Architects of Memory (2/3)

[lili_pad]

Part One | Part Three

Chapter Seven

Ad idem
Of the same mind


Malfoy was an elephant.

This was what Harry decided as, over the next days, he tried not to think of that night at the pub. But the more he tried to forget it, the more Malfoy tugged on his memory.

It wasn't just his whirling thoughts that nagged at him—his confusion over that kiss (it shouldn't have been so good) or his embarrassment for fleeing like the damsel in some paperback romance (he shouldn't have been so rattled). No, it was more the little things that kept pulling him back.

Like at work when, while cleaning the bats' cage, Harry remembered the discreet Scourgify charms Malfoy used to clean their table. He performed the charm the same quiet way that Draco had done, sliding his wand up his sleeve just as Mr Critswold reappeared from the other room. "Finished already?" he asked, inspecting the corners of the pen for any missed spots and huffing a bit when he found nothing. "Well, there's still the bins that want doing..."

Or at the Blood Sport Thursday night when, watching the wizard-cast of a World Quidditch Cup qualifier, he heard someone praise the impressive flyers on the English team. "That's Barry Ryan's touch there," the spectator exclaimed in admiration. "You'd never know he weren't born to it!" And Harry remembered the look of surprise on Malfoy's face when he'd learned that the hero of the pitch was Muggle-born.

Harry was distraught to find that even his home wasn't safe. For days after Malfoy's visit Kreacher had seemed positively giddy, pleased that his master had attracted such a high-status guest and enthusing that this bode well for the future. He even asked several times when young Master Malfoy might return until Harry lost his temper and told him that Master Malfoy would never set foot in his flat again. Kreacher was quiet after that. But even in the silence, Harry's eyes kept returning to that picture box he'd bought off a gypsy in Ljubljana, at the gryphon decorating his mantle, and pictured Malfoy there in his room, admiring them.

A huge bloody elephant in glittering pink tulle with shiny ballet slippers on its feet.

But over time these thoughts faded. The week passed, then another, and on the next weekend Harry even returned to the same pub for a quick drink without feeling too uncomfortable.

Early the next week, Ron appeared at Critswold's Creatures. This was a little unusual—Ron and Mr Critswold shared an unfounded but mutual dislike—and Harry knew he only dropped in when there was a reason. Even if, like today, it seemed like he didn't want to talk about it.

"Is this the snake?" he asked, edging toward the front of the store, conveniently away from Mr Critswold. They'd just received a rare shipment of Vipertooth claws from Peru, and Harry knew his boss would be in the storeroom pricing them for a good while.

"Yes, this is Simbi." To the snake that coiled protectively around her egg, Harry hissed, "Don't be nervous. This is my friend Ron."

Ron twitched nervously, as he always did when Harry spoke Parseltongue. At least some things never changed. "When will the egg hatch, do you think?"

Harry turned to the cobra, admiring her rippling her coils as she relaxed. "Will it be today?" he asked. It was easier to ask like that; the snake had a very limited concept of time.

"Not today." She swayed back and forth as she answered. "Maybe tomorrow." Which by now Harry knew meant any day that wasn't today.

"She's not sure, but soon," he told Ron. "She's never hatched one before—they're always sold out from under her."

"That's sad. But he hasn't noticed this time?" Ron jerked his head in Mr Critswold's direction.

"Not yet. We've had a few close calls though." Harry studied Ron, who was eying the snake with a combination of fascination and fear. "But here, I know you didn't come about Simbi. What's up?"

Ron reddened, although he refused to look up. "Hermione wants to know..." His friend faltered, and Harry wondered if he would climb inside the aquarium with Simbi just to escape the reason for his visit. "That is, would it be okay if we ... okay with you, I mean, if…"

"Spit it out, Ron."

There was a moment's pause and then, "Hermione wants to set you up." The words poured out in a rush. "She's got this friend she wants you to meet, and she wants us to all go to dinner together tomorrow night. I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Harry felt bad—Ron looked as miserable as if he'd just asked Harry to chop off his right hand. Not for the first time Harry wished he had the courage to tell his best friend—both his friends—the truth. It would make things so much simpler. But maybe it wouldn't. It was bad enough being set up with Hermione's female friends. That was bearable because he knew they'd hold no attraction for him. The thought of her scouring her office for eligible men was just too much.

But on the other hand, a night out might help erase the memory of his last "date."

"Thursday sounds good. Where are we going?"

Surprised by Harry's quick assent, without the customary bargaining, it took a second or two for Ron to answer. "Pandora's—it's this trendy new place on Wyvern Way. Hermione's been pestering me to take her there ever since their review in the Prophet." He gaped at Harry. "You're really okay with this?"

"Why not?" Harry shrugged. "What time do you want me there?"

When Ron left ten minutes later, he still looked like he'd just been pardoned from a death sentence.



Ron had warned him that Pandora's was trendy, and he wasn't kidding. Harry was glad he'd changed into his nicest robes. Even so, as he stepped into the stylish lobby, all black and polished steel, he felt underdressed before the velvet-clad hostess. She led him through the doorway. Despite knowing it was only charmed as a waterfall Harry still flinched a little as he ducked under the flowing water. Ron and Hermione were already waiting in the crowded lounge on the other side.

"Harry!" exclaimed Hermione, throwing her arms around him. "Isn't this place posh? I've been trying to get reservations for two weeks now."

So she'd been planning this that long? Harry lifted an accusing eyebrow at Ron, who expertly dodged. "Hey, what do you know, there's Smasher..." He headed to the bar, leaving the others to follow, Hermione chattering every step of the way.

"I just know you and Aurora will hit it off, Harry. She was the year behind us in Hufflepuff. Now she's in the Magical Creatures Department. She keeps in touch with Hagrid, too. I can't wait for you to meet her!"

Harry nodded helplessly. He really had to hand it to her—despite failure after failure, Hermione never gave up, always thinking that this time she'd found his perfect girl.

Fortunately they caught up with Ron then and he wasn't forced to respond. Instead, he found himself jerked forward as Ron introduced him to one of the biggest men he'd ever seen. "Smasher, this is my friend Harry Potter. Smasher's a veteran with the Auror squad."

"You calling me old, Weasley?" Smasher slugged Ron's arm so hard he winced. "You know I could take you any time, any place. Good to meet you, Potter," he bellowed, his crushing handshake nearly cracking the bones in Harry's fingers. "Ah, and the lovely Mrs Weasley. How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you, Smasher."

Harry stared at Hermione. She'd never allowed anyone to call her by Ron's name, not even right after the wedding. But now she was smiling in pained politeness, just biting her tongue.

When Smasher began shoving patrons away to make room for them at the bar, Harry whispered, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed softly. "Smasher's a good guy, really, and he looks after Ron. Just sometimes he can be..."

Glancing over to where Smasher was strong-arming a couple who didn't want to give up their seats, Harry remembered what Draco had said. "A bit of a bully?" he offered.

"Mmmm," she agreed. "Oh look, there's Aurora!"

Harry turned to see the blonde witch who'd just passed through the waterfall. He wasn't the only one whose head was turned. Harry had to admit that she was attractive. Nearly as tall as he was, she wore a fashionable black mini-robe, fitted in the front and flowing in the back, that showed off long legs that stretched to the ceiling. Her pale cheeks blossomed rosily as Hermione introduced her around, her blue eyes lingering extra-long on Harry. And despite knowing that he wasn't especially drawn to her, Harry felt his hackles rise when Smasher leered and said, "Sweetheart, if things don't work out with Potter you know where I'll be." Fortunately they were called to their table at that moment, sparing Harry from fighting for something he didn't particular want.

After this start, dinner proved to be very pleasant indeed. Hermione was in rare form, energetically recounting the latest magical catastrophe at the Ministry: a newly registered Animagus who'd gotten stuck as a Labrador retriever and reverted to his human form at the local pound. Aurora laughed with delight at Hermione's machinations to get him released. It turned out that she loved all animals, whether magical and not, and begged Hermione to let her talk to the Animagus about meeting the other dogs. She wanted to hear all about Harry's job, too, which she seemed to find much more interesting than he did. She was overjoyed when Harry mentioned Hagrid, and soon Ron and Hermione joined in swapping stories about the creatures they'd encountered at Hogwarts. When Harry told her how he'd seen the unicorn in the Forbidden Forest, he thought she was going to swoon.

Yes, it was all pleasant enough. Aurora was a lovely girl, there was no doubt about that; if he leaned that way he was sure he'd find her irresistible. As it was, his brain was on auto-pilot. It responded when it was needed, but otherwise lay dormant.

As they were finishing their main course, however, it pinged back to life. Ron mentioned that Defence Against the Dark Arts was being permanently discontinued at Hogwarts. Aurora agreed this was a smart decision. The class encouraged violence, she said, and wasn't that the root of all the terrible things that were happening these days?

Aurora tucked her hair behind her ear as she spoke, and for some reason the gesture made Harry think of Malfoy. He wondered what the man might make of that argument. He could almost see his eyes flashing brightly, primed for a vigorous debate, even hear his mocking voice: "Are you joking, Potter? I suppose you'd stop flying lessons next, do away with all those nasty Quidditch falls." And Harry found himself craving the mental stimulation he'd felt that night in the pub. Unable to stop himself, he asked, "Are you a pure-blood witch, Aurora?"

She smiled with a pride that would've made Malfoy and his whole clan proud. "Why, yes, I am. The Kingsfords go way back, but my mother's side traces its lineage straight to Alberic Grunnion."

Hermione looked impressed, Ron drug his last bite of steak through the gravy, and Harry realised that he was out with Malfoy's dream girl. Knowing he was likely to set off his friends, and almost hoping for the controversy, he asked, "So how do you feel about Muggle-borns attending Hogwarts?"

Aurora blinked, confused. "What do you mean, what do I think?"

"I mean do you think they should be there?"

"Harry!" Hermione protested just as Aurora answered, "Well, of course. Where else would they be?"

Harry soldiered on despite Hermione's glare and the certain feeling that he'd pay for this later. "So you don't think they're holding the other students back?"

"I … I never really thought about it. I don't guess they're any different than anybody else…"

That wasn't the reaction he wanted. He wanted her to react. He needed her to react. There had to be a fire in there somewhere, if only he could spark it. "But what about when you were young. Didn't you learn spells before Hogwarts?"

"Harry, what are you getting at?" Hermione demanded to know.

"I'm just curious," he explained, knowing the reason sounded weak.

She crossed her arms and said indignantly, "Well, I certainly don't remember holding back you or Ron!"

Ron squirmed uncomfortably and Aurora wouldn't look up, and Harry knew that he'd gotten a spark—just not from the person he'd intended. He awkwardly apologised, and Hermione hesitantly accepted.

Ron, bless his soul, stepped up by grabbing the dessert menu off a passing waiter and rhapsodising over the enchanted Bananas Foster that relit itself between each bite. Harry knew it was an act—Ron hated bananas—but it was enough to bring the conversation around to cheerier topics. Indeed, Harry thought his questions might have been forgotten until, as they were leaving Pandora's, Hermione pulled him aside. "What was that about earlier, Harry?"

Harry shook his head. "It was nothing, really. I just wanted to see how she thought."

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, one that held a stern warning. "Well, you're just lucky she's so easygoing. Be nice to her."

"I will."

Once outside, Hermione and Ron Apparated, leaving Harry to see Aurora home. She said she lived nearby, and when she mentioned the street Harry recognised it as one of Diagon's more affluent neighbourhoods. They set off on foot, chatting pleasantly about nothing deeper than the weather. Harry was already thinking of what movie he'd throw on when he got home. Men in Black, maybe, or he might be able to catch Doctor Who on the Beeb…

"Well, here we are."

Harry snapped out of his thoughts to see a white marble portico towering impressively above him. "Nice place." Aurora stepped between the columns, and when she seemed to be waiting for Harry, he followed. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a small sticker on the glass beside the thick oak door: "Protected by Salus Securities." It figured.

He gestured to the sign. "So this place is pretty safe, I guess?"

"I guess so," Aurora shrugged. "I don't really think too much about it—I guess that's proof that it is, right?"

When Harry nodded, she smiled at him. "Would you like to come in? If you'd like another drink…"

"No, thanks, I need to be getting home. Got an early start tomorrow."

"All right, then. Well … I had a nice time."

"Um … I did too."

"Well, goodnight, Harry."

She smiled at him expectantly. Harry hated this moment, when he wasn't sure what he should be doing. She really was pretty, he thought. If only he could like her, things would be so much easier. He could be a good boyfriend, bringing home animals that she could look after. They'd live in a nice flat in a respectable part of town; when the time came, they'd have children that they'd raise as good little witches and wizards. Every so often they'd double-date with Ron and Hermione, and make pleasant conversation, and Hermione would be so pleased that he'd finally found someone.

And thank Merlin that he now knew himself well enough to know that could never, ever work.

"Goodnight, Aurora." He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and then stepped back. He watched disappointment colour her face, then disappear as she steeled her features and let herself in.

Harry sighed heavily when the door slammed shut. It didn't take seeing the Malfoy company's sign there to remind him that he'd screwed up another date. Only this time, he'd figured out which one he wanted to try again.

The elephant was back, big and pink as ever.



"Why, you ... you're Harry Potter, yes?"

Harry turned away from the painted sailing ships to see the elderly white-haired woman staring as if he were a ghost. He studied her face, but for the life of him he couldn't think where they might have met. Perhaps one of his old neighbours from Privet Drive? Or someone from Aunt Petunia's garden club … although he couldn't imagine any of her acquaintances donning an apron in a Greenwich pub.

"Yes, I am. Do I know you?"

"No, you don't, but ..." She looked as if she was about to say more, but then shook her head. "It's no matter. Now, what can I get you?"

"Just a pint of bitter. I'm waiting for someone."

She left to pour his drink, and Harry didn't give her another thought. His thoughts were already well occupied, and had been for days now. First there was explaining that ill-fated date with Aurora Hermione. She'd taken it poorly and, exasperated, ended up begging Harry to figure out what it was he really wanted.

That had led his thoughts straight back to the elephant in the room. At first he remembered how Malfoy had made him laugh, made him think. It was the kind of connection he'd always craved, and that he'd never before found. Then his thoughts turned further back, to those days at Hogwarts he rarely let himself recall. Usually his memories were blackened with dismay and confusion. But as he let his thoughts ramble aimlessly through the events that had once given meaning to his life, he discovered something startling: Malfoy was always there. Not in good ways—Harry couldn't remember a single instance when the Slytherin had done something that ... well, that wasn't abhorrent. Nevertheless, his presence was a constant. Indeed, as he sifted through his memories, Harry had been a little shocked to discover that he'd spent more time thinking about the boy than he ever had about the girls he had dated, even when he was in the throes of crushes he was sure would never fade.

It was more than a little disturbing to find himself so attracted to someone who should have been his enemy. For years, Malfoy had represented everything that Harry had fought against ... everything he didn't want to become. But that battle was long gone. He'd once thought that he would always live in Voldemort's shadow, never able to have a normal life. Although erased in an instant, that belief was still holding him back. Because, truth be told, if not for that faded mark above the man's pale wrist, nothing could have prevented Harry from taking the other man home. Malfoy was everything that Harry wanted. He was sharp, funny, and as he'd demonstrated in the Muggle pub, a lot more adaptable than Harry would ever have imagined. Not to mention that he was really, really fit. He was exactly Harry's type.

And, in those rare seconds when he was being completely honest with himself, he realised that this wasn't entirely true. Malfoy—Draco—was the one who'd set his type in the first place.

It took several days for Harry to decide that this long-forgotten battle was not going to keep him from what he wanted. It took even longer for Malfoy to respond to his owl post requesting another meeting. It would take him a good while still to hatch up a good excuse for why he couldn't see Ron and Hermione on Saturday night, but the Slytherin's message had left no room for debate:

Greenwich Arms, eight o'clock Saturday—D.M.

Which was where Harry was sitting when Malfoy swept in through the back door at a quarter past. He was dressed in wizard's robes, to Harry's surprise, and though they were of an elegant cut that would have been the height of fashion at any Diagon bistro, they looked out of place in the middle of Muggle Greenwich. Or perhaps not. As he'd made his way through the village, Harry had seen professors on the college green wearing robes, and there were even a few congregated here in the pub. Perhaps passersby would merely assume Malfoy was among them.

"You made it," Harry said as Draco slid onto the barstool beside him.

"I said I'd be here, didn't I?"

"Yeah," said Harry, not sure about revealing his relief, "but I wasn't sure whether you'd give me another chance."

"Yeah, I'm still not sure about that myself yet. But you did beg," replied Malfoy with the merest hint of a smile.

"I did not beg!"

"Potter, when you use 'please' three times in a single post, that's begging. Besides, where else would I be?" He nodded to the bartender who, without saying a word, began pouring his drink. When Harry raised his eyebrow, Malfoy explained, "It's my local, Potter. I live just around the corner."

"You don't live at the Manor?"

"With my parents? Oh, yes, that'd be fun." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "But really, why did you owl me?"

"I just wanted to see you again."

"Why? Are there more questions you want me to answer?"

Fair enough, thought Harry. That had been all he'd wanted from Malfoy last time. This time, though, this time was different. "No, no questions. Just ... well, for starters, an apology."

"And what exactly would you be apologising for, Potter?" The smile had all but disappeared. Now Draco's lips were pressed tightly together, a thin, hard line that promised no mercy.

"For leaving like I did. I shouldn't have done that."

Malfoy gave him a hard look, waiting. "Well then?"

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to apologise or not?"

"I was going to..." But now that he was being put on the spot, he didn't want to quite as much.

Malfoy studied him for another long minute, then shrugged as he turned to gaze into his beer. "No matter, Potter. It's nothing you need to apologise for anyway. I shouldn't have put you in that position." He glanced over at Harry. "So I'm sorry. No hard feelings?"

"No hard feelings," Harry repeated automatically. His insides were protesting that this wasn't how things were supposed to go, but Malfoy's mask of coolness had shaken him. He searched for a neutral topic and settled on the man and woman behind the bar, laughing with a customer at the far end. "So this is your local, then?"

"That's what I said."

"I never thought you'd have a Muggle pub as your local."

"Are you kidding me?" Malfoy stared as if he'd grown two heads. "You can't tell this isn't a Muggle pub? Just look around. Think those brooms by the door are just props? And that clock?" He pointed above the door where Harry had overlooked a cuckoo clock with several hands. "Sure, Muggles are welcome, but it's still a wizarding place. Just like all of Greenwich."

Astounded, Harry whispered, "I had no idea." Now that he looked around, he could see other signs of magic: the oversized hearth with the box he was sure contained Floo powder, acorns in the windowsills to dispel lightning, what looked like potions cups on display behind the bar. And he picked out several magical persons, with their eccentric dress that he'd just put down to being academics, from the mostly Muggle crowd.

Malfoy nodded his head toward the bartenders. "Ged and Sally there, they've been running this place for over a century, and Ged's family before that. You wouldn't believe the stories Sally can tell."

As if hearing her name, the elderly woman Harry had spoken with earlier looked over at them and smiled.

"She knew me!" Harry thought with a start. But as a witch, there were even more places that they could have met: the pet shop, the book store, she might even be one of the people that Ron or Hermione had introduced. Still, he had gotten the strangest feeling from her. If only he could remember...

Frowning still, he turned back, almost surprised to find Malfoy studying him again with an odd expression. Harry tried to refocus his attention. "So ... do you like living around here?"

The blond man blinked slowly, then completely ignored Harry's question. "Potter, seriously, what in Merlin's name are you doing here?"

"I told you, I wanted to apologise. And I am really sorry." The words came out easily this time.

But they didn't seem to be enough. "And that's it? You could've just said that by owl."

