good about the day before. The subtle shift in Potter’s posture was reward enough. 

“Well, I shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. There’s lavender in that tea.” 

Draco smirked at his concern for the abomination of the beverage. “Yes, and the citrusy oil of bergamot; I’m not a cretin, I know what’s in Earl Grey. I’ll admit it’s unusual. I’m only saying it’s surprisingly soothing and palatable.” 

“Alright, fine then. So long as you stop going on about it like that,” he offered up his cup.

Draco smirked as he poured a generous ounce then sipped his own and watched the other man try it. 

Harry’s expression was one of bated apprehension but by the time he swallowed he looked pleasantly surprised. “It’s actually not bad, somehow the alcohol makes it less sweet and less bitter.” 

Draco smiled and it appeared as though he very sincerely enjoyed watching Harry. “So you’re going back to the ministry? Why now?” 

“Well, we should probably slow things down a bit,” Harry offered, trying not to wince at the blond’s inevitable frustration. He wanted to get the worst reason he was going back out of the way. 

“Are you joking? I’m seriously asking,” he was incredulous, but not angry. He felt confidently that yesterday had been too good for Potter to backtrack completely. It didn’t seem like that was what he was going for with this declaration. Regardless, he had to complain, “This is the slowest and most daunting progression of any physical relationship I’ve ever attempted! Not to mention you’re the one who took it beyond snogging this last time.” 

“Exactly, I’m- well, I’m obviously having some issues with impulse control here, going back to work might help that a bit,” he didn’t dare mention that Hermione had thought it would, but she did have a tendency to know such things about him before he was willing to admit them to himself. 

“You're probably sick of me,” Draco suggested, narrowing his eyes, worrying that now the intrigue was over, Potter would lose interest. 

“I wouldn't say so even if I was,” he offered, setting his hand on top of Draco’s. 

“Really?” Draco prodded sceptical thinking the prat was too honest to keep such a thing quiet. 

“Well, maybe I would,” he shrugged, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Mostly I can’t tell what I’m going to do when it comes to you, that’s part of the problem.” He leaned in to kiss the blond before he could respond and was pleased when he was received without hesitation. It was nearly a chaste moment considering how the previous interactions had gone but Harry’s heart raced and he was flooded with warmth regardless. He pulled away after a moment, before either of them got too handsy. 

“Besides, I have a bad feeling that I should really look into your father’s report,” he amended, more seriously. 

“I feel-” he started but couldn’t elaborate on the cold, steel-like apprehension he felt. “I- I think something’s not right.” 

“I noticed. Why do you think I have a bad feeling about it?”