"That's true, I could have." And Harry couldn't explain why he hadn't. The hard fact was that his life was inextricably linked with Malfoy's, and had been since he was eleven years old, but he could never tell him why. "But I really wanted to see you again ... Draco." Hearing his name, Malfoy visibly softened. He even grinned when Harry added, "Besides, you said next time you'd take me somewhere that would accept your Galleons. I take it they do here?"

"That they do, Harry. And it looks like you need another..."

From that point on, it was easy, just like Harry had hoped. Malfoy was again lively company, and soon had Harry holding his sides at his outrageous stories. Harry relaxed in turn, talking about his job and his friends and his life with a freedom that he rarely allowed himself. It was every bit as enjoyable as their last meeting, and more so, because this time Harry was sure it would end differently.

He grew more confident of this as, over the course of the evening, Draco moved closer and closer. He never let himself come right out and touch. Instead his hand would rest just a little too close to Harry's, his shoulder would lean just a little too heavily against Harry's, his face would come a little too near. It was exhilarating, and it was driving Harry a little crazy.

As payback, Harry started returning these not-touches. For an instant, as he reached for a coaster, he steadied himself by pressing his thigh against Malfoy's. When Malfoy was explaining how wards laced together, something that Harry knew he should pay attention to, his attention was instead focused on the heat—Draco's heat—radiating through the man's robes. While describing how Auror "Smasher" Jones had pushed the other patrons from the bar, Harry gripped his shoulder and held tighter than necessary. And after they'd both had enough drink to excuse any offence, Harry let his hand linger on the other man's arm. He didn't move it away, either, not even when Draco looked down pointedly at it and then cleared his throat.

"What are you playing at, Potter?"

At last, Harry had learned the power of names. He wasn't about to let Malfoy distance himself, not now. "I'm not playing, Draco," he said, tightening his fingers on the luxurious cloth. "I got spooked last time. I can't explain why, but I promise you, it won't happen again."

Draco studied him with that intensity that made Harry feel like a bug under a microscope. "In that case," he finally replied, "I think it's time we went back to my place."

Harry felt an irrepressible grin breaking across his face, and he was terribly happy to see it mirrored on Draco's. They slid off their stools together; Harry started toward the front door only to hear the other man call him back.

"We'll Apparate from the back garden. It's faster."

Harry smirked, but conceded that Malfoy had a point. They'd put this off for too long already. "Okay, I'll be there in a second—I just need to fetch my jacket."

Draco turned on his heel, brandishing his robes as if wrapping himself in midnight. A very distracting move, for Harry wanted nothing more than to forget his jacket and follow him into the night. But somehow he had the presence of mind to make his way to the coat rack beside the front door.

The witch who'd spoken to him earlier was there, wiping down an empty table. She looked up when he passed. "Goodnight to you, Harry Potter."

"Goodnight, Sally." He should have left it at that, but Harry could never bear a secret. Instead he had to ask, "Sally, how is it that you know me?"

"Oh, I cannot remember, I must have seen you somewhere." But a darting glance to his forehead betrayed that there was more to the story.

"No," he insisted, "you know me. You remember, don't you?"

The witch looked nervously around the pub. "I am an old woman, I remember lots of things."

"Do you remember Voldemort?"

Harry knew he'd chanced his arm, but he didn't expect the witch to flinch as if she'd been struck. "That's not a name that many would say," she whispered, "even if they were to remember."

"His name never frightened me. But the things he did..." The witch blanched and Harry stopped. "So you remember what he did, then, he and his Death Eaters."

"Terrible things," she whispered, as if her voice might summon them now. "And people as frightened as they are these days, and with good cause, too."

"But you didn't forget?"

"How could I?" She eased herself down into the chair, and for the first time Harry noticed how old she looked. "But everyone thought I was crazy whenever I mentioned the war. I thought I must be as well. Then, when my daughter married Ignatius MacNair, I had a horrible fit. They even threatened to pack me off to St. Mungo's. I knew I would never get out of there, so I ... I got better."

"You pretended, then?"

"I told them I was confused."

Harry nodded. He'd done the same thing with his friends. But this... "This proves we're not crazy, right? How would we both remember these things unless they really happened?"

"I cannot say. But Harry, even if these things did happen, the world has moved on. Look at you and Draco. I shouldn't imagine I would ever have seen you in here with Lucius Malfoy's boy back in those days."

"Draco!" He was outside waiting, and here was Harry, spooked again. He couldn't go with him now, now knowing what he knew now.

The witch noticed his distress. "You worry for Draco, don't you?"

Harry nodded. "He's a Death Eater."

She shook her head. "Harry, the things you used to know, they aren't how things are now. Whether real or not, there is no such thing as a Death Eater anymore. My daughter adores her father-in-law, and I have to remind myself that he is not the person I thought he was. And Draco ... well, I have known Draco for years and I've never had reason to fear him." She smiled kindly at him. "I hope you do not mind me asking, but have you been together long?"

"Together? No, not ... tonight, just tonight," stuttered Harry.

"Really?" The witch looked genuinely surprised. "Well, I should not've guessed that. You seem so well suited."

"But he was a Death Eater. And even if there's no such thing nowadays, won't he still think like that?"

Twisting her dishcloth, the witch carefully considered his question. At last she said, "I do not know how this happened, or why, and you've given me much to think about. But I can say this. A person may be bound by his past, but he can still change his future. That's true for you as well, Harry. And I see no reason that Draco's future should not be with you instead of He Who Must Not Be Named."

That made a great deal of sense. In just two meetings, he'd already learned that the Malfoy he knew in school was nothing like the man waiting for him now. He had already changed his future, becoming someone that Harry not only liked but also respected. "And wanted," he admitted to himself. And if Harry stopped fearing what had come before, perhaps he could change his future, too.

"Can I visit you again, Sally?"

"Of course you can, it'd be my pleasure." She glanced toward the back door with a sly smile. "But you had best go now. Draco's waiting."

Harry turned to see that Draco had come back into the pub. He hurried to meet him, taking his hand as they passed into the garden.

"Is anything wrong?"

"No," said Harry, leaning against Draco so they could apparate together. "No, I'm pretty sure everything's okay now."



Apparating always threw Harry off-balance. But that was nothing compared to how disorienting it was to come out of the spell in an unfamiliar flat, with Malfoy's arm curved tight around his waist, and with his lips immediately crushed in an urgent kiss. Harry felt dizzy enough to fall over, and probably would have save for the weight of the other's body pressing his back against the door. "Draco..." he gasped.

"Sorry," murmured Malfoy, pulling back a little and letting Harry stand on his own, though not releasing his grip on Harry's arms. "I just don't want you running out on me again."

"I'm not going anywhere," Harry reassured him, wincing as he added, "but there's a doorknob poking into my spine..."

Draco's eyes flew open wide and he spun Harry around, landing so his own back was against the wall. His hands crawled inside Harry's jacket and under the hem of his shirt, cool fingers travelling up the warm skin and pulling Harry closer. "That better?"

"Much." Harry tilted his head back and let himself melt into Malfoy's kiss. Bunching his fingers, he lifted the robe and slipped his hands beneath it. It was hot as fire inside, like heavy air atop a volcano, and eager to be burned Harry ran his palms over Draco's slim body.

Their kiss soon dissolved into moans as both men grappled for bare skin. Finally Draco took Harry's hand and said, "I've a better idea." He led him further into the flat, and when he pushed open the door to his bedroom for once Harry's mind didn't fly to the threats that awaited him with a Death Eater in the dark; they were too occupied with the thought of how Draco's hands would feel all over him. A whispered spell from Draco ignited a hundred candles around a huge four-poster bed, made up with a silver duvet that seemed spun from starlight. Harry was still drinking in the sight when Draco pushed his jacket onto the floor and began unbuttoning his shirt. Harry quickly responded by tugging the soft robes off Draco's shoulders and pressing him onto the bed.

"See? A much better idea," Draco nodded proudly, lifting his head to kiss Harry again.

"You're a genius."

Stretched out on the silken bedcovers, his mouth still covering Draco's, Harry tackled the old-style wizarding clothes that the Slytherin wore under his robe. Several of the boys in Gryffindor had worn them—Ron, too, until he'd outgrown the twins' hand-me-downs and switched to Muggle trousers—but Harry had never had occasion to undress someone wearing them before. Draco's fingernails scratching across his bare nipple didn't help his concentration any. After tugging uselessly at the intricately laces on the shirt, he gave up.

"I have no idea what I'm doing here."

Draco eyed him sceptically. "I really hope you're talking about the clothes, Potter," he drawled before casting the undressing spell. The laces slithered like snakes through the eyelets, leaving his trousers loose and a strip of pale skin gleaming between the folds of his linen shirt. "Need any more help?" he asked mockingly.

Harry pushed aside the linen and, enchanted with the birch-white hair gracing Draco's breastbone, replied absently, "No, I can manage from here, thanks."

Malfoy's answering smirk evaporated when Harry's hand slipped into his loosened trousers. Kisses descended, teeth nipped their way across pale skin, and when Harry's lips slid down Draco's length until they were buried in the silvery thatch of hair, the man's enthusiastic groans confirmed that Harry was indeed managing quite well.

"My stars, Potter, you do know what you're doing," he finally gasped, tugging Harry back up by his unruly hair. Draco kissed him hard then, sucking his own spilled seed from Harry's tongue so forcefully that Harry squirmed against his tightening jeans. Draco took notice and quickly peeled them off, casting them aside as he stretched on top of Harry. The feel of their skin pressed together almost overwhelmed Harry's senses, Draco's hand on his flesh providing the most exquisite friction he'd ever felt. Too soon Harry came, completely unravelled, only to be further undone by the sight of Malfoy above him, sucking the sticky mess from his palm. Illuminated by the candles' shimmering flames, Harry imagined this must be how a fallen angel must look.

He realised he'd been staring too long when Draco caught his eye and grinned. "Glad you stuck around this time, Harry?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Hardly. Here, hold still..."

Draco's quick cleaning spell dried Harry; he repeated it on himself and then erupted with the widest yawn that Harry had ever seen. That was it, the signal that it was time for Harry to make himself scarce. He'd seen it more times than he could count, and he'd used it himself on occasion. He knew he wasn't meant to take it personally. It just meant that both parties had gotten what they'd come for; now sated, they could go their separate ways with never a thought for the other. Making that message even clearer, Draco tugged down the edge of the silver duvet and slipped underneath, sinking deep into the plush pillows.

"Well," Harry thought, "at least there's some light still, I won't be fumbling for my clothes in the dark." His jeans, in fact, were still on the bed, one leg coiled around the far post. He reached for them and had one foot tucked through when he felt a tight grip on his elbow.

"What in the name of Morpheus do you think you're doing?"

Malfoy pulled him back, glowering with betrayal. His glare softened just a bit when Harry stretched out alongside him, but he didn't let loose of Harry's arm.

"I always hate this part," Harry confessed. "I never know what to do next." He reached out to touch Draco's hair, the fine strands sluicing like streams of water through his fingers. "Aren't I supposed to leave now?"

"No," replied Draco, sleepily nudging against Harry's hand like a cat wanting its whiskers scratched. Then he threw his arm over Harry and pinned him to the bed. "I don't think I want you going anywhere for a long time."

Harry kicked his jeans to the floor and slid under the bed covers, into the expanse of heat that Draco seemed to radiate. As he drifted off with the candles still faintly glowing, his last thought was that, from this point on, his future was going to be very different.


Chapter Eight

Certum est, quia impossibile
It is certain, because it is impossible.


"Well?"

"Well, what?"

Keeping one dishtowel spinning on the plates while directing the pans to put themselves away, Ron spared a dubious eye for his wife. "Oh, I don't know. It just seems like something's on your mind."

"You mean about Harry? No."

"Okay." He levitated the last clean plate on top of the others and, with a quick wand flick, shut the cupboard door. "In that case, then I reckon I'll go up to bed..."

"It's just that..."

When she faltered he smiled, knowing the dam was about to burst. "Well?"

"I just don't understand why he didn't tell us."

So this was what had kept her unusually quiet ever since Harry and Draco said their goodbyes. "I don't think he was keeping anything from us. They said they only started going out a few weeks ago."

"No, no, it's not that. I don't care about that. But that he's gay." She slumped into the kitchen chair and rested her chin in her hand. "Did he think we'd mind?"

Ron shrugged. "Maybe he just didn't think it was important. It's not that big a deal—lots of wizards are gay."

"But it is a big deal for Muggles. And Harry still spends most of his time in the Muggle world."

"Well, maybe that's why he didn't want to say anything then."

"But to us? Did he think he couldn't trust us?" She dropped her forehead into her palms. "And I can't believe I tried to set him up so many times."

Ron bit his lip as he nodded. He didn't need to remind Hermione that Harry had hated those occasions. Instead, he rubbed her shoulder gently. "At least now you know why none of them worked out."

She groaned.

"Hey, it's okay," Ron quickly assured her. "He seems pretty happy now."

"Yeah, he does," she admitted, patting his hand. "I'm still worried about him, though."

"Worried?" He sank into the chair beside her. "What's to worry about?"

"I'm just not sure about Draco. Harry's ... he's different, Ron. You know how he's been since his breakdown. I was just so glad when he came back home and we could keep an eye on him, and now..."

"And now it looks like Draco can help keep an eye on him."

"Do you think he will?" Hermione looked very sceptical. "I'm not sure I like him. He seems awfully opinionated."

Ron smirked, but there was kindness behind it. "Sounds like someone else I know."

Narrowing her eyes, she retorted, "You just like him because he's getting Harry on his broom again."

"That may be true," he conceded. It had been nice to see the gleam on Harry's face when he and Draco had arrived for dinner, their hair askew and faces flushed after the flight from London. "But I do think they'll be good for each other."

"Did you not see any signs about this at all?"

"About Harry being gay?" He shook his head. "I should have, I suppose. I just figured he was doing a turn in the Knock."

At first Hermione looked puzzled, then her eyes grew wide as she recognised the allusion to Knockturn Alley's red-light district.

"Besides," Ron continued, "it's not like he hid it from us, once he had something to tell. He seemed awfully eager to bring Draco over."

Ron watched the creases in Hermione's face run through their familiar pattern, frustration replaced first with understanding and then resolve. So he wasn't surprised when she said, "We really should be supportive, shouldn't we? Do you think there's a book on this?"

He laughed. "So Your Best Friend's a Gay Wizard? If not, I’m sure you can write one."

She took his hand, smiling. "And you don't mind this at all?"

Ron shook his head. "I really don't. As long as I don't have to see them naked together." He shuddered exaggeratedly. "I can't think of anything more horrid."



Harry had decided that there was nothing in the world he liked more than seeing Draco naked. A few things came close: Malfoy flying, his lean body melded with the shape of the broomstick ... Malfoy mid-stride an impassioned debate, with tongue sharp as the bite of a whip and mercurial eyes dancing ... Malfoy sleeping, the bedcovers pulled up to his chin, the soft rise and fall of his breath balancing the peace on his face...

But none of that compared to how he looked now, now when he was decidedly Draco—for he couldn't be Malfoy when he was straddling Harry's lap and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, lowering himself onto Harry's cock. Nothing else came close to this sight, with Draco's chest glowing from the sheen of sweat and his expression caught somewhere between pleasure and pain. He looked almost fragile, like fine bone china that could shatter into a million pieces in the wrong hands.

But Harry's hands could never do him wrong. They worshipped Draco's body, cradling the perfect arc of his back as the man finished his descent. Now it was Harry who felt vulnerable, sheathed completely inside Draco, at the mercy of the sensations surging through him as they moved together. He pulled his lover closer, pressing kisses into the scar bisecting his chest, grazing his delicious pink nipple with his teeth, making Draco groan in delight.

The groan deepened when Harry wrapped his hand around Draco's width, his glide matching their rhythm, hastening it, edging them both toward the finish. Tilting Harry's face up for a deep kiss, Draco's snowy hair cascaded down, engulfing them both in its glow. Harry's senses ran together like quicksilver; he saw his lover's muffled words, tasted the shimmering halo surrounding them, smelled the shadows in the curve of his neck. And when Draco speared himself even deeper than before, Harry almost surrendered to the intense jolt of pleasure that spiked from his groin.

"I won't last long," he warned.

"I'll hex you into tomorrow if you come before me."

Heeding the threat he knew was only partly idle, Harry fought back the sensation, concentrating instead on the slick skin filling his hand. He twisted his grip, his fingers curling tighter around the hood, and Draco rewarded him with a shudder that Harry felt all the way to his toes. "Don't stop," he begged needlessly, for Harry had no intention of stopping. His hips rose to breach Draco, his palm slid fast, his jaw clenched against the climax inexorably building. Harry was so intent on the other man that he was taken by surprise when Draco clenched tight around him and heavy spurts of liquid fell on his chest. Covered in his lover's sweat and seed, Harry thrust deep inside, once, twice, Draco's channel so tight now that it stole Harry's breath away. One more push and he himself shattered into a million pieces, clutching the heaving body collapsed on top of him.

Neither man spoke for long minutes. A peaceful quiet settled over the room, broken only by their pants and Harry's whispered cleaning spell. Draco fell to the far side of the bed, seemingly paralysed, but his arm stretched out across Harry's chest.

Harry turned his head to gaze at Draco's profile, baffled again by the idea that he had ever found this man's appearance hateful. The chin he'd thought too pointed, the nose he'd thought too sharp, the pale eyes that looked lifeless ... now he couldn't imagine any features more pleasing.

He wondered what his friends had really thought of him—not that they would have found him as appealing as Harry did, but he hoped that they would take a liking to Draco—he hoped there would be other Saturday night dinners with the four of them, and that he wouldn't need to segregate his friends and his lover. "This isn't the old Ron," he'd reminded himself repeatedly throughout the course of the evening, "and this is nothing like the old Draco." Although there were a few awkward moments—mostly over the care and treatment of the Malfoy house-elves—Harry thought that, all in all, things had gone remarkably well. At least no curses were thrown or even threatened. Quite an accomplishment considering that it had involved a Malfoy, a Weasley, and a Granger!

"Tonight was all right, wasn't it?" he asked.

Draco made a funny snorting noise. "Personally, I'd call that exceptional, Potter, but suit yourself."

"Not that," Harry said, blushing a little, "I meant dinner with Ron and Hermione."

"If you're still thinking about dinner then it really must not have been exceptional."

Harry shook his head. "Believe me, I've got nothing to complain about."

"Good thing. Although if you think we need more practice..."

"I'll be sure to let you know."

Draco spelled off the candles and Harry pulled the silken duvet up to his chin. The room was a comfortable temperature, but Draco's bed was so lush that Harry always made full use of it. Relaxed and sated, he closed his eyes and felt himself drifting off to sleep.

Only to be roused again a few minutes later.

"So I wanted to ask you, about tonight..."

Draco's voice didn't sound at all tired. Unusual, since he was usually snoring softly long before Harry.

"Hmmm?" he mumbled.

"I don't think your friends like me very much."

"Of course they did," Harry mumbled sleepily. "You helped Ron trim his broom. He liked that."

"Yeah, Ron was okay, I guess. But Hermione ... she kept looking at me like ... like a three-headed dog or something."

Harry rolled to his side, facing where Draco would be, if he could have seen him. "Why are you not asleep?"

"It was peculiar, though, how she watched you," Draco continued, ignoring him. "How they both watched you, really."

"They're my friends, Draco. They're just being protective."

"Do they think I'm plotting something diabolical?" Harry felt the bed shift beside him; Malfoy must be agitated enough to sit up. "Harry, why did she keep saying you hated me in school?"

Harry stifled his sigh. "You're really not going to let me sleep, are you?"

"It was true though. You really hated me."

"I told you, we were kids then. We saw things differently. We've already talked about this."

"But she said it three times, like I really needed to get the message. And … I don't know, Harry. It just feels like there's more you're not telling me."

But Harry couldn't tell him. It would have been a relief to open up, now that he knew his memories weren't false. This was the kind of discovery that he longed to share with his lover. But when his lover was Draco Malfoy, the nemesis and foil of those memories, that just was not an option.

Draco took his silence as refusal. "Fine," he said shortly, his voice so distant it could have come from another room. "It's fine to ask me everything you want to know, whether it's your business or not. And I've answered every one of your questions. But you, I ask just one thing, one simple thing, and you..."

He stopped to take an exasperated breath. Harry knew that he should say something to comfort him, but he couldn't find any words that didn't sound like excuses. Sadly, Draco was right.

When it was clear that Harry wasn't going to say anything, Draco continued, more quietly than before. "I think you know I like you, Harry. Quite a lot, actually. You aren't like the dead-eyed people I meet every day. They're so scared, and they want me to tell them they're going to be safe, and I can't do that. But you aren't looking for anybody to keep you safe. You come blazing in with your questions, so curious about everything, and it's absolutely brilliant. But this..." Draco paused, as if gathering his nerve. "This is starting to feel too one-sided, Harry. I don't think this is working, you and me."

Harry had known there was a "but" coming, but he still hated to hear the tone of finality in Draco's words. And he felt sure that his happiness depended on changing Draco's mind. "This is not one-sided, Draco. I swear to you that it's not. I want to make this work—I want to make us work, and I know we can, but it's ... there are just some things that I can't tell you."

"Why? Are you afraid I'll use them against you?" Malfoy sounded more bothered than ever. "Stars, Harry, you could have done that to me a hundred times over. Do you know how many times I've breached protocol with the things I've told you?"

Harry shook his head, forgetting that Draco couldn't see him in the dark. "I'm afraid you'll think I'm crazy."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because I thought I was, for a very long time."

Draco reached out and ran his fingers through Harry's wiry hair, their first touch since this conversation began. "I promise I'll listen to anything you say, Harry. And I won't think you're crazy."

Harry knew if he spoke, he was risking everything on a promise he could never hold Malfoy to. Still, his lover had a right to know, even if it tore them apart.

"I remember Hogwarts differently than you do," he began hesitantly. But the truth was tugging at his tongue, begging to be loosened. He reminded Draco of their first meeting, of flying for the first time, of Buckbeak. He admitted how much he had hated Malfoy and his acolytes when Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad had terrorised the school, and how bad he had felt when he cast the cutting curse that marred his lover's perfect skin. Draco never flinched; through it all he gently carded Harry's hair, urging him to continue.

Harry talked until his throat was raw, but there was always more to say: about Draco's role in Dumbledore's death, and Professor Snape—what he had thought of the man, and what he had done to save them all. The more he talked, the more he realised how mad this must all sound. The hard nights sleeping rough had never seemed so far away as they did in Draco's cosy bed, their captivity at Malfoy Manor was never more surreal. And as he recounted the details of the final battle, Harry felt as if he was reading a page from Hogwarts: A History. "I should have died," he finally rasped, "but instead I woke up in the hospital wing. Voldemort was gone, and no one remembered a thing."

Harry hated how quiet the room got when he finished. Not a comfortable silence like before, but one filled with dread. When Draco spoke, it would only be to tell him to get his things and go. Harry thought of all he'd brought to the Greenwich flat. It would take some time to gather them, and as exhausted as he felt now he didn't think he was up to it. Maybe he could send Kreacher for them later.

"Now I see why you haven't wanted to meet my parents."

The dry words weren't what he expected Malfoy to say, true though they were. Harry realised that Draco must be struggling with how to get this madman out of his home without upsetting him. Harry decided that, here at the end, he could at least spare him that. "It's all right, I knew you wouldn't want anything to do with me after hearing all this. I'd best go now."

Draco's fingers tightened in his hair the instant Harry tried to move. "Potter, you don't have a clue what I want." He exhaled sharply. "I admit, it is hard to hear all this. If I was really like that, then I can't blame you for hating me. I did some terrible things."

"You saved me, too. I can't forget that. Besides, it might not be true..." Harry said quickly, before adding, "although Sally, at the pub, she remembers the exact same things—she remembers Voldemort. We can't both be making it up, could we?" Malfoy didn't reply, and his hesitation was enough to spur Harry to again suggest, "Really, Draco, I think I should go."

"No." Draco wrapped his arms around Harry and held him tight. Harry idly wondered if he should be frightened, if his story had somehow resurrected the old Malfoy who might imprison him and turn him over to his father. But the old Malfoy would never have had a heart like this, beating solid and sure as Harry pressed his face into his chest. And the old Malfoy would never have clung to him as if he couldn't let him go, or leaned his cheek against Harry's head, or whispered, so quietly that Harry almost missed his words, "You're not crazy."

Harry tilted his head up, wishing he could see Draco's expression. "What did you say?"

"I don't know what to think. But I know I don't want you to go." He slid down the pillows, his lithe body moulding perfectly against Harry's. "Please, Harry, don't go."

"All right. I won't."

They stayed like that, wrapped around each other, until exhaustion finally overcame Harry. Draco, he knew, was still awake, and was watching over him.



Hermione's—and by default, Ron's—campaign to show Harry that they supported his lifestyle choice began immediately. She owled the next day to see if he and Draco could help select paint colours for their new kitchen. Draco laughed himself silly at the idea before offering to send Lubby and the other Malfoy house-elves to oversee the remodel. Harry begged off with more decorum, claiming that together they knew less about paint colours than Hermione did about the Quidditch, but arranged that they would meet her at the Leaky Cauldron after work on Tuesday.

It turned out to be the longest Tuesday in recent memory, and by the time he got to the pub Hermione was already nursing her butterbeer by the window. Harry resisted the urge to order a double firewhisky. Draco had promised to be on good behaviour tonight and would not appreciate having to carry Harry home.

"Is everything okay?" Hermione asked, as Harry finished a third of his butterbeer in just one go.

Harry shook his head, wiping the frost from his upper lip. "Remember the snake egg I told you about? The one Mr Critswold didn't know about? Well, he found out today."

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "He didn't hurt it, did he?"

"The other way around," Harry grinned sardonically. "Newly hatched snakes are really snappy."

"Was he bitten?" gasped Hermione.

Harry nodded. "And then he spent ages cursing me before leaving for St. Mungo's. Oh, he's fine," he answered before Hermione could ask. "He came back to rant at me some more. Apparently cobras don't have much venom when they're that young."

"I guess it still hurt, though."

"From the way he was carrying on, yeah, I guess it did."

"What's he going to do now?"

"Well, when he left he told me to kill him, but I couldn't."

"You'd better not!" Hermione exclaimed.

"I didn't!" Harry reiterated. Then he frowned. "But I'm not sure if I shouldn't have done. There's something very wrong about him." The sight of Simbi, cowered in the corner of her cage while her zebra-striped son slithered menacingly around the crate, had not inspired his confidence in the newborn.

"He is an unnatural thing," Simbi hissed when Harry helped her into another box—after what happened to Mr Critswold, Harry wasn't eager to try to move the baby. But he had tried talking to him.

"What is your name?"

The young snake studied him carefully, as if distrusting that a human could speak. At last he said, "You may call me Kalfu."

"Kalfu? That's an unusual name."

The snake ignored him. "My mother says I have no father. Is that true?"

"It is," Harry admitted, "but you do have a mother, you can be grateful for that."

The snake lunged up so quickly that Harry jumped back, forgetting the glass that separated them. "Grateful for that pathetic creature? She's caged and weak. What is there to be grateful for?"

"Simbi is stronger than you know," Harry said defensively, though a quick glance at her dull scales belied his words.

The snake hissed disdainfully and then curled around himself, refusing to speak further, only glaring at Harry when he was moved to the front window.

"Mr Critswold's convinced someone will buy him," Harry explained to Hermione. "He reckons if he can make some money off him, it'll be worth keeping him around. But he made it clear that I'll be the one taking care of him."

"He's just a baby," Hermione insisted. "He was probably terrified of Mr Critswold. I'm sure if you treat him well, he'll come around."

Harry nodded, unconvinced that Kalfu could be terrified of anyone. He was about to say this when he a familiar hawk owl landed on the railing outside the window. Its pale yellow eyes seemed to be scanning the crowd in the Leaky Cauldron; when it spotted Harry, its speckled feathers ruffled with excitement.

"Horus?" Harry turned back to Hermione. "It's Draco's owl—I wonder if something's held him up."

He excused himself to retrieve the message, promising to throttle Draco if he was backing out of their plans. Horus seemed to sense his displeasure and hopped away when Harry approached.

"No, Horus, I'm not upset with you," Harry assured him in the calm voice he'd perfected at the shop. He traded the rolled parchment for one of the treats in his robe. The owl ate it and trilled for another as Harry read Draco's perfect script:

Don't hate me—I'm tied up with work on the Eye and can't get away. Would much rather be there. Your place later?—D.M.

Harry brandished his wand and cleared the page, then signed his reply:

Don't hate you, but you'll have to make it up to me—I'm already imagining how. The Eye?? See you in Stoke.—H.

He rolled it back up and secured it with Draco's green cording. "Here you go, Horus."

The owl purred again as it took the parchment, fluffed its neck feathers, and leapt into the sky. But instead of soaring down the Diagon high street toward the Salus offices, it veered to the right and down the passageway that led to the Ministry of Magic. "What's Draco doing at the Ministry?" Harry wondered.

He wandered back inside the tavern to find Hermione with two fresh butterbeers and a very concerned expression.

"Was it bad news, Harry? Nothing's happened to Draco?"

"Hmm? Oh, no." He shook his head, realising that his expression had worried her. "I'm just a little confused. He said he's stuck at work, but his owl went toward the Ministry."

"Really? I didn't know he was working there. I wonder if he's with Ron's division."

Harry shook his head. "He would have mentioned it if he was, I'm sure. He said he's working on something called the Eye."

"Really, the Eye? Draco's involved with that?"

Harry wasn't sure why Hermione sounded so impressed. He vaguely remembered Draco mentioning it before, but never in a boasting fashion. "What is it, exactly?"

"Haven't you read the Prophet lately?" Harry shook his head. After a brief flurry of interest in the media, he'd been distracted by other things. Or, to be precise, one other thing. Hermione rolled her eyes at him before explaining, "It's going to be the ultimate warding network. All wards will be connected at the Eye, and it will lead straight into the Auror Guard."

"That's the group that Ron doesn't like?"

"That's them," she nodded. "Although if they can keep people safe, then I'm all for it."

"Do the wards work, though? I thought nobody had been caught yet."

"No, that's true. But the warded homes do seem safer—I certainly feel safer with ours. And by the end of the year, Minister Thicknesse has pledged to have 90% of magical homes connected to the Eye."

"The end of the year? But that's just two months away!"

"I guess you won't be seeing too much of Draco, then."

"No, I guess not."

That came out sounding more glum than he had intended, earning him another of Hermione's looks of concern. "But surely he won't be working over the Hallows break," she consoled him. "You'll have lots of time together then. By the way, I saw Parvati Patil at Flourish & Blotts yesterday. She and Padma are throwing a Hallowe'en bash at Wych Hill and she asked me to invite you. Draco's welcome too, she said there will be lots of Slytherins..." She stopped suddenly, clasping her hands over her mouth. "I'm rushing things too much, amn't I? You and Draco might not even be out yet as a couple!"

Harry wasn't sure which question to answer first. In just a few seconds he'd gone from bemoaning that he'd have no time at all with Draco to wondering how they'd fill the long Hallow's holiday and then to coming out to all his old school friends. And actually, that last part concerned him the least. "We're out as a couple. I mean, I suppose we are. We aren't exactly hiding it."

"That's good," she said. "That you don't have to hide it, I mean. Not that you can't if you want to. You should have the same privacy in the bedroom as Ron and I..." Flustered, she wound down, and stared into her butterbeer with a bashful smile. "I'm making a right mess of this."

Harry smiled at this woman that he'd shared most of his life with. She was sincerely trying here, just to ensure that he knew she and Ron supported him. They always had, right from the very beginning, and years later they were still here. He reached across the table and pulled away the hand hiding her face. "You're doing just fine, Hermione. And I know I should have told you and Ron about this before. I just wasn't sure what you'd think of it ... of me, I mean."

"We don't think anything of it, Harry, other than that we're glad you've found someone." She squeezed his hand tightly, adding somewhat dubiously, "And you seem happy with Draco."

"I am, Hermione, I really am. I can't believe it myself." And that was truer than she'd ever know. "Although it feels odd to think about celebrating the holidays with someone. Other than you and Ron, I mean." He smiled fondly at his friend. "So I've forgotten, what was the first holiday you two celebrated together? Officially, I mean, as a couple."

Hermione had her glass halfway to her lips when she froze. "You know, I can't recall." She sat down the glass without drinking, a puzzled look on her face. "Isn't that the strangest thing? I thought that'd be something I'd never forget. Well, it must have been Yule, after the ball—or did we even go together?" Her face screwed up in real confusion. "I must be losing my mind. I can't remember at all."

A chill raced through Harry as he realised the wrongness of this. Hermione never forgot a thing; she was the one to whom they always came for answers. No, something was definitely going on.

But before he could figure out what that might be, he had to take care of his friend. He knew too well how it felt to lose your memories. "It's just slipped your mind, that's all. That happens when you're stressed. You let go of some things temporarily so you'll have room for others." He took her hand again, sliding back into his calming pet shop voice. "You'll remember. You're always going to be the brightest witch of our age."

Her look of worry didn't disappear completely, but she did chuckle. "Nobody's called me that in years!"

"Then we'll have to start again."

She smiled at Harry gratefully. "It is nice to hear. Sometimes working for the Ministry feels a bit like being a rat on a treadmill. There's so much to do, but whenever you start making any progress, your wheel starts spinning and you go nowhere." Shrugging, Hermione laughed, "Oh, listen to me complain. I'm such a civil servant cliché, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are, but we still love you. Now, tell me about this party at Parvati' ..."



Malfoy didn't arrive at Harry's until just after midnight. The loud pop when he Apparated into the flat woke Harry; he'd fallen asleep on the sofa with the Quibbler still in his hand. Sleepily, he looked up at Draco.

"Zeus' balls!" the Slytherin cursed, "I thought I'd never get out of there!"

That roused Harry. He patted the seat beside him, where Draco sank against him and proceeded to try to burrow into Harry's neck.

"I was starting to wonder if they'd keep you overnight," Harry admitted, rubbing the knot in Draco's shoulder soothingly. "You were with the Auror Guard, yeah?"

"Brainless bastards, the lot of them," Draco muttered into Harry's collar. "They think if only they yell enough, the magic will do what they want." He lifted his head and looked at Harry remorsefully. "I'm sorry I bailed tonight. Did you and Hermione have fun?"

"We did, and don't worry about it. I was going to have you make it up to me, but I think I'll go easy on you."

"Too bad. I was looking forward to that," Draco winked. "But you're probably right, I'm not up to much tonight."

"Are you hungry? I could make you a sandwich, or Kreacher could fix something more."

But his offer made Draco cling more tightly to Harry. "No, don't move, please. I don't think I can even make it to bed tonight."

"I'll levitate you then," Harry laughed. "And I've already transfigured the bed so you can't complain about how cramped it is."

"You ruin all my fun, Potter."

The tension in Draco's body seemed to flow out as they sat together, and before long Harry was holding a completely boneless Malfoy, his left arm was splayed across Harry's thighs. In the electric light his tattoo was only faintly visible. It never failed to trigger the alarm bells in Harry's memory, but he was trying as best he could to mute them. Gingerly he traced the outline of the frozen mark, his fingertip just grazing the crown of the scull, the coils of the snake, entranced by the symbol he had dreaded for so long...

"Everything all right, Harry?"

Startled, Harry looked up at Draco. "Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"You just went really quiet, that's all." Draco shifted around so he could see Harry, the arm of his robe dropping to hide his mark. "So did you have any excitement today?"

"Well, the baby snake hatched. Then he bit Mr Critswold."

"He did?" Draco laughed heartily. "Oh, I like this little guy already. Can we keep him?"

"I think Mr Critswold wants to make some money off of him," Harry said noncommittally. After the day Draco'd had, he didn't want to share his misgivings about the snake. "He says his name is Kalfu. Have you ever heard that name before?"

"Sounds familiar." Draco rubbed his chin as he thought about it, then snapped his fingers. "I know, I saw it in one of Father's books on Vodou spirits. If I remember correctly, Kalfu and Legba are the two most important ones. Kalfu controls the evil forces, Legba the good."

"That makes sense," nodded Harry. "Simbi is a Vodou name too. I wish she could've named him Legba, though." "Although," he added to himself as he remembered the older snake cowering away from her young, "Simbi probably had precious little do with his naming. Kalfu suits him too well." "So anyway," Harry asked aloud, "did you finish up at the Ministry today?"

"Hardly," sighed Draco in exasperation. "What they're asking for is impossible. Should be impossible, anyway."

"To connect all the wards to the Eye?"

"The wards are already connected to the Eye. That was done ages ago."

"But..." Harry pointed to the papers. "They're all saying this is happening in the next few months..."

"That's a Ministry cock-up. They let slip to the press that the wards were being modified, and they had to make up something to explain what they were doing."

"Why? Are they doing something illegal?"

"Well, technically, no. But I'm sure that's only because nobody ever conceived that it could be done. And I'm not sure it can. I don't think I can do it anyway, and if I can't, then I don't know who could."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"The Aurors want to spell the wards to reveal every act of magic that takes place. They want notice of who's doing it, where, when—they'd probably want to know why, too, if they could figure out how to do that."

Harry's alarm bells started to peal again. "It's not the same Ministry," he reminded himself, "they're not under Voldemort's control." But still, the sheer amount of surveillance allowed the Auror Guard chilled his blood. "Can they do that?" he asked, hoping that Draco would quiet his fear.

"Well, no, that's the thing. It should be impossible. The wards aren't made to do that. It's one thing to supplement them with potions. That just changes their structure so they're more pliable. But this ... this is like a Prior Incantanto on an entire building. The wards shouldn't be able to do that."

Draco's face was flushed, his frustration palpable. Harry dreaded the thought of him facing this futile task every day for the next two months. Even more, he dreaded that it wouldn't be futile. "You keep saying it shouldn't work. Does it?"

"It might," admitted Draco. "See, the Eye is set up to alert the Aurors the minute an individual ward is breached. It's an incoming signal—it's only supposed to be one-way. But today I found another spell there—an outgoing one. I can't tell what it is, Harry, but it's got none of the protection qualities that are built into the wards. It's something else."

"And it's going out into people's homes?"

"If it works like I think, it affects anyone anywhere in the warded system. And that means that, using this model, I should be able to set up the new one they want."

"But you can't do that!" Harry looked at him aghast. "Somebody's got to do something! You should go to the press—tell them what's going on."

"Are you kidding me? That would kill our business." Draco snorted. "And then father would kill me." He threw a mistrustful, although teasing, glance at Harry. "Are you that anxious to get rid of me?"

But Harry, caught up in his indignation, ignored him. "But they can't be allowed to get away with this. They're influencing the entire wizarding population and nobody knows anything about it! That's a huge abuse of power!"

Draco snorted even louder this time. "They're Aurors, Potter. Most trusted bunch of scumbags in the whole Ministry."

Harry wanted to defend Ron, but he couldn't. If Ron had known about this, even Hermione wouldn't forgive him for keeping quiet. He imagined her righteous anger when she heard what the Ministry was doing. Yes, just tonight she had said she felt safer since installing their wards, but even so, she would never accept this invasion of their privacy.

Thinking of Hermione brought his mind back to their earlier conversation and to her puzzled face as she searched for her lost memories. And that led to a terrifying speculation. "Draco, this spell ... it couldn't make someone forget something, could it?"

"Do you mean like a Memory Charm?" Draco shook his head. "No, you can't Obliviate through a ward. It's a wanded spell."

"But the initial Obliviation fades over time," insisted Harry, who had done his fair share of research on memory spells. "And you can strengthen them without wands—hypnotic suggestion, for instance, or even snapping your fingers."

Draco pinched a long strand of his hair between his thumb and fingers, sliding down the length of it as he always did when lost in thought. After a while, he nodded. "You know, there might be a way for a mental component to be built into the core ward. I'll have to take one apart, I can start on that tomorrow but it'll take a while..."

"Do Ron and Hermione's."

His resoluteness seemed to surprise Draco. "Okay ... any particular reason?"

"They're my family," was the first answer that came out of his mouth, and Draco looked like that would be enough. But then Harry decided to share Hermione's memory loss. It felt harder than spilling his own secrets, but Draco might truly be able to help. Harry was willing to do just about anything for that chance.

So Harry told him all about Hermione's episode at the Leaky Cauldron. "I know what it's like," he finished, "to not remember something you once knew. And whether or not it really happened like she remembered, that's Hermione's memory. I want her to keep it. So if this spell had something to do with it..."

Nodding solemnly, Draco agreed. "You're right, that's not something she'd likely forget. I'll see what I can find out." And then he looked at Harry admiringly. "You know, you really might be on to something, Potter."

As if in agreement, the clock on the mantle chimed one o'clock—and Draco immediately answered with an ear-splitting yawn.

"Need to be levitated to bed now?" asked Harry.

Draco grinned wickedly. "I think I've enough energy to get there myself." And with a surprising burst of vigour, he drug Harry to the bedroom.



When Friday rolled around, Draco was still at the Ministry, growing more aggravated each day. He'd made a little headway on the embedded spell, agreeing with Harry's theory that it was likely a Memory Charm, but he was unable to disarm it or, as the Aurors demanded, recreate it in another form.

"And no one will tell me who set it in the first place. It's like I'm putting together a picture puzzle in the dark."

While Harry sympathized with Draco's frustration, at the same time he felt a hint of vindication. A Memory Charm in every household, keeping the wizarding world unaware of what had happened five years before? For the first time, Harry allowed himself to think that things might change—that people might actually remember. Of course, that brought a whole host of problems upon him, not least of which was his relationship with Draco.

Still, a frustrated Draco was not fun to be around, and the time Harry might have spent dwelling on the future was instead devoted to making sure their evenings were stress-free. Kreacher had pitched in too, ecstatic about doing his part for Master Malfoy. Although their meals had been a bit over the top, Harry couldn't remember ever in his life eating as well as he had in the past week.

As his workday rolled to a close, Harry was unloading two flats of owl kibble and contemplating how to rein Kreacher in. When the clanging doorbell announced someone's entrance into the shop he carried on with his task, only half-listening as his boss greeted the customer.

"Mr Malfoy, it's so very good to see you. What brings you to my humble establishment?"

Harry put the bag down and wiped his hands on his work robes, anxious to see his boyfriend on this unexpected visit, when a long-forgotten voice chilled his very soul.

"Ah, Mr Critswold. I understand that you have an unusual creature here."

"I've many unusual creatures. What's your pleasure, sir?"

Harry crept to the edge of the doorway and peered out. There, towering over Mr Critswold, was Lucius Malfoy. He was dressed in a velvet robe; its ermine trim alone was worth more than a month of Harry's salary. His boss was surely salivating over how much he might take him for. Harry couldn’t care less about that. What took him aback was how familiar the elder Malfoy's features were. The shape of his eyes, the slope of his cheek, even the long fingers clutching the polished cane—these were aspects he had studied in detail on another face, another body. It was deeply unsettling to see them in this form.

At least his saccharine voice was nothing like Draco's. "A snake, Mr. Critswold," Lucius purred cloyingly. "A new hatchling, to be precise."

"Oh, aye, we've a snake—a pair of them, if you like. I can give you a good price."

"The hatchling is all I require." He gestured around the shop. "May I see him?"

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy." They went together to the window where Kalfu was resting in the sun. "He's a fine specimen, king of the cobras. Just born this week, too. Wonderful temperament, perfect for a pet or even protect–"

"I'll take him" interrupted Lucius.

"Of course, Mr. Malfoy. For such a fine young creature, I think 500 Galleons is a fair price."

Harry's jaw dropped. There was no way that Kalfu could command such a high price—and Lucius apparently agreed. He held up a velvet pouch, shaking it so Mr. Critswold could hear the gold inside.

"Here are 300 Galleons. Thrice the going rate for a single egg, which is more than fair compensation for your efforts in hatching him. Do we have a deal?"

Mr. Critswold hesitated only for a second before taking the pouch. "I'll have my assistant put him into a travel carrier for you." Harry ducked further out of sight just as his boss bellowed, "Potter!"

Harry didn't dare breathe as Mr Critswold continued to call and eventually curse his uselessness. He couldn't see anything now, but he did hear Lucius' mocking voice quite plainly.

"There's no need to trouble Mr. Potter. I should be able to manage a young snake." Harry heard a quick Stupefy and then the sounds of the rock-hard snake being knocked against the sides of the aquarium. Then Lucius said, "Thank you, Mr Critswold. You've been most accommodating."

"The pleasure was entirely mine, Mr Malfoy. Please do come again if there's anything else you require."

With the doorbell clang, Lucius exited the front door ... and Harry fled through the back. He needed fresh air badly—maybe he'd held his breath too long, or maybe the thought of betrayal was what had tightened his chest, making it impossible to inhale. For surely it was Draco that had told Lucius where he could find the snake. And surely, if there was anyone who would have some desire for a malevolent snake, it was Lucius Malfoy, Voldemort's right hand, first among the Death Eaters.

"But Draco doesn't know the snake is malevolent," insisted the tiny sliver of rationality remaining in Harry's mind. "He only knows that he bit Mr Critswold, and he doesn't fault him for that." On the contrary, that had inspired Draco to ask if they could keep him. Was this perhaps Draco's plan, to have his father buy Kalfu ... either to keep for himself, or to gift to Harry later?

His breath was starting to return when Mr Critswold pushed his head through the door. "What in the blazes are you doing out here, Potter? I've been calling you for ages!"

Harry rubbed his sweaty forehead with the arm of his robe. "I was moving the kibble and I needed some air. I'm almost done ..." He looked at his boss and said guilelessly, "Do you need me to do something?"

"An owl brought this for you, didn't stay for a reply." He handed Harry the rolled parchment. "You can read it later—I'm taking off and you'll need to close up the shop. I want you to finish clearing these flats, and the vulture still needs feeding before you go home. Oh, and I sold your snake. I told you some fool would buy the wretched creature."

He returned to the store, and Harry followed. Quickly he levitated the remaining bags of owl food into their shelves and tossed a few unsuspecting mice into the black vulture's cage, and then unrolled Draco's note:

Change of plans—emergency Walpurgis meeting this eve. at the Manor. Might be my chance to discover who's behind this blasted charm. Afterwards Mother will surely want me to stay over. Promise I'll make it up to you tomorrow.—D.M.

Harry read it twice to be certain, but there was no mention of the snake or his father. Just Death Eaters congregated at the Manor and Draco in the middle. Harry couldn't just leave him in that pit of vipers—he had to get to him somehow. But how? Apparating was out of the question, he would never get through the wards at the outer gates. He shuddered to think of his last visit there, of the contorted shapes and the unearthly face that kept guard. But he could stand there and face it, for Draco...

But what if that was their plan? What if Draco had orchestrated this façade to get close to him, to draw him in and undermine his defences? What if they had all known he would come to save his lover and they were lying in wait for him? He might arrive to find the entire Order of Walpurgis, wands drawn, with Draco at the helm...

"No," barged in that voice of reason, sounding petulant for being ignored for so long. "This is Draco, your Draco. You've trusted him with your secrets. You've trusted him with your friends. And he's given you no reason to doubt him. This is just Walpurgis, this is just his business, and there's nothing malicious about it. Besides," his rationality insisted with its stubbornly indisputable logic, "if he'd meant you harm, he could already have killed you twenty times over."

Although his fears weren't completely extinguished, Harry felt slightly calmer as he closed up the pet shop and left Diagon. Once home he knew he'd quite likely go stir-crazy, but he tried to take things one step at a time: shuffling into the rush hour traffic on Charing Cross Road, queuing up for the 73 bus, and packing in with all the other passengers as they lurched their way north.

The bus was standing room only. Harry wedged himself between two businessman, one leering at the Sun's page three girl, the other poring over The Financial Times. A little girl was seated facing him, dressed in a bright pink parka, holding out her bright pink gum for him to see. Harry smiled absently at her, willing the bus to hurry so he could retreat into his solitary fretting.

"Draco is fine," he kept repeating as if to convince himself. He'll no doubt be bored stiff at the meeting, and if he doesn't fall asleep himself he'll have stories of one of the Death Eaters that did. He'll mingle a bit afterwards, hopefully get some leads on the spell, maybe talk with his father about the snake. Then he'll come home tomorrow loaded with chocolate biscuits, spoiled to the core, and probably wanting me to wait on him like his mother does."

He was feeling a little better by the time they reached Albion Road. A seat opened up and Harry squeezed himself in beside the little girl. She gave him a gap-toothed smile and reached her sticky hand up toward his forehead.

"AAAAAGGGHHH!"

Harry screamed as violent pain slashed through his body like a burning dagger. Not a headache—no, it was more like every cell in his head bursting in rapid succession. He clutched his forehead, the source of his agony, screaming louder when his flesh came away burnt. Lurching erratically, he slammed his head into the window behind him, then fell forward onto the floor of the bus. Other screams joined his, calling for the bus to stop, frantically moving away from him.

Through the red blur of pain he saw the little girl who'd been whisked away to safety. She stood a few feet away, safe in her mother's arms, and stared at him. Before Harry lost consciousness he was certain he saw her blue eyes turn to blood.


Chapter Nine

In partibus fidelium
In parts inhabited by believers


"Millicent!"

The tall witch, hearing her name, turned away from the mannequin in the dirty shop window. She glanced up the busy street, then back down, but didn't see anyone who might have been calling.

"Milli! Over here!"

From across the road a petite woman waved frantically. Millicent gasped as her friend dashed in front of a car, almost getting knocked down before making it safely to the pavement beside her.

"It's a good thing the hospital's handy."

"Oh, Millicent, darling, don't scold. It's been ages since anyone's seen you. It's fate that's brought me here."

"Fate, Pansy? Or the Covent Garden Market?"

"Okay, you got me. But look what I found!" She opened her lavender cape to show off the vibrant fuchsia scarf adorning her neck. "Madam Malkin's really should carry things like this. Her accessories are so uninspired, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know," shrugged Millicent. She gestured toward the white lab coat covering her pale blue hospital scrubs. "This is all I've worn for years."

Pansy screwed up her nose. "I'm sure being a Healer is rewarding and meaningful and all, but really, Milli, could it be worth this?"

"We can't all be as shallow as you, Pansy love," Millicent teased. "Besides, it's better than scourgifying entrails out of silk." Pansy pulled a face, making her friend smirk. "So tell me, how were your holidays? I missed everything! I was on a course in the States and they hardly celebrate over there."

"That's terrible! Hallow's is my favourite time of the year." She sighed, "This one was quiet, though. My parents were in Carpathia. And Draco..." she rolled her eyes.

"Oh, no, what's he done now?"

"He's moping, the poor lamb, ever since he got dumped. I couldn't even get him out on Hallowe'en."

"Dumped?" Millicent smirked. "Well, that's a switch. Isn't he the one usually doing the dumping?"

"Oh, definitely. In fact, I believe this is his very first experience as dumpee. I keep telling him to get back on the broomstick, but he won't stop pining for Ha–"

"Healer Bulstrode, you're needed in Admitting immediately. Healer Bulstrode to Admitting."

The mannequin's lips didn't move when it relayed its message, but its blank eyes were staring directly at her. Millicent nodded and quickly hugged her friend.

"Sorry, Pansy, must run. We'll catch up soon, yeah?"

Without waiting for an answer Millicent stepped through the glass into the busy reception area. Ignoring the waiting patients, she hurried to the admittance desk.

"What've you got, Martin?" she asked the Mediwizard levitating a gurney that carried a man about her age. Despite appearing to be fast asleep, the patient was strapped down with industrial-strength Muggle restraints. "Are those really necessary?"

"We picked him up like that," the Mediwizard explained. "The Muggle Liaison found him hidden away at St. Ann's. He'd been there for a week or two so Merlin knows what they've done to him. His brain could be right addled—just your specialty, eh, Millicent?"

She ignored him as she waved her wand over the patient. He didn't stir, not even when she peeled back his eyelids and peered into his lifeless green eyes. In fact, he looked so still that she had to place her hand on his heart to convince herself that his heart was even beating.

"Thanks, Martin. I'll take it from here."

"Sure thing," the Mediwizard replied, handing her a clipboard containing a thick stack of paper as he left. Millicent leafed through a few pages; it always baffled her how Muggle doctors could know so much about their patients, and still not be able to do a thing to cure them.

"Oh, I forgot something," Martin said, wheeling around on his heel. "You know how you've got that whole ward of 'war survivors.'" Millicent nodded. The sixth floor ward, as much as they tried to keep its existence secret from the general wizarding population, was a thing of notoriety among St. Mungo's staff. "They all mention this Harry Potter fellow, yeah? Well, look here..." He tapped the name at the top of the clipboard. "This bloke says he is Harry Potter."



Although it had been years since Harry had awoken in a wizarding hospital, as soon as he opened his eyes he recognised the distinctive smell: tangy redcurrents and rich, dark chocolate, and that slightly artificial freshness that comes from too much Scourgifying. It should have been a relief after weeks in the Muggle hospital, where antiseptic odours made his stomach churn and prodding nurses never let him rest. Magical bindings tight around his wrists, however, undermined any sense of comfort he might have felt.

"Hello?" he bellowed to the shapes moving like ghosts beyond the curtains. "Hey! Get me out of here!"

Almost immediately a young nurse peeked in. "Oh good, you're awake. You need your glasses, don't you, poor dear?" She got them from the night stand and slid them over his ears. "There, all better. I'll let Healer Bulstrode know you're up now."

The curtain whipped shut again, leaving Harry to survey his surroundings. There was little to see, just three walls of charmed cloth dividers that almost but not quite kept out the murmur from the ward. The wall behind was as dingy as the ceiling above. Without a doubt, he was in St. Mungo's. But why?

Before he could examine that question, the curtain whipped open. A tall witch carrying a clipboard entered, a warm smile spreading across her broad face. "Harry," she said, "it's good to see you're finally back with us."

Harry narrowed his eyes as he studied the Healer. He was accustomed to doctors and nurses feigning a friendly rapport, but this witch actually looked familiar. "Do I know you?"

"You used to," she said, her smile growing as she stepped closer to the bed. "We had Potions together for years. I'm Millicent Bulstrode, I'm a Healer, and you're at St. Mungo's. Harry, do you remember anything about how you got here?"

"Not really," Harry shook his head. "I know I was at the Muggle hospital. They kept giving me stuff to make me sleep..."

Millicent nodded, flipping through the chart. "Yes, they seemed to think you might be some kind of a threat." She frowned as she read. "Do you remember attacking a little girl?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed in surprise. "I wouldn't have done anything like that!"

"Yes, well, Muggle reports are rarely accurate," Millicent said, setting the chart aside and drawing the wand from her pocket. "And I don't think those are necessary anymore." With a wave the restraints disappeared. "I'm sorry we had to leave them on so long, it's just procedure on this floor. We don't want to risk anyone getting hurt."

"It's okay," murmured Harry, rubbing his sore wrists. "How did I get here?"

"Our Muggle Liaison found you. We have a patient exchange agreement. We often send them Squibs when we can't treat them ourselves, and if they come across any magical persons they turn them over to us. It usually doesn't take this long, but apparently you were very uncommunicative. Do you remember what happened?"

She cocked her head at Harry, an expression that faintly recalled his school days. It was probably meant as an engaging gesture, something that Healers used to help their patients feel secure. But it reminded Harry of a broad-faced girl glaring at the Gryffindors over steaming cauldrons. And that reminded him of Draco, which sent a rush of panic through him. There was some reason he wasn't supposed to think of Draco ... something he wasn't supposed to think of Draco...

"You remember something, don't you, Harry?"

He did remember. He remembered excruciating pain pouring from his scar, a vision of unholy red eyes, a cloyingly sweet voice. He remembered Sally sharing her same recollections, and he remembered a whispered assurance, so soft he might have imagined it, that he wasn't crazy. But he couldn't say any of this. He'd endured years of ignominy for his memories; he wouldn't go through that again.

Worse, what could he say to this Slytherin if, as he feared, Voldemort had returned? Would she deliver him directly to her Dark Lord?

"I just remember passing out," he lied. "I got dizzy on the bus—that happens sometimes, I probably just stood up too quickly. But I'm much better. I'd like to go home now."

Madam Bulstrode shook her head. "I'm sorry, but that's not possible. You can only be released you into the custody of an authorised person."

"An authorised person? Who's authorised?"

"I can't tell you that, I'm sorry. The authorised people know who they are. They would have to come to collect you."

Harry sat up straighter. "But you can't hold me against my will!"

"I'm afraid we can," the Healer insisted. "According to Ministry Decree 893, St. Mungo's is charged with housing anyone whose actions or convictions might be a threat to the general stability and security of wizardom."

"That's ridiculous!" insisted Harry, his voice rising. "I'm no threat! I work in a pet shop!"

"Please, calm yourself," Millicent drew her wand. "I don't want to bind you again, but I will if I must."

Harry patted down his pyjamas and then his eyes darted to the bedside table.

"You're looking for your wand?"

He nodded, feeling utterly helpless without it.

"That's the other reason for the delay—you weren't carrying a wand. That's usually the first thing that tips off the Muggles. Even if you were, though, you wouldn't get it here. Magic is strictly forbidden on the sixth floor." She patted his shoulder kindly. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Everyone does. And you'll be treated very well. Now, if you're up for it, I'd like for you to join the others in the dining hall. Lunch will be served soon. You'll find fresh robes in the wardrobe by the lavatories..."

"Wait, you said the sixth floor ... there's no sixth floor here."

"Oh yes, Harry, there certainly is."

With a flick of her wand, Madam Bulstrode vanished the curtains surrounding Harry's bed. Suddenly he found himself in the biggest ward he'd ever seen. It stretched before him, more than quadruple the size of the ward where he'd visited Mr. Weasley, and filled with at least fifty beds. Some were occupied, others neatly made, but the majority appeared to have been left in disarray as if their residents had fled without warning.

"I know it must seem a bit overwhelming," the Healer said kindly. "It will take a little while to get used to things, but everyone is quite friendly ... and I'm sure they'll all be thrilled to meet you." She smiled mysteriously for an instant; then reverted to her previous professional self. "I'll leave you to it then. You'll find the dining room along the left-hand corridor, just past the lavatories; the ladies' ward is on the other side, you'll need to stay clear of there. And Harry, if there's anything you need, anything at all, don't hesitate to let one of us know." She smiled once more before leaving his bedside.

Harry considered pulling the covers back up over his head, but when his stomach protested with a huge growl he swung his legs off the bed. A pair of thin slippers waited under the bed, and with them on he padded toward the door labelled "Wizards." A row of uniform white sinks greeted him inside, with a single full-length mirror at the end. Opposite the sinks was an open cabinet stuffed with towels, robes, and pyjamas, all in the same dingy grey flannel of the pyjamas he now wore. On the other side of the cabinet were showers and stalls. Like the larger room outside, this one had no windows. Light seemed to emanate from the beige ceiling, lending the whole place the air of an overcast winter day.

Harry shrugged out of his pyjamas and into a fresh robe, trying in vain to flatten the creased material. "Good thing Draco can't see me," he murmured to his reflection with an absent smile, only to feel his knees buckle under him as he realised what he'd said. "Draco!" he thought as he steadied himself against the porcelain sink. "What must he be thinking?"

Harry had been missing for a week, maybe more. Draco must be looking for him. The Slytherin was determined, and much smarter than Harry had ever given him credit for back in school. It was only a matter of time before Draco tracked him down and got him out of here.

Unless Draco believed he'd gone of his own volition. Surely he wouldn't think Harry had run from him again?

"No," Harry reassured himself. "We're well past that. Draco will come." And Ron and Hermione, who were no doubt just as worried. They would find him.

If they knew to look for a hospital wing that didn't exist.

Overwhelmed by the feeling of panic scratching persistently on the edge of his mind, Harry sank to the cold tile and wrapped his arms around his knees. "Get a grip," he scolded himself. "There's got to be a way to get a message to somebody."

"Oh, I assure you, there's not!"

Startled by the too-perky voice, Harry looked up to see a man gazing at him. His face was lined with wrinkles, but in his eyes there was still a bright twinkle of life.

"Who are you?"

The man folded himself into an elaborate bow. "Silas Featherstone, at your service. And you, young man, must be new here. First newcomer in nigh on six months!"

Harry nodded miserably. "What is this place?"

"This is the place for the forgotten, for those who never forgot," he mused, lowering himself to sit beside Harry with an ease that belied his age. "Also known as St. Mungo's Ward for the Mental Victims of Natural Disasters, although you'll never hear anyone call it that because no one knows we're here. 'Mental victims,' isn't that the cleverest phrase? Although..."

Harry waited for the man to continue, but he'd become enchanted by his wiggling toes. Harry could almost understand why. Unlike the rest of this dingy place, his feet were garbed in every colour in the rainbow, each individual waggling toe striped with a different shade.

A bit hesitant to interrupt the wizard's reverie, Harry asked, "Have you been here a long time, Mr. Featherstone?"

"Call me Silas, my boy. We're all friends here. Have to be, we're all we have. And yes, I've been here since shortly after the so-called natural disaster, which those of us here know as the night You Know Who was defeated."

"You Know Who!" Harry exclaimed. "You mean Voldemort?"

Silas recoiled as if Harry's words had burned him. "You Know Who may be gone, but there are few who'd be comfortable using his name like that."

Harry brushed the back of his hand against his scar, remembering how it had reignited for the first time in years. "So you've all been locked up because you remember what happened?"

"Precisely," said Silas, as if Harry had just made a profound discovery. "'For the general safety and security of wizardom.'" He didn't sound at all troubled by this pronouncement; in fact, he sounded quite proud of. Harry wondered just how addled his brain had gotten in this ward.

"And you've all been stuck in here for five years?"

"All of us? Oh, goodness no! There were only a handful of us at first. Just a hand, full of hands." He waved his fingers now in front of Harry's face, wiggling them even more than he had his toes. "They kept us in the spell damage wing at first. Even tried their best to cure us," he shook his head, chuckling fondly, "but we were beyond hope."

"Didn't anyone ever try to escape?"

"Of course, once or twice. I even made it out myself once, all the way back to Dingwall. Thought my dear wife would be happy to see me, but she called the hospital and next thing I knew, I was back here. Oh, Celia, how I miss that old bat..." he sighed wistfully. "She had hair black as coal, and she'd tie it back with these ribbons, red and gold."

"She was a Gryffindor?" asked Harry, entranced as the wizard's fingers wound invisible ribbons around his own unkempt hair.

"Aye, that she was, and the loveliest witch in all the school. I couldn't believe my good fortune when she gave this old Hufflepuff the time of day."

Harry smiled at him with pity. "Why did she send you back?"

"Said it was for my own good, she did. Of course, that was in the days when the Healers were still saying they could help us. 'Clear our minds,' they promised, then they'd send us home. But no minds ever cleared, and nobody ever went home. And more and more of us trickled in, hands upon hands upon hands. When we'd outgrown the ward downstairs they moved us up here, must be going on three years now."

This made sense, Harry realised. Whatever Obliviate spell had been used, it was an insidious one, stronger than any he'd ever discovered in his research. But obviously, it hadn't worked on everyone. And as time wore on, its potency diminished and memories were revived. But he couldn't help wondering why they hadn't just been Obliviated again.

Now Silas turned to Harry, scrutinising him carefully. "And now you've joined us, happy days, with all your hands and your lovely news from the outside. You'd best come meet the others." The man sprung to his feet, surprising Harry again with his agility. With his thick grey mane and his ludicrous socks and his nonsense talk, he reminded Harry of Dumbledore. "I reckon you'll be very popular … I'm sorry, young man, what did you say your name was again?"

"I don't think I said," Harry answered, wondering how to beg off without being rude. He wasn't up to meeting anyone else, not just yet. "I'm Harry Potter."

For years, his name had garnered no reaction. He'd grown used to that anonymity. He'd forgotten what it felt like to be recognised by strangers. That all came back to him now.

"Harry Potter!" Silas exclaimed, grabbing Harry's arm and pulling him into the ward. He scrambled onto a nearby chair and shouted out, in a voice that boomed throughout the massive hall, "Everyone, look! It's the Boy Who Lived!"



Harry had never been comfortable with celebrity, and celebrity had never been as constant a companion as it was during those first days in St. Mungo's Ward for the Mental Victims of Natural Disasters. Now everyone wanted to meet him, examine the scar on his forehead, stare into the eyes of the Boy Hero. And everyone knew his life story—or at least they thought they did. A wizened blue-haired witch asked after the kindly Muggle family who had taken Harry in and taught him magic after his parents were killed. A wizard whose gruffness reminded Harry of Snape insisted that Harry come clean about his attempt to overthrow You Know Who and rule the Death Eaters himself. And Olive and Hester, two young witches that Harry half-remembered from Hogwarts, swooned over him and begged to hear all about his tragic romance with Hermione. It seemed that each one of the eighty-eight residents had a different version of the battle of Hogwarts.

Including one version that he didn't expect.

"We should've killed you ourselves, Potter."

Gregory Goyle had changed little in the years since Hogwarts. Oh, he was a bit thinner—while healthy enough, the meals at St. Mungo's weren't as sumptuous as those at Hogwarts—but meanness still gleamed in his deep-set eyes and his scowl was as bitter as ever.

"As I recall, you tried," Harry countered, adding with a sly smile, "You would have if Draco hadn't stopped you."

Goyle narrowed his eyes into paper-thin slits, whether with malice or confusion Harry couldn't say. "You ruined everything, Potter. After you were dead, I was set to take the Mark. My father had arranged it. And you had to go and ruin it."

"Yes, Goyle, I'm so sorry I didn't die so you could become a pigeon-brained toady," Harry retorted, forcing himself to stand his ground when the Slytherin moved closer. He didn't have the height on Harry that he'd in school, but his menace hadn't diminished a whit. "You really ought to be thanking me for that."

"Thanking you?" His thick neck flushed fire-engine red. "It's your fault we're in here, Potter. I don't know what you did, but you fucked things up somehow. And every single person locked up in here has you to thank."

Harry almost doubled over from the Slytherin's foul breath in his face. Hygiene apparently was not at the top of the man's priorities. "Piss off, Goyle. I didn't do anything."

"You're a liar, Potter. This is your doing—you and that Mudblood's. And when I find out what you did..." Goyle didn't finish the threat, but the way he rubbed his knuckles left Harry in no doubt of his meaning. He stomped away, leaving Harry confused and shaken.

It wasn't that he feared Goyle would attack him, or that he could pin what had happened on Harry. Goyle was still the thick-necked moron he'd known at Hogwarts and Harry was certain he could win a battle of wits—or hold his own in a fight. What bothered Harry was the faintest hint of doubt that he was innocent in all of this. For so many years he'd been convinced that he was the only one affected. Now he was with eighty-seven other people whose lives had been destroyed. And who knew how many were still living with these memories outside?

What if he had been responsible? Harry wracked his brain to remember every detail, right up until he offered himself to Voldemort. Even without being Obliviated, the natural passage of time had blurred that night's events until they were barely recognisable as his own memories. But he was as certain as he could be that he'd done nothing to trigger a spell of this magnitude.

Still, he couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that he'd been involved, somehow.

It wasn't as if anyone else blamed him. Silas was right in saying that they were all friends here. In fact, Harry had a deep suspicion that a powerful cheering charm was cast every morning with the crowing of the ward's magical rooster. Like the other inmates, Harry sprang from bed with a renewed sense of optimism. He knew he wasn't as upset about his confinement as he should have been, and as the days ran together he had to remind himself that he should be finding a way to escape. But more and more, he was filling his time just as the other residents did: sessions with the Healers to see how he was "socialising," playing the games the orderlies organised, and reading from the sizeable library of mostly Muggle paperbacks.

Night-time was different. Although a slumbering charm stilled the residents after they were tucked into their beds, not a night went by that Harry wasn't awoken by dreams more troubling than ever before. Voldemort featured most prominently in them. Sometimes he had the reptilian features that had chilled Harry at the elder Riddle's grave. Other times he bore the face of the young Tom Riddle, with that unsettling union of innocence and malice. And still other times he had no face at all. These were the nightmares that woke Harry in a cold sweat, for as much as he tried to run from the featureless mass, two red eyes would inevitably draw him forward, paralysed and voiceless, and always so utterly helpless.

But sometimes Harry wasn't alone. Woven in and out of his darkest nightmares he often found another soul shining like a moonbeam. In his dreams Draco was on his side, offering his hand to pull him from the abyss, hiding him under his cloak as Voldemort hunted for them, flying beside him as they escaped into the air. Only, Draco never escaped. After some moment of distraction, Harry would remember to look for his lover, only to find himself alone with a dread certainty that he was gone.

Harry never fell back asleep after this kind of dream. Instead he would lay awake as the night ticked on, listening to the creaking bedsprings and sleeping breaths of eighty-seven people, and resolving to get himself out. Somehow.



"Are we leaving today, then, Harry?" joked Silas, as he did every morning when he passed Harry at the breakfast table.

"Might be, Silas, might be—if you're not too busy playing checkers."

Days passed, then weeks, and before he knew it Harry was celebrating his first month in St. Mungo's. No one else had been admitted since and, like his fellow patients, Harry was starving for news of the outside world. So when a careless orderly left behind a few pages of The Daily Prophet in the women's toilets, the event was akin to a national holiday. A top-secret national holiday, that is, one that couldn't be celebrated openly. Harry was on pins and needles all afternoon, convinced that the orderlies would discover the reason for the buzz electrifying the ward. But they were oblivious, even when night came and the patients climbed into bed like kids on Christmas Eve.

Harry fought against the sleeping charm weighing down his eyelids until he heard the all-clear signal from the lookouts. As one, the men made their way in the dark to the lavatories, where they were met by the women. The lavatory doors were propped open, creating a narrow triangle of light illuminating Callandra Osgoode, the oldest witch in the ward. She held the coveted pages in her hands, but waited patiently until the whispers quieted away. Then she spoke.

"I know we're all excited about this unexpected news. Please remember to thank Penelope Leggott next time you see her." She held up the broadsheets, and then divided them. "We have four pages," she explained, "two front and two back. Silas will take one for the men, and I'll take the other. Everyone will get a chance to read their page, and then we'll swap. Is that understood?"

She paused dramatically as the room murmured in agreement.

"This is from yesterday, December fifth, so it's as current as we're likely to get." Callandra took on a matronly air as she added, "We have all night, so I hope everyone will remember that, and be patient and polite."

"Thank you, Callandra," said Silas as he took his pages from the witch. "All right, lads, follow me, follow me..."

The men trailed after him into the men's room, with the women marching in parallel step into the ladies'. Harry found himself bouncing on his toes, adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

"News news news," sang Silas merrily as the men settled around him on the tile floor. "You know the drill: I'll read an article aloud, then hand it off to someone else. When you're called, pick your article quick quick, while the news is still new." His rainbow-coloured toes wiggled gleefully as he scanned the pages. "Now, we've got Quidditch or the front page. What do we want first?"

"Quidditch!"

From the unanimous whispers and the hushed laughter that followed, Harry knew he wasn't the only one feeling giddy. It didn't matter that Quidditch was long out of season in Britain, or that normally he wouldn't have given two flips about the Brazilian team's loss to the Argentine underdogs. He and the rest of the wizards listened keenly, memorising every detail about players they didn't know and might likely never hear of again.

Silas passed the paper to Robert Coopersmith, who read Rita Skeeter's short piece on Ludo Bagman, holding up the paper so everyone could get a good look at him mugging with Barry Ryan, the English coach. Benedict Falls was next, drawing a chuckle from the crowd for reading the weather forecast, followed by Samir Verma, who turned to the front page for Deborrah Mason's crime report from Diagon Alley.

Harry had always disliked the Prophet's sensationalist accounts and hated that now he was hanging on every word. The reporter truly was fishing for stories, though, keeping up a state of fear despite crime dropping to nearly nil. She attributed that to the diligence of the Auror Guards. This caused a stir of dissent among the men, many of whom had been brought in by the Guards.

Amid the men's cries of "wankers" and "fucking peelers," Samir finished the short article and handed the Prophet off to Ambrose Garibaldi.

"Oh, no, no," Ambrose protested, "I didn't bring me specs. Here," he said, thrusting the paper into Harry's hands. "You've got young eyes, you give it a go."

"Sure," agreed Harry, fingering the cheap newsprint as if it were made of spun gold. Already open to the front page, a headline caught his eye: "Eye Completed; Minister Ushers In New Era of Security." Underneath was a large photograph of Thicknesse surrounded by five Aurors in dress robes, pumping the hand of the one in the middle. "Minister Thicknesse compliments the Auror Guard on a job well done" was the caption. Harry cleared his voice and began to read.

"'Witches and wizards can rest easy in their homes tonight,' Minister Pius Thickness promised the Council of Concerned Witches when announcing the completion of the world's most advanced security system. 'Through generous private support and the cooperation of companies like Salus..." Harry's voice faltered on the name of Draco's company and he had to start again. "...companies like Salus Securities, Britain's wizarding community now has the finest protection available from the Auror Guard..."

"Fucking Guards again," interrupted a voice in the crowd, but that wasn't what made Harry's voice disappear. That was caused by the tail end of the moving image, just as the Minister turned away from the camera, when a figure behind them darted in and out of view. For a split second he stared directly at the camera—directly at Harry—with a familiar sneer that stole Harry's breath clean away.

"He did it, then," Harry thought, waiting for the images to roll through again. "He figured out the spell." And though part of him dreaded to think what the Auror Guard could do with such unrestricted power, another undeniably larger part was filled with pride over Draco's accomplishment.

The photograph cycled through once more, Harry grinning stupidly at Draco's open contempt, before he was interrupted. "What's up, Potter?" Goyle demanded to know. "Forget how to read?"

When Harry looked up with a shaky smile, Silas chuckled. "Kneazle's got his tongue. Don't worry, son. If you want someone else to read for you..."

But Harry gripped the paper tightly. "No, I can do it." Shakily he picked up where he'd left off, hardly paying attention to the words. It was just the Ministry's usual hot air, after all, with Thicknesse boasting about months of tireless effort as if he'd been the one single-handedly casting the wards. Harry tried his best to time his reading so he could glance at the picture just as Draco came into view.

Too soon he finished the article and, with an aching heart, passed the paper on to Tommy Tuttle, the youngest wizard in the ward. He hardly heard another word, too absorbed with the scornful expression he'd seen on the page. Was Draco's glare meant for the photographer or the Guards? Did he know the mysterious benefactor who backed the Auror Guard? Had it been a hard slog in the end or had he figured out the spell quickly? Did he look weary or was that just Harry's imagination?

Once the paper was finished and Silas went to swap, the men jumped into conversation. Normally Harry would have loved to join in, but tonight he moved to the corner and crouched alone by the wall. In his head he kept replaying the brief image, an endless loop of two steps and a sneer, and he dared do nothing that might weaken it.

The second half of the reading was much like the first. Almost everyone had a chance to read something—even Goyle butchered a piece about broomstick making in the Orkneys—until at last they finished the very last piece.

"Lovely job, lads, lovely job," Silas praised them. "Now it's back to bed with all of you. The cock will crow far too soon."

As the men wandered sleepily out, yawning with every step, Harry approached Silas. He had decided to ask if he could keep the picture of Draco, but was shocked when sparks flew from the old wizard's finger and ignited the paper. Silas winked when he saw Harry staring at him. "Looks like I've still got it!"

"Why did you do that?" asked Harry, aghast.

"Can't risk being caught, my boy." He dropped the conflagration into the sink and watched it crumple into ash. "We find a paper every month or so. It helps when the orderlies are unorderly. We wouldn't want them to be more vigilant, would we?"

"No, definitely not..." Harry said, turning away quickly and forcing his way through the gridlock of men threading their way through the door. "Sorry ... excuse me..." He had to reach Callandra before she ignited her paper, destroying the first glimpse of Draco he'd had in weeks. Breathless, he swung the door to the ladies' toilets open, pulling himself up short when Olive O'Leary, who was reading the Quidditch story, smiled bashfully at him.

"Can we help you, Harry," Callandra said in a not-at-all-helpful voice as forty women glared at him disapprovingly.

"Um, I just need to see the front page again ... when you finish, I mean," Harry stuttered. "Please ... don't destroy it."

His desperation must have been convincing. "I'll bring it to you after we're finished."

Harry nodded and retreated as gracefully as he could. Pacing back and forth, he waited until the door opened and women streamed out. Callandra was one of the first, and she looked at him sharply as she held out the paper.

"I shouldn't have to tell you that you can't keep it."

Harry tried not to snatch it from her too greedily, but already the picture was halfway through the cycle and any second now Draco would come back into view. Harry waited until he had appeared and then vanished before looking up at the witch. "I know, but I ... I just needed to see him again."

Her look softened just a little. "This is someone special to you?"

"Very special." It was almost time for Draco to appear again, and Harry's thumb brushed the edge of the photograph right where he knew his lover's face would pop into view. "Can I keep it for a little while? I promise to destroy it before morning."

Callandra considered his offer, and then nodded. "When the rooster crows, your time is up." She started away, then looked back. "Don't make me regret this, Harry."

He nodded solemnly. "I won't."

Harry returned to the men's lavatory, his eyes fixed on the photograph as it scrolled. He wished he'd counted how many times he'd watched for Draco, as if knowing the number of second-long glimpses could somehow make it add up to a real memory. He started counting then, but lost track after the first sixty or so, when he'd run out of fingers and toes and exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. But he kept pacing, watching, trying in vain to see what the picture couldn't show him: who now laid claim to Draco's loyalties?

It was a growing awareness that at first he tried to ignore, but sometime around his hundredth viewing Harry could no longer avoid comparing this obsession to the Mirror of Erised. He was content to spend the night here, staring, just as he had with the vision of his family a decade ago. And as Dumbledore had warned him then, he couldn't dwell in dreams and forget to live.

It was with this realisation that an idea struck Harry. After watching Draco wind past his sight one last time, Harry made his way into the men's ward. From his bed he counted carefully until he stood beside a snoring mass.

"Goyle, wake up," Harry whispered, shaking him hard.

"Not time, Ma ... more sleep."

"It's not your Ma, it's Harry. Potter," he added, tugging at the blanket curled in Goyle's fists. "Goyle, get up!"

"What the hell do you want, Potter?" growled Goyle.

"I have something to show you. C'mere."

Complaining in a voice loud enough to wake the other inmates if they hadn't all been so exhausted, Goyle plodded after Harry. In the lavatory's light his normally beady eyes disappeared altogether into a squint, but when he opened them again Harry held out the photograph.

"I wanted you to see this."

"What in Merlin's name ... why do you have a picture of Dick and Al?"

"Who?"

"Dick Warrington and Algernon Montague. They were a year ahead of us," Goyle said in an annoyed voice, pointing out two of the Auror Guard. "Of course you wouldn't remember them, Potter. They were only in Slytherin," he snorted, "not good enough for you and your wonderful Gryffindors."

Harry peered at the picture. They did look vaguely familiar, though he'd never have picked them out of a crowd. As he stared, Draco's head popped out and caught his eye. "See! There, that's who I wanted you to see ... damn, he's gone."

Goyle glared at Harry. "What are you playing at, Potter?"

"Nothing, just watch..." Harry tapped the edge of the picture where Draco would appear. "Watch ... just another second ... there."

As if on cue, Draco took his step before the camera, glared, and then slipped behind the Aurors. And Goyle's head snapped up to stare at Harry. "Draco?"

"Draco," repeated Harry, smiling, just taking pleasure in saying his name aloud.

Goyle nodded and then turned back to the photo, waiting for another round. He chuckled the next time Draco appeared. Then he looked back up, frowning. "Why are you showing me this?"

"I thought you'd like to see him, that's all. I know he was important to you."

"He was ... he was my only friend ... after..." Goyle broke off and glared at Harry. "What are you doing with this? Draco despises you, Potter."

Harry shook his head. "No, he doesn't. We got to be friends," he smiled down at the picture. "Very good friends."

Goyle was silent for a long while, going through several cycles of the image. Harry knew the wheels turned slowly inside the Slytherin's head, so he wasn't surprised to see a look of horror spread gradually across his face. "Draco and ... you?" he spat out in disgust.

"I'm afraid so," Harry admitted. "Draco's the reason I want to get out of here."

Goyle stared at the photograph without speaking. Harry knew what he was going through. Although, maybe he didn't. The Slytherin had been locked in here for five years. He'd known who this boy was; he had no idea about the man he'd become. Harry could at least share that with him. "He's doing well," Harry offered. "He lives in Greenwich and runs a company with his father. He's a rotten businessman but he loves what he does, and he's the best at it. He still flies as much as he can—still handles a broomstick like nobody I've ever seen." It felt good to talk about his boyfriend like this. Later, Harry could go back to worrying about Malfoy's loyalties and the mark marring his perfect skin. For now, he grinned as Draco sneered again. "He's the smuggest bastard I ever met and sometimes I think he's the smartest wizard alive."

"I always thought he was," Goyle admitted. "I'd have flunked out if not for him."

Harry thought that was the extent of the Slytherin's conversation, but after a long silence he went on. "After the battle, when everybody forgot, I didn't. Everybody else thought I was nutters, even my own parents—they're the ones put me in here—but Draco never did."

They stared at the picture together until Goyle's ear-splitting yawn shook Harry from his thoughts. "I promised to destroy this," he said. "We can't risk the orderlies finding it." The Slytherin nodded; Harry realised that he knew this routine; he'd been through this many times before. They watched together one last time, and then Harry shredded it and flushed the pieces away.

"Thanks, Potter. That was decent, showing me that," conceded Goyle as they left the lav and stumbled back to their warm beds.

Surprised, Harry stammered back, "Yeah ... no problem, Goyle. Goodnight."

"'night."

Exhausted, Harry crawled beneath the covers, certain he would fall asleep as soon as he shut his eyes. But despite knowing there were precious few minutes before the cock crowed, his mind was spinning. Random images sped through his mind: Death Eaters in a ring, the Minister's ingratiating smile, Lucius Malfoy holding a pouch of gold, Crabbe screaming in agony—they all flickered past, mimicking the picture he'd stared at for hours. The only thing that made them finally stop was the phantom pressure of Draco's cheek against his head, and his whispered words. "You're not crazy."


Chapter Ten

Diem perdidi
Another day wasted


"Ready to go, Harry?"

"Just give me a minute, Evie."

Evie hadn't been working at the hospital for long, but already she'd become a favourite among the sixth floor residents. She reminded Harry of Gabrielle Delacour all grown up. She was nearly as petite—Harry towered a full head over her—and her features were as delicate as a Lladró ballerina. With a bright smile that frequently dissolved into giggles, she seemed much younger than her 18 years. She'd been especially kind to him, and Harry suspected that she might have the inklings of a crush; her giggle became slightly more pronounced when his eyes were fixed on her. It made him hate what he was about to do, but he could think of no better way.

Each Monday morning for the past five weeks, Harry had thrown a dingy grey dressing gown over his dingy grey pyjamas and, accompanied by an orderly, padded down two flights of service stairs to Healer Wane's office. Their times together were spent mostly in comfortable silence, with the witch exercising that practiced patience found only in psychiatrists and lion tamers. Occasionally she might ask if he was sleeping, if he was eating enough, and Harry couldn't help thinking that she must be a wonderful mother.

Meanwhile, Harry was going through each potential escape route. More than once he longed to have Hermione by his side to notice the tiny details that he was bound to overlook. Or Ron, to give him courage when the hospital's charms sapped his will and made him wonder if staying here might not be so bad. But even the thought of his friends helped him focus. From the windows in the Healer's office (charmed, but possibly breakable) to the fourth floor ward's main door (supposedly locked, yet Gilderoy Lockhart had somehow gotten through), he painstakingly catalogued each possible exit. Finally, with the fervent hope that Hermione would approve, he decided the best way out was in the stairwell as a single orderly walked him down.

Today, when he saw little Evie Hellespont was on duty, he knew it was time.

Harry stretched, pleading with his charmed bones to shake off their lethargy. Catching Evie's eye on him, he flexed again, and even threw in a flirtatious wink. "Merlin," he silently groaned, "now I'm channelling Draco." Which was probably a good strategy, he reminded himself, knowing the Slytherin would have stopped at nothing to get out of this place.

"Ready for me now?" he called, grinning as she blushed and led him from the ward. The girl opened the door with a whispered "Alohamora", not noticing the intensity with which Harry studied her wand motion. Such a simple spell, but so much depended on the movements accompanying this all-important word. It had been weeks since Harry had held a wand, and to become familiar with a new one ... well, he doubted he'd have the same luck that he'd had with Draco's. And today was not a day to take anything for granted, he reminded himself, watching closely as she slipped her wand into the right-hand pocket of her scrubs. He pointedly refused to think about the bright butterfly embroidered onto it or the doting mother who'd taken the time to decorate her daughter's uniform.

"Stop at nothing," he reminded himself. "So what do you think of the new Weird Sisters album, Evie?" Harry asked pleasantly as they started down the stairs. He'd caught her humming their summertime hit many times.

"Oh, it's brilliant!" she gushed. "'Potions in Motion' is the best song ever! Every time I hear it on the wireless I want to stop what I'm doing and dance."

"You've got to see them live!" exclaimed Harry, mimicking her enthusiasm. "When they played at Hogwarts everybody was on the dance floor." Except him and Ron, of course, but he didn't feel it necessary to add that detail.

"I'd love that! They doing mystery shows now and nobody knows where they'll show up next. Maybe I'll get lucky."

"I'm sure you will," agreed Harry, dropping his voice low. "When I get out of here, I'll take you to a show." When Evie giggled nervously, Harry felt like the most loathsome creature alive. "I mean it, Evie. I want to dance with you in my arms all night."

As he'd hoped, her step faltered, and Harry took advantage of the slip to grip her arm. He reached his other hand up to tuck a strand of stray hair behind her ear. She stared at him so intently, her sweet doe eyes melting at his smile, that she didn't even notice when his hand dropped to the handle of her wand.

"You're too good for this place, Evie," he said earnestly, an instant before throwing her to the floor. She reached for her wand, then stared up at him in horror when she realised what had happened.

"Stupefy!"

Harry had waved the wand exactly as he had always done with his, but instead of going stiff the girl merely slumped as if she was asleep. "Great," he thought, "the wand isn't recognising me. It must not like how I won it." Not that he was especially proud of that himself.

Harry spared a regretful glance at Evie before dashing down the steps. He raced past the fourth floor with scarcely a glance at the door, rounded another corner to the third floor, a few more steps, the second. He'd just started down to the first floor when voices floated up from below.

Harry backed up, swung open the second floor door, and ducked inside. He'd hoped to stay out of sight until the stairwell was clear again, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when an unpleasant voice squawked behind him.

"I say, you're not supposed to be here! Do you want to catch Scrofungulus?"

"No, no, please be quiet," Harry whispered desperately to the ghoulish man glaring from the portrait, but it was too late. A stout Healer was already making her way towards him.

"What are you doing he–" The Healer's voice broke off as she took in Harry's outfit. Immediately he tried a Silencio spell, but Evie's wand just sputtered like a car out of petrol.

"Security!" she yelled. "We have a runner! Stop him!"

Harry barged out the way he'd come, flying down the steps faster than any Firebolt could carry him. In seconds he'd passed the first floor and was halfway to the ground floor—and the outside world—when sirens screeched through the halls.

"Crap!"

The doors below were flung wide and through them burst two burly men in Auror robes. Harry turned on his heel and raced back up the way he'd come, narrowly beating them through the door. They were gaining, though, their grunts coming ever closer. Harry knew with all certainty that he couldn't get away. Now he was running for the sake of running, passing shocked patients and frowning Healers alike, just running like he would keep doing until they inevitably took him down...

"Impedimenta!"

The third Auror appeared before him, seemingly out of nowhere. His curse sent Harry hurtling backwards, straight into the waiting arms of his two pursuers. They gripped his arms so tightly he couldn't move, although when the third Auror stepped closer with a cruel smile, Harry did his best to slink away. He recognised him as one of the ones featured in the photograph with the Minister ... with Draco ... but in that picture he hadn't looked quite so menacing, quite so intent on crushing anything that got in his way...

"There, there, that's quite enough." Healer Smithwyck rushed forward and inserted himself between Harry and the Auror. "We appreciate your assistance, but this man is still one of our patients. Now if you'll just help me get him upstairs..."

The Healer cast a sleeping spell and fatigue greater than any he'd ever known overtook him. As his hand went lax, Evie Hellespont's wand fell to the floor.



The very next day found Harry in Madam Wane's office for a special counselling session. This time it wasn't Madam Wane asking him questions, but Millicent Bulstrode. Even before his return to the ward, Harry'd had difficulties separating this Psychical Healer from the girl who'd terrorised him and his friends in school. Now, as she invited him to share his feelings, Harry slouched in the armchair, not even gracing her with a response. His eyes were fixed on the spectacles in his hand, on the lazy orbit of the frames as he rolled one of the arms between his thumb and forefinger. Their lurching rhythm was strangely soothing, bordering on hypnotic. Harry wasn't hypnotized, though. He was trying hard to rein in his temper and wishing, not for the first time, that he'd paid more attention to the Muggle magic show they'd seen for Mr. Weasley's birthday. Arthur had thrilled with delight at even the most transparent illusions. As entertaining as the night had been, Harry would've given the whole of his dwindling Gringotts vault to know how hypnotism worked and how he could use it to mesmerise the Healer.

Millicent, however, remained stubbornly unmesmerised, and just as dogged about getting him to talk. Unlike Madam Wane, who could patiently sit through an entire hour without a single word, Healer Bulstrode only managed to go a few minutes before breaking the silence.

"Keeping your feelings bottled inside isn't healthy, Harry. Are you sure there's not something you'd like to talk about? Anything we can help you with?"

Harry jerked his head up, eyes blazing, somewhat gratified when she had to blink to regain her composure. "Well, you can let me out, for starters," he growled.

Millicent frowned. "I'm afraid that's not possible. You're still exhibiting antisocial tendencies that could be very harmful in the world outside—to you as well as others. And your latest actions only confirmed that. We will keep working on those, I assure you. In the meantime, we should focus on building your life here. I know it's an adjustment, Harry, but we want to help. Many of our residents become very comfortable and start thinking of the ward as their home."

He snorted loudly, but she only looked at him with a forced patience that was meant to be calming. It had the opposite effect. Fine, he thought, if she wants to talk ... "Okay, I have another question."

"Go ahead."

"Why do I have to talk to you? Where's Madam Wane?"

"Healer Wane has been temporarily removed from your treatment. Of course, I'll share our notes from this session should the Hospital Board decide to reassign her." She gestured at the charmed quill transcribing their session. "But it was felt that it might be beneficial for you to speak with someone else, maybe gain some new perspectives. And since I've studied socialisation behaviour, it was decided that I'd be the most qualified to work with you." When Harry snorted dismissively and crossed his arms, Millicent asked, "Is there some reason you don't wish to speak with me, Harry?"

"Other than that you were part of the Inquisitorial Squad terrorising Hogwarts, you mean? You'll excuse me if it's hard to believe you're suddenly all about 'helping people.'" Even as Harry's fingers formed the abhorrent air quotes, he knew his reaction was irrational. He didn't hold a grudge against Draco, after all, and he'd been the most ardent of the bunch. But Draco wasn't the one keeping him prisoner.

"I see," mused the Healer, obviously not seeing a thing. "And did you often feel that you were being persecuted by your classmates?"

Harry gave her a hard look before answering, "I didn't feel anything, I was persecuted. And I wasn't the only one—we were all targets."

"And you called us..." She stole a quick glance at the parchment. "Ah, yes, the 'Inquisitorial Squad'?"

"That's what you called yourself—or, more likely, what Umbridge called you. I doubt you were clever enough to think it up all by yourselves." At her blank look, Harry recited the facts in a mundane voice. "Dolores Umbridge, Ministry stooge, sent to take Hogwarts control away from Dumbledore. Your little band of thugs enforced her educational decrees."

"I remember Professor Umbridge, Harry," Millicent admitted, tapping the magical quill to add something to her notes. "Did you not like her? I always thought she was our best DADA teacher."

Harry curled his left hand into a fist but didn't answer. With his skin stretched tight he could still make out the faint words carved there. If there was ever a time to follow their instruction, it was now.

The witch watched Harry's face, waiting for a response, but finally gave in to her curiosity. "All right then. Well, I don't remember this ... gang. Would you like to talk about it? Who was in it?"

"In our year, besides you, there was Parkinson, Goyle, Crabbe ... and Draco, of course. Draco was the ringleader."

"Draco ... Malfoy?" asked Millicent.

"Right, Malfoy." And although Harry fought against it, he could feel the hint of a smile creep up as he said his lover's name. In the past few days he'd talked about Draco more than in the whole month preceding ... and with the most unlikely people imaginable. He steeled his face, not wanting Millicent to notice anything.

He needn't have bothered. When he glanced up, she was scribbling down something else, and only folded her hands when she saw him watching. "And we—these Inquisitors—enforced Professor Umbridge's rules?"

"Her decrees, yeah. Well, they were the Ministry's decrees."

"And you felt you were being persecuted when the Ministry's official decrees were enforced?"

Harry shook his head. "You're twisting it around. We were at war then—innocent people were dying, Muggles and Muggle-borns, and the Ministry wouldn't even believe Voldemort had come back. The decrees were just stupid. Not letting us learn to defend ourselves, not letting teachers talk to us ... we were being set up to be killed.

"Voldemort? You haven't mentioned that name before. Who is that?"

"Voldemort, You Know Who, the Dark Lord, Tom Riddle." Harry sighed to hear his singsong voice—he'd been spending far too much time with Silas. "He Who Must Not Be Named was the most powerful wizard in the world, and I was supposed to defeat him. And I know you think that's ridiculous, but it's the truth. It's what happened."

"Other residents have mentioned 'He Who Must Not Be Named.' Why do you think you've personalised him like this?"

"Personalised him?" Harry chuckled mirthlessly. "You can't not personalise someone who's been trying to kill you since you were a baby. I would have loved for this not to be personal, Bulstrode, but I didn't have much say in the matter." He shrugged, his irritation thinly veiled. "Oh, what does it matter? It's not like you believe a word I say anyway. You could never understand what it's like to see your best friend cruciated, or watch people you care about struck down..." He paused as the image of Crabbe came to him unbidden. "...or even know how bad you can feel when someone you hate dies. It's not something you can un-personalise. It's about as personal as you can get."

Lines of frustration furrowed Millicent's brow. Harry wondered if he could ever see his former classmate as more than a captor, but it was fruitless. More than ever, his imprisonment chafed like ill-fitting shoes. No matter what he said, he would always be the crazy one, the "mental victim," and wasn't Silas right when he'd said that was a clever term? The sixth floor residents were victims of their own mental competence; the ones that would forever judge them were the ones called sane.

"I wonder..." mused the Healer in an overly soothing tone that made Harry wonder whether some textbook had told her to keep the nut-jobbers talking, no matter what they said, "whether we might find it more productive to turn to your life after Hogwarts. What happened after you graduated?"

"I left for a few years, saw the world, came back. What's there to say?"

"What about your career? You worked in a pet shop, I believe. Is that what you wanted to do when you were in school?"

"No, I didn't want to work in a bleeding pet shop!" snarled Harry. "I was all set to be an Auror, but I didn't have the marks because I was chasing all over the country trying to stop the Death Eaters. I worked in a pet shop because it was the only place I could find work, and I wasn't going to sit around and be some useless layabout living off my dad's money."

The witch swallowed uneasily. "Well, what about your personal life, then? What did you like to do with your friends? What were the things that made you happy, Harry? If we can figure that out, then we can start building a rewarding life here, with us."

"Happy?" Harry nearly spat the word back in the witch's face, his incredulity making it sound obscene. The nerve she had, to even ask this, to even intrude on the memories he clung to, more precious than gold. "What made me happy was going down to the pub with my boyfriend and then going home and fucking his brains out. And I don't see how you can help me build anything close to that here."

Harry was impressed that Millicent masked her surprise so well, although an awkward smile did give away her embarrassment. "Well, certainly relationships do develop here in the ward, and we try to facilitate them as much as possible."

Harry slammed his fist down on his leg. "I don't want another relationship! I want Draco!"

"Draco? Draco ... Malfoy?"

"That's right, Draco Malfoy." As if hearing Harry's call, an image descended upon him, just a brief glimpse of happiness, of Draco. His body glistened, arching towards Harry like a kukri knife polished to a silver sheen. Harry steeled himself with this vision and, crossing his arms, refused to utter another word for the rest of the session.



Browns in Covent Garden did a booming lunchtime trade, with business professionals outnumbering the tourists and theatregoers who flocked there in the evening. In the converted Westminster Courts, amidst potted palms and marble columns, deals were brokered and schemes shaken on. It was the kind of place where the stakes were so high that two young women could dine virtually unnoticed ... so long as no one overheard their unusual conversation.

"...so even though it's the absolute perfect gift for Granmere, Mama's making me return it. So what if it is Muggle-made? Honestly, doesn't the Ministry have better things to do than telling us where we can and can't shop? Next thing you know, they'll be telling us we can't eat here anymore, and then where will I get my chocolate fix? There's not a place in all of Diagon makes anything like this. But does anybody care? "

The woman waved her fork, laden with a brick-sized chunk of chocolate fudge brownie, to punctuate her point. When her friend didn't respond, Pansy frowned. "Have you even heard a word I've said?"

The other woman nodded absently. "Um ... yeah, I didn't know about that though. Did the Ministry really ban Muggle shops?"

"Haven't you seen the Prophet lately?"

"Not for a few days..." In truth it'd been longer than that. Between work and studying for her Psychical Healer certification, Millicent had little time to keep up with the news. She figured she'd overhear anything of worth in the hospital corridors. And Pansy could fill her in on the rest, as she was doing now.

"Well, the latest Ministry decree forbids magical persons from patronising businesses owned or operated by Muggles. And even Muggle-born shopkeepers have to go through some rigmarole to get approved. Don't see how they can really enforce it, though."

"The decrees were just stupid." Millicent's patient's voice echoed in her head, while aloud she said, "I don't understand. Why would they want to do that?"

"Merlin knows," shrugged Pansy, "but my parents are behind it all the way. They're such hypocrites. Father even tried to stop me from going clubbing on Saturday."

"Really?" Millicent smirked. "And you went anyway, didn't you?"

"Of course I did. And I reminded him that he bought Mama's anniversary ring from Harrod's."

Her friend chuckled, but it was a hollow sound. Concerned, Pansy asked, "Really, Milli, what's up? And don't tell me it's nothing. I've never seen you like this—you've hardly touched your cheesecake!"

"I don't have an appetite. I guess I've got too much on my mind," replied Millicent, rolling a strawberry around on her plate.

Pansy's fork lashed out like a viper to snap up the rolling strawberry. As Pansy chewed it thoughtfully, she studied her friend's expression. Suddenly her eyes flew open wide. "Millicent Blanche Bulstrode, you sneaky witch! I have seen you like this before—in sixth year, when you were sneaking around with Adrian Pucey!" Her dark eyes gleaming, she demanded, "So, who is he?"

Millicent laughed. "You couldn't be further off the mark, Pansy. Until I finish my cert I don't have time for any relationships."

"Oh, don't be absurd, Milli. I'm not talking marriage here, just a tumble. It'd be good for you."

"Thanks and all, but that doesn't really interest me."

"Ah, I knew it! There's someone serious! C'mon, spill!"

"No, Pansy, really..." She sighed, knowing that when her friend latched onto something like this, it was as useless to try to stop her as to convince a hound to abandon the scent of a hare. "All right, if you must know, I've been thinking about Draco..."

"Draco? Oh, no, Millicent, no, no, no." Pansy shook her head so vigorously that her dark bob snapped like bullwhips in her face. "He's not looked at a woman in years. And the way he is now ... no, you'll just end up getting yourself hurt."

"What? Oh, Merlin, no, I'm not interested in Draco!"

"But you said..."

"I said I'd been thinking about him, not that I'd been thinking of shagging him."

"Well, that's a relief. But whyever would you be thinking of him?"

"It's just something a patient said to me this morning ... made me think of how you said he'd been dumped. It's been a while now, is he any better?"

Pansy shook her head sadly. "To be honest, I'm worried about him. Poor dear hasn't been the same since Harry up and disappeared on him. I wish I could find that scumbag. I'd disappear him so thoroughly he'd never be heard from again."

Her friend grimaced. Pansy had no idea how close she'd hit to the truth. Instead she continued, unaware. "When I saw him last week he was in such a mood. Brooding, like he used to do in school, but it felt ... darker somehow. He kept saying he'd done bad things, terrible things..." The witch frowned at the memory. "I probably shouldn't be telling you any of this. You know how Draco is, never wants anyone to spot a weakness."

"It's all right," Millicent assured her. "I promise I won't tell a soul." But the memory of what her patient had said about the Slytherins was too fresh and she had to ask, "Did he say what these terrible things were?"

"No, not in so many words. He just kept saying he'd too far gone, and that there was no hope. No way out, I think he said. If it was anybody else I might be worried he'd off himself, but Draco would never shame his family like that."

"Are you sure about that?"

Well, yeah ... I think so. Don't you remember how he'd always go on about what it meant to be a Malfoy?" Pansy squinted curiously at her friend. "Why would you ask that, Millicent?"

The witch was spared her answer when the waiter stopped by with their bill. She was relieved; she couldn't share all she'd learned during her studies as a Psychical Healer, the stories of the wizards who'd been driven to desperate measures—horrible things they would do, too, when they thought there was no way out save Dementors or death. Not that Draco was in that same boat, not at all. Millicent was certain that their old friend could never be capable of the things that forced others to disgrace themselves and their families for generations to come.

But what did it take, really? Harry Potter said they'd been at war, after all. Millicent didn't believe him, of course, the man was delusional. She dealt with delusional patients every day, ones who believed that Muggles had been viciously murdered, that bloodthirsty killers had escaped from Azkaban, that vigilante "snatchers" had wandered the country like some rogue bounty hunters ... these stories and more were traded throughout the ward, spreading like some nightmarish contagion through the residents' fragile minds. Not for an instant had she ever thought they could be true. But now, for some reason, Harry's accusations had caught hold of her imagination and weren't letting go.

What if they'd caught Draco in the same way? If Draco was living with that guilt now, thinking his actions had caused Harry to flee, it must be tearing him up inside. Was the Malfoy name enough to help him weather that? Or might that responsibility weighing on his shoulders just make things worse?

Millicent's musings were interrupted when she realised her friend still waited for a reply. "Oh, it's nothing," she said with feigned levity, reaching for her handbag. "I'm sure Draco will be fine. Time heals all hexes, right?" To avoid Pansy's stare she turned to her wallet, pretending that she needed to look when really she could expertly sort the pound coins from the Galleons by touch. When she stole a glance up to see Pansy doing the same, she breathed a sigh of relief.

The last thing she wanted was her friend to get involved in what she was about to do.



Millicent hadn't visited the Diagon quarter for well over a month. It being just a few weeks before Christmas, she wasn't surprised to find the shops gaily festooned, their magically dressed windows inviting her to press her nose to the glass just like she had as a child.

But she wasn't prepared for the signs she saw displayed in every shop window proudly proclaiming "Guaranteed Muggle-free" and "Galleons Only Accepted Here." As she hurried past Djinni's Dessert Den, where in typical wizarding fashion the finer chocolates had a distinctly medicinal flavour, she remembered Pansy's dire prediction that they'd soon be banned from their favourite Muggle haunts. The wizarding world was changing, and she feared she wouldn't like how it turned out.

And that was why she was here today, pulling her cloak tighter against the biting winds and merry shoppers of Diagon Alley, in search of the friend who'd agreed to meet her in the wine bar across from his office. Millicent knew that what she was doing could change everything, although she couldn't with any certainty explain why she felt this way. She also couldn't quite explain why she was doing it. She'd never have considered herself a rebel, but she was a Healer, grounded in a family tradition going back more generations than she could count. It came naturally to her to want to ease suffering, and Draco was clearly suffering.

And then there was the guilt she tried to ignore. As one year passed, then another, the sixth floor ward had simply grown larger with no one being cured, and she'd begun to question the rightness of her work. She truly believed her patients needed help. They'd been touched, Harry more than any of them. She had yet to see another patient with such an advanced persecution complex fed by paranoia. But none of the patients were ever really treated. They were just ... disappeared. And they left behind husbands, wives, children, and friends to forever wonder about them.

At least she could put one friend's mind to rest.

Draco sat alone at a small table, a full glass of wine before him. As soon as he saw her, he rose and kissed her cheek.

"Milli, you're looking beautiful tonight. The hospital suits you."

"You're too kind," she replied, blushing. Draco always could lay it on, but insincere or not she was one of the many who fell prey to his charms. Unfortunately Millicent wasn't able to return the compliment. Draco looked like he was recovering from a protracted illness. His face was too pinched, too pale, making the shadows under his eyes stand out even more. Surprisingly for Draco, who always banked on his appearance, he hadn't bothered to conceal them with a glamour. Whether this was because of their long friendship or a sign of his general apathy towards the world, Millicent couldn't be sure.

"Thanks for meeting me. I know it's short notice."

Draco shrugged. "I was surprised to get your owl, but you said it was important. Would you like some English wine?" He pointed his wand toward the carafe and it rose to pour a watery pink liquid into her glass. "Plonk de plonk," he grumbled quietly, then added loud enough so that anyone in the bar could hear, "but whyever would we want those Muggle-tainted French wines when we have such delectable wines from our own wizarding vintners?"

Millicent braced herself as she lifted her glass. It was vile plonk indeed and she could well understand why Draco's glass was untouched. "Delicious," she said, smacking her lips with a barely concealed grimace.

"So it's been ages since I've seen you, Milli. The last time must have been Pansy's midsummer celebration."

"That's right. Nearly six months now, I guess. Are you doing anything special for this solstice?"

A shadow stole across Draco's face, just the faintest flicker, and then disappeared. "Oh, you know, something always comes up, doesn't it?"

One of Draco's typically cryptic answers. The man was the exact opposite of Pansy. Where her best friend's exuberance made it nearly impossible for her to conceal a secret, Draco's caginess made it nearly impossible for him to share one.

"It always does, yes."

They made small talk for a few minutes, with Draco enquiring about Millicent's brother in the States and telling her about his mother's winter garden. It was pleasant enough conversation, but to Millicent it felt off somehow. Draco seemed distant. His smile was too cold, too polite, as if he'd erected a wall around himself and nothing was getting in or out. She wondered if the news she'd brought might help breach it. Sipping her terrible wine for courage, she decided to dive right in the next time the conversation lulled.

"I guess I should tell you why I wanted to see you."

"Why Milli, how utterly Gryffindor of you."

Draco's droll smile was only a mask to conceal his curiosity, Millicent suspected. She leaned forward and said in a voice only slightly above a whisper, "I know where Harry Potter is."

Draco's wall seemed to crack. It was only for a fraction of a second, and he rebuilt it immediately, but through the jagged fractures Millicent thought she recognised surprise and what she thought might be longing longing. For an instant, she was certain that she'd done the right thing in telling him.

And then he asked, in a voice cold as the winds outside, "And why would I care a fig where he is?"

"He's only saying that because he thinks Harry left him," she assured herself. "Once he knows the truth, he'll want to know." "Because he didn't leave like you think he did," she assured him quietly. "He didn't have any say in the matter."

Millicent watched carefully to see if her words sparked some reaction, but Draco's wall was impenetrable this time. He considered what she said for a few seconds, then leaned forward. "And I presume that you're risking your job to bring me this news?" He arched his eyebrow as the witch nodded solemnly, just once. "Well, you needn't have bothered. I'm sure he's better off wherever he is."

"But ... but I don't know that he is. And Pansy said–"

"Millicent!" spoke Draco sharply, raising his hand to silence her. Then he said, smooth as spun silk, "Have you forgotten that you are a Slytherin?"

Her mouth dropped open, not sure what to say. Of course she hadn't forgotten her old house. But what did that have to do with anything?

Draco didn't seem about to give her any clues. Instead he said, "I don't know what that over-imaginative witch may have told you about me and Potter. We had a fling, that's all, and it wasn't even a particularly satisfying one. I'm well rid of him now, and I'll be perfectly happy if I never hear that name again."

He sounded sure—sure enough that Millicent began to doubt whether Harry really was the cause of Draco's misery. Perhaps it had been Pansy's imagination. The woman did see romantic tragedy everywhere. Still, her Healer instincts spurred her to ask, "And you're all right with it?"

"Right as rain."

His clipped words left no room for argument—and she certainly didn't relish being called a Gryffindor again. Draco's features were completely steeled now and he didn't even flinch as he sipped his tart wine. "I think you must be working too much, Millicent. Perhaps you need some time off."

"Oh..." Surprised, Millicent followed the unexpected direction of the conversation. "Well, I'm going to spend Christmas with Myles..."

"That's hardly a vacation. You'll be run ragged by your nephews." Draco thought for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "You and Pansy should take our villa in Roses this weekend. The Costa Brava is beautiful this time of year. Have you ever been?" When the witch shook her head, Draco beamed. "Well, then, it's settled."

Somehow this conversation had gotten away from her. No, if she was honest, she'd admit that she'd never really had control of it at all. "Draco, that's so nice, but I couldn't possibly..."

"Nonsense! Being a Healer is thankless work, and it sounds like it's getting to you. You could do with a break. Perhaps I'll join you." He slowly swirled the wine in his glass, watching as the thin liquid flowed limply off the sides. "I'm driving myself mad with our potions inventory, what with the Auror Guard dipping into whatever they like. But seems the Ministry isn't too bothered with what's in them, as long as the total number of vials stays the same."

His words were surprisingly deliberate and his gaze intense. Millicent wondered what she was supposed to say, but he didn't give her a chance. "So Roses for the weekend, you, me, and Pats. A change of scenery, a little sun, it'll do us all a world of good."

"Well ... yes, it does sound lovely, and I'd love to get away..."

Draco was right; a change of scenery was exactly what she needed. She was getting too close to her patients, just like they'd warned her against in training. Harry Potter was just one delusional patient among many. After a mini-break she'd surely start feeling normal again, confident that she was performing a valuable service.

And as Draco filled their glasses again and started describing his family's villa, filling Millicent's mind with images of the rugged Catalan cliffs and rich Spanish wines, there was little room for thoughts of Harry Potter.


Chapter Eleven

Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit
He has left, absconded, escaped, and disappeared


"Mini-breaks are the best idea ever," Millicent decided as she walked into St. Mungo's on Monday morning, head high and footsteps light. At some point between Friday evening, when she and Pansy had Flooed through the whitewashed adobe hearth of the Malfoy villa, and Sunday night, when she'd bid farewell to the warm Mediterranean breeze and the cool terracotta tiles, the tension that last week was the only thing holding her together had slid from her shoulders.

The house-elves had outfitted the villa with enough delicacies to keep the girls well fed for a month. They'd dined that first evening on a terrace overlooking the sea, with a bottle of chilled cava to wash away the salty taste of jamón and ripe cheeses, and not once did Millicent spare a thought for St. Mungo's. After a restful sleep the likes of which she couldn't remember having for months, she awoke to the thick accents of Catalan fishermen bringing their boats in to shore.

The morning was marred only by Draco's message that he'd been delayed and wouldn't arrive until Sunday. Pansy pouted at being abandoned, but was pacified when Draco told her of an unspoiled strand that was inaccessible to Muggle tourists. They spent the day there and then danced the night away at a local disco, where Pansy caused a stir—and won them free drinks—by wearing a glamour that made her look like Shakira.

When they'd stumbled home shortly before sunrise, in a taxicab because they were too tipsy to Apparate, they were surprised to find Draco on the terrace nursing a bowl of espresso. "Take that off!" he'd demanded through peals of laughter as Pansy tossed her wild blond mane over her shoulder. In his easy mirth, Millicent was struck by how different he seemed than just a few days before.

Draco had been the consummate host on Sunday—Sunday afternoon, that is, after he'd finally lured them from their beds with the promise of hangover potions. Draco had hired a local Muggle to whisk them all away on a sailboat and they spent the afternoon skimming across the smooth azure waters. Pansy and Draco had flirted like they always did, and though she looked closely Millicent couldn't see a hint of the darkness that Pansy had fretted about. Draco acted perfectly content to lounge on the hull as if his cares had been blown away on the warm sea breeze. When he raised his sherry glass and flashed her a playful wink, Millicent realised that they'd both managed to shake off their blues.

She was determined to hold them at bay for as long as possible now that she was back in London. Not even Harry Potter would threaten her newfound calm, no matter how belligerent or belittling he might be. Nonetheless, as the time for his session neared, she couldn't keep from bracing for what might come.

As a reminder of her weekend escape, she slipped a crêpe-paper rose from the village market into the vase on her desk. She was just tilting the scarlet bud toward her when he arrived, accompanied by St. Mungo's two largest orderlies. One gave him a hard shove inside the door.

"Oi! And what's that in aid of?"

The orderly just smirked and pulled the door shut, leaving Harry huffing over his clothes. They were the same pyjamas and robe he always wore, but he was obviously making a point. When he was content with his appearance, he looked up and, to her great surprise, gave her a blinding smile.

"How're you there, Millicent?"

She smiled back, albeit warily. "I'm fine, Harry. How are you today?"

"Oh, I'm grand, just grand." Instead of taking his seat, he cast a quick look around her office. "Mind if I look around a bit?"

Millicent shook her head, surprised by his interest. She watched as he took a long turn around the room, studying her bookshelves and then staring at the framed diplomas on the wall. He turned to her with a look of admiration.

"You finished your Healer training just three years out of Hogwarts?"

"I did," she said, admittedly confused by this conversation. "And I'm a few months away from finishing my certification as a Psychical Healer."

"Fair play to you," he praised. "I was never much for swotting myself."

"Is that why you took the job in a pet store?"

Harry stammered for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, that's right, the pet store. Don't need much schooling to keep a bunch of owls happy." He turned and motioned to the chair. "Mind if I sit down?"

"Please do."

Last week he'd sat in the exact same place, but with a feigned casualness that masked the ticking time bomb he had inside. Today, his posture signalled that he was perfectly relaxed, even friendly. "So, what do we do in these things, then?"

"These things? Do you mean ... these sessions?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't there be a couch or something like you always see in the films."

"Well... " Millicent wasn't sure what to say, so she decided to answer honestly. "Actually, this field does borrow from Muggle psychiatric research, but we've adapted it to suit the norms of wizarding culture. And frankly, witches and wizards don't usually feel comfortable with the idea of the couch." She looked at Harry. "You didn't want to say very much before. Do you think it would help if there was a couch? I could transfigure one..."

"Naw, I'm all right, thanks. Let's just do this."

"Okay..." said Millicent, a bit shakily. She hadn't been expecting her patient to be so willing. As she read over the previous week's notes, she decided to take advantage of this change of heart and jump right in. "Last week you were telling me about this man Voldemort. You felt as if he was your enemy."

"Oh, old Valdermar, yeah, he's a nasty bugger," agreed Harry vehemently. "Always poking about after a bit of trouble, I can't get shut of him. Guess he won't be bothering me none in here so."

Puzzled, Millicent stared at Harry. He grinned back, his green eyes sparkling behind thick glasses. "This is the person you called..." she read from the parchment, "'You Know Who, the Dark Lord, Tom Riddle, and He Who Must Not Be Named'?"

"Yeah, that's him."

"But I thought you said his name was Voldemort."

"Ah, yeah, right, Voldemort ... well, we called him plenty of things. Moldy Fart, don't forget that one ... oh, and Boldy Tart."

It took every ounce of professionalism that Millicent had to stifle her smile. "And you still feel that he was trying to kill you?"

"I reckon he was, if that's what I told you before."

Millicent frowned. "And you also told me that you were supposed to defeat him." She'd glanced at her notes again; she knew she was using them as a crutch since she could practically recite what they said from memory, but seeing them in black and white helped still her confusion somewhat. "Do you still believe that's the case?

"I do, absolutely."

"Is that why you want to escape so badly?"

Harry stretched his arm out over the back of the chair, utterly comfortable—and utterly opposite how he had been just a week ago. "To tell you the truth, Millicent—can I call you Millicent?—I'm not all that pushed to leave anymore. Everyone seems nice enough, three square meals a day. It's a bit lacking in the way of wide open skies, but you can't have everything, I suppose."

"You want to stay here now?"

"Don't mind if I do. Thought I might settle in. Do you think maybe I could fix up the place a bit?"

"Fix up the place?"

"Yeah, you know, put up something a little more permanent than those curtains. Some real walls, you know—somewhere a man can call home." Millicent stared at him, not sure whether he was joking or not. He sounded serious, but there was a mischievous glint in his eye that kept her off-balance. "Yeah, reckon if I had me own place," he continued, "maybe I could get that Olive O'Leary to stop by sometime, if you know what I mean."

"Olive O'Leary?" The Healer knew she sounded like she'd been hit by a repetition charm, but she couldn't stop herself.

"She's a fine one, all right. I'll be keeping my eye on her."

"But what about Draco?" Millicent's eyes narrowed reflexively in defence of her friend.

"Draco? Who's that?"

The Healer was so unravelled by Harry's incomprehension that she didn't even grace his question with an answer. "Last week you were telling me about your feelings for him." "And I came this close to risking my job to let him know where you were," she added to herself, not without resentment.

"Ah, Draco, right... Well, it's just that I'm trying to turn over a new leaf, see, and Olive's here and I think we might be good together." He gave her a disarming grin. "You're an attractive woman, Millicent, you must know how it is when you just click..."

Millicent set aside her notes; nothing there could help her respond now. Harry's hostility had completely disappeared, along with all her carefully chosen strategies for dealing with it. Nothing could have prepared her for this complete about-face.

Her patient occupied himself by digging into her sweets jar while she wracked her brain for a possible explanation. This was definitely Harry Potter. His sharp green eyes and unruly hair were a dead giveaway. Even more distinctive was the faint scar on his forehead. Of course, there were plenty of ways a wizard might disguise himself as another person. But to disguise himself as someone in a secret hospital wing that the rest of the world knew nothing about, and then to somehow get past the most elaborate set of security wards in existence to enter that wing ... well, that preposterous notion didn't even bear thinking about.

So this was Harry Potter, no doubt. But if it was, then why was he acting like a completely different person than she'd met last week? Could it be...

Millicent chewed the edge of her thumbnail as a curious thought came to her. The Muggle literature was chockfull of cases of split personalities, but the condition was unheard of in the magical world. Could she have found the first case in Harry? Almost immediately her mind went racing to what this could mean, how it would advance the field of healing, how she might become one of the most famous Psychical Healers in the world...

But Millicent had always been a steadfast thinker, not one to rush ahead without plenty of proof. It was this quality that had gotten her sorted into Slytherin, after all—that and her brother's tenure there years before. And now it stopped her head from imploding at the thought of the recognition this could win her. If this was the case, she would need to demonstrate it.

The Healer waved her wand toward the bookshelf and levitated a heavy Muggle tome on Disassociative Disorders toward her desk. "Harry, I wonder if you'd be willing to answer a few questions for me."

Harry watched the book float past him. "Sure," he agreed amicably, "that's what I'm here for, ain't it?" He winked at her. "But I think I'm going to be needing a couch after all."

"We can do that." She quickly transfigured a side chair into a vintage fainting couch, complete with cracked brown leather so it looked frequently used. With a handsome grin, Harry threw himself on top of it and threaded his fingers behind his head as a cushion.

"All ready, doc."

"All right." Millicent set up her transcription quill and then she was ready too. "Can you start by telling me your full name?"

Confidently he answered, "Harry James Potter."



33-and-a-half hours earlier...


In the eerie silence not even disturbed by a seagull's squawk, Harry wandered through the seaside village. The half-crumbled buildings reminded him too much of tilted tombstones in an ancient cemetery. He didn't want his mind going to cemeteries; Harry didn't know what fate had befallen the inhabitants, but it looked like they'd been on the losing side of a battle. And the pain throbbing from his forehead told him it was far from over. Instinctively he reached for his wand, relieved when the smooth hawthorn wood pressed against his palm.

They came out of nowhere. He blinked and they were suddenly there, before every pile of rubble, every upended tree, Death Eaters all around him. But they were frozen in place, and somehow that was more disturbing than having them move towards him. At least then they would have some life; now they simply stared like ravens on an electric wire. He scanned their masked faces, slowing turning though every nerve him his body screamed not to, as if by not seeing him he could avoid the fate of the villagers ... avoid the fate that he'd always known was inescapable.

His fate stood behind him. Voldemort was just as still as the others, but Harry could feel the hatred roiling off his enemy. Harry pointed his wand directly at the centre of the demon's heart and uttered the Killing Curse, but his words did not puncture the silence. A few stray sparks sputtered from his wand and trailed feebly to the pavement. The silence was broken by Voldemort's laughter, the sound of pure evil filling this too-quiet place. And there was another voice. "Kill him!" Draco demanded, but Harry wasn't sure who he was talking to. Then hands were grabbing his shoulders and pinning him down and he tried to struggle but he couldn't shake them...

"No, no, let me go!" Harry shouted, violently wrenching his shoulder free.

"Medusa's hairpiece, Harry, would you ever quiet down?"

Harry opened his eyes to see a wand floating in mid-air, the faint beam of a Lumos spell shining from its tip. Panicked, he sat up and shuffled back to the headboard, as far from the enchanted light as he could get.

"Gee, Harry, calm down. You'd think you'd seen Blodwyn Bludd himself!" A blurry shape became visible in the dim light—or a head did, rather, while the rest of the body remained as black as the rest of the room.

Harry scrambled for his glasses on the bedside cabinet. Once he put them on, though, he wasn't sure if he still wasn't dreaming. "Seamus?"

"The one and only."

"What the hell are you doing here?"

"Come to spring your wretched arse from this place. I hope it looks better by day than it does at night." He snickered. "The place I mean, not your arse."

Harry ignored the joke, so deep was his surprise. "Did you ... are you a patient? Did they just bring you in?"

"Well, yes, and no. Let's just say I'm self-committed."

"But how..."

"Much as I'd love to give you the low-down, I'd rather not wake the whole ward. Is there someplace we can talk?"

"Um ... yeah, follow me."

Harry padded to the lavs, and even though he could hear the other man's footsteps just behind him, he half expected to wind up in the toilets all on his own. He was half right. When he turned around in the lighted room it was empty, and for a split second Harry was sure his mind had well and truly cracked. But then he heard a rustling and the air shimmered in front of him; the next thing he saw was his old Gryffindor classmate grinning ear to ear.

"How're you, Harry?"

"I'm a bit shocked, to tell you the truth," Harry admitted, though his grin was starting to match his friend's. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I told you, I've come to spring you. And we've not got much time. The wards will only be down 'til one—it took me longer than I expected to find this place. We'd best make good use of our time. First off, you'll need this."

He held out the invisibility cloak and Harry took it reverentially. It still felt like he was dreaming, and seeing his fingers come in and out of view did little to dispel that impression.

"Sure hate to be giving that up," Seamus admitted, "it's a fine piece of work, but I reckon it's the only way you'll make it out. Now I need a little something from you. Do you mind?" He touched his hand to Harry's hair, which in the past month had grown long enough to graze his shoulders. "Cortego," he said, and a thick curl fell into his hand. Carefully he slipped it into a little pouch. "That should last me a while."

"What, you're not..."

"Oh, but I am," Seamus insisted. He dug through the pocket of his cloak and Harry heard glass clinking from deep inside the folds. Coming up with a small vial, Seamus dropped a single hair through the tiny opening. He grinned mischievously at Harry, watching as the polyjuice frothed and then clarified to the colour of liquid butter. "Sláinte," he toasted and threw back the potion.

The polyjuice transformation never got any easier, no matter how many times Harry saw it. It was especially unnerving to watch when the target was himself. Finnigan was about the same height, but much broader, and within seconds Harry was staring at the mirror image of himself, save for the fact that he—well, Seamus—was swimming in clothes two sizes too big.

Seamus seemed none too pleased with the transformation. Frowning, he squinted into the mirror; it took a second for Harry to realise what was wrong. "Glasses ... do you have glasses?"

"Oh, right!" He pulled a pair out of another of the cloak's endless pockets. As soon as they were resting on his nose, he broke out into a huge smile. "Brilliant! I really think this could work!"

"Seamus, what do you think you're doing?"

"For the last time, I'm getting you out of here! You'll put on that cloak, head down the stairs, and walk out past the sleeping dummy. I'll stay here and be you, and nobody'll be the wiser."

"But ... I don't understand. Why are you doing this?"

Harry saw regret fill his features. "I've got my reasons," Seamus explained, not really explaining at all. "'sides, you've got to get out of here. Something Hermione said about a prophecy, I understood fuck all about it, but it sounds dead important. Don't worry, they'll explain it all when you get there. Oh, that's another thing I'm supposed to tell you. You're to Apparate to Ron and Hermione's, only be sure you make at least two stops on the way. That'll throw the Eye off your scent."

"Seamus, I can't just leave you in here..."

"Arrah, it's only for a week or so, I'll be fine."

Harry was about to ask why he thought it'd only be that long when he heard footsteps shuffling on the tile floor outside. He threw the invisibility cloak over his head; Seamus tried to look inconspicuous by pulling faces in the mirror.

The door swung open and Goyle padded in, rubbing his sleep-filled eyes in the bright light. He looked at Seamus suspiciously. "You all right, Potter?" Goyle's face was screwed up tight as if his never-too-active brain was working hard on this puzzle.

"I'm all right," Seamus repeated. When the Slytherin didn't move, Seamus smirked, "Going to stand there all night so?"

Goyle scowled and stumbled off to the toilets on the other side of the wall. When Harry poked his head out, Seamus whispered, "Who's your man then?"

"That's Goyle, don't you remember? He was in our class, in Slytherin." After a second's thought, worried that Seamus might not take that house loyalty well, Harry added in a whisper, "He's all right, though." At least he had been since that night—was it only a week ago?—when they'd shared the photograph of Draco.

"Yeah, well, he'd best mind himself," Seamus muttered, striking another pose when they heard the flush from the other side. Harry pulled the cloak back over his head, reminding himself to talk to Seamus about that later—Harry never stood with his hand on his hip like that.

It was only then that Harry remembered the other man was wearing street clothing and a heavy winter cloak. He prayed that Goyle would just chalk this all up to a bad dream and go back to bed, but when the Slytherin appeared with a smug smile like he'd just solved the sphinx's riddle, Harry knew he wouldn't.

"You're escaping, aren't you?" Greg whispered. "You're getting out, just like you said you would."

Seamus frowned. "You're bonkers, you are. Just go back to bed."

"Don't be like that, Potter." Goyle sounded aggrieved. "You said you were going to find Draco. Will you tell him I'm in here? Maybe he can get me out, too."

"I don't know what're you going on about."

Seamus' denial did little to diminish the hope shining in Goyle's face. And Harry had to admit that the longing in his voice had reached straight into Harry's heart. The Slytherin had spent five years inside. He'd just been a boy then, and even if he was on the wrong side he didn't deserve to be forgotten in here. None of the patients did. No matter what happened when he got out, Harry resolved that he would come back for each and every one of them.

"I'll tell him," Harry said, pushing the cloak from his head. "And we'll come back for you, don't worry."

Goyle's jaw dropped to the floor. His sluggish gaze moved from Harry to Seamus and back again, giving Seamus plenty of time to glare at him.

"What'd you go and do that for, Harry?"

"It's okay. Goyle's not going to tell anybody ... are you, Goyle?"

The Slytherin shook his head defiantly. "No, I won't tell no one."

Harry nodded approvingly. "Good man. Now Seamus," he said, turning to his still-glaring doppelganger in the baggiest jumper known to man, "I think we should swap clothes. You don't want to be caught with those in here. You can shrink them to fit me, yeah?"

"I can go one better," said Seamus. "I'll just transfigure yours."

He lifted his wand, but before he could utter the incantation, Goyle lunged for his arm. "No!" he exclaimed. "No wand magic! They've got anti-wand charms floating through the ward, you might set one off."

"Floaters?" When his friend paled, Harry knew that he must only now have realised how dangerous it was to use the Lumos spell to find him. Then Seamus frowned and pointed to his cloak. "But I need me things. How'm I going to hide that here?"

Harry looked frantically around the lavatory. There must be a grate or a cubby-hole, somewhere a few vials of polyjuice could go unnoticed for a week. And that jogged his memory—why was Seamus so certain he'd be here for just a week?

"I've got an idea," said Goyle. "You two switch clothes, I'll be right back."

He was out the door faster than Harry had ever seen him move ... save perhaps that night long ago when he raced from the fiendfyre.

"He didn't wash his hands," grumbled Seamus after he left, already pulling off his jumper. "You sure you can trust your man?"

"What, because he didn't wash his hands?"

"No, you eejit, because this escapade's supposed to be a secret."

Harry pulled the jumper over his hospital-issue pyjamas. "Goyle won't tell, not if he thinks I'm the only way he's getting out. And anyway, why do you think you'll be free in a week?"

"Next Saturday's the solstice. I don't know what's planned exactly, but Ron said I'd be back after that." He pointed at the shelves of flannel pyjamas. "I can help myself then?"

"Yeah, the ones in the middle should fit." Harry reached for the jeans Seamus had kicked off. With forced casualness he asked, "So is Ron working with Draco?"

"Draco? I don't know any Draco."

"What? You mean ... you don't remember..."

"No," he shook his head, "but I've enough in me head to fake it."

Harry grimaced at the Irish accent that came through loud and clear, regardless of the polyjuice. "Just watch how you talk, okay? Your voice sounds enough like mine, but some of the things you say might tip them off."

"Arrah, don't you worry, Harry, I'll have help. Besides," he added roguishly, "long as I keep telling 'em that You Know Who looks like my Aunt June's pimpled arse, I reckon they'll want to keep me locked up."

Harry couldn't help himself—as worried as he might be about what his friend was getting himself into, his snicker turned into a full blown laugh. If there was anybody who might pull this off, it was Seamus.

Harry barely managed to stifle his laughter when the door swung open. Fortunately it was Goyle, and in his arm was a woollen cloak in a deep forest green. "In the beginning they didn't take everything away from us," he explained, turning to Seamus. "I've kept this in a chest under my bed. You can put yours in there, they won't notice the difference. Not sure what you'll do with the wand, though..."

Seamus handed his cloak over, but clutched the ash handle tightly. "I'm not giving up my wand," he insisted.

Greg just shrugged. "Suit yourself, but don't use it." Folding the cloak over his arm, he turned to Harry. "Swear you'll come back for me?"

Harry nodded and extended his hand. "I swear it, Goyle. I will be back."

Greg's dull face came alive as he stared intently at Harry; if Harry didn't know better, he might have thought that he'd made an unbreakable vow with the Slytherin as they clasped hands. "Good luck," Goyle said after a second.

"Right," Seamus interrupted, "time to shift. Harry, straight out the door and down the stairs. Don't forget, two Apparitions, then straight on to the Weasley-Granger's."

"Thank you," said Harry, squeezing Seamus' hand. "And I mean it, I'll be back for you, too."

"You just do what you're supposed to do, Prophecy Boy," joked Seamus. "We'll be just fine in here. Right, Goyle?" he added, winking at the Slytherin.

"Right ... em, Potter."

"And look out for Silas—you can't miss him, he's got rainbow socks," Harry said in a rush, suddenly remembering all the things that he should tell Seamus before he left. "He'll help you out if you get into any trouble. And tell Evie that I'm sorry ... you're sorry. Just apologize, okay?"

"Apologies to Evie, rainbow socks, got it."

"And you need to remem–"

"Got it," said Seamus, rolling his eyes. "Now get out of here before the wards come back on!"

Harry didn't need more urging. He threw the invisibility cloak over Goyle's woollen one and left his friends in the bright room. Picking his way carefully through the darkened ward, he cursed Seamus' too large boots. They were laced tightly and wouldn't come off, but made such a loud clumping sound that he was sure he'd wake the sleeping patients. No one seemed disturbed, though, and in just a few moments he was standing before the main door to the ward.

"This is it," he thought, taking a deep breath. Hesitantly he reached out for the door handle, turned it ... and the door swung open. With a long exhalation, Harry slipped through and quietly closed the door behind him.

The hallway outside was completely empty and Harry made his way to the main staircase. He was prepared to duck out of anyone's way, but he needn't have worried. Aside from a floor warden buried in Witch Weekly on the fourth floor and a dozing one on the first, Harry didn't pass a single soul.

This was probably to blame for his overconfidence when he arrived on the ground floor—that, and the clock that read four minutes to one. Seamus had said the wards would be down until one; that left him plenty of time to cross the few feet to the entrance. With a too heavy step, he walked off the carpeting, his boot clomping on the hard tile.

"Who's there?" said the receptionist, her head whipping around. "Is somebody there?"

Harry froze in place. So did the cleaning witch beside the door, her wand paused mid-Scourgify. "Nobody's here but you and me, Gilda."

"No, I heard something, I'm sure of it."

Without a sound, Harry crept back onto the carpeted stair. Another glance at the clock sent a bolt of panic through him: three minutes to one. He sat down and tugged at the boots; even loose as they were, they refused to slide off. Cursing to himself, Harry realised he had to unlace them. Two minutes now. The receptionist had left her station and was wandering through the waiting room. Harry stood in his socks, boots in hand, and holding his breath stepped off the carpet.

"You're not going deaf, are you?" the receptionist wondered as Harry slunk silently past.

"You're not having a tipple without me, are you?" the cleaning witch shot back just as Harry breached the entrance. He never heard the reply.

The street was dark, heavy with the sour scent of beer and urine. Moisture seeped through his socks, from what he didn't want to know, and the chill made him shiver despite Goyle's heavy cloak. A band of loutish Muggles wove their way drunkenly down the pavement, and one ran smack into him. He turned back to curse the impediment, glaring at the empty space where Harry stood.

But Harry didn't mind any of this. He couldn't remember ever being so happy in his life.

He didn't want to spend all night here, though. Apparate twice, Seamus had said, and Harry figured a good first stop would be his flat for a change of clothes and some shoes that fit. He set Seamus' boots on the pavement, spared a quick glance for the sleeping dummy, and then focused on his Stoke walk-up.

It was pitch dark when he arrived, but with a great sense of relief he found the light switch exactly where it should have been. This relief fled immediately, however, when he saw that his once spacious living area was filled with packing boxes and unfamiliar furniture.

"What the..."

It was definitely his flat—the layout was exactly right, the kitchen was that same sickly green colour that he hated, and there was even the black singe mark beside the fireplace from the one and only time Draco had attempted to Floo through the electric fire—but it was definitely wrong. It looked like someone was in the midst of moving—in, he presumed, since none of his things were in sight. "Oh, bollocks," muttered Harry as he realised that his rent had gone unpaid for well over seven weeks. He only hoped that Kreacher had whisked away his things before the landlord got his hands on them.

He thought of summoning Kreacher then, but muffled voices in the bedroom changed his mind. He couldn't be caught here, not without a wand to Obliviate these new tenants. And bringing the house-elf here could only make matters worse. He had to Apparate again, and quickly. But where?

Draco's flat was his first thought, but he steeled himself against that temptation. Much as he wanted to see his lover, it was far too dangerous. The last thing he knew for certain was that he'd been involved in an emergency meeting of the Death Eaters. Wandless and unsure of his magic was no way to meet Malfoy.

Yet Harry could not deny the pull he felt to Draco. Suddenly he thought of a place where, with any luck, he might at least be able to learn how he was. Surely that could do him no harm, not if he was very careful. With a last frustrated glance around his flat he Apparated to the back garden of the Greenwich Arms.

It was after one o'clock, long past official closing time, but Harry knew Sally and Ged were rather unorthodox with their hours, especially on a Saturday night. He expected to find a few favoured customers still hanging about.

He didn't expect to find the pub darkened and locked up tight. It didn't look as if anyone had crossed its doors recently, either. A bin had tilted onto its side, and judging from the stillness of the night it hadn't happened recently. Rubbish poured from it, spreading out over the cobblestones and reminding Harry of a river frozen midstream. Sally wasn't one to leave something like this, and he read it as a clue as to just how long the pub had been closed.

A deep sense of dread was building in him. He almost didn't want to Apparate to Ron and Hermione's. He couldn't imagine what he would do if anything had happened to his friends, if his freedom had come too late to save them.

An unwelcome image invaded his mind, of burned out buildings and crumbling façades, and Death Eaters watching like curious ravens. Of a quietness too much to bear, as if all the world was muted, and black inky laughter that spilled across that silence. And worst of all, the certainty that he was truly alone in this predestined battle.

Harry took a deep breath, preparing to take the hardest step of his escape. He wiped the nightmare image from his head, instead picturing Ron and Hermione's little farmhouse, tucked into the curve of a peaceful country lane, with its stocky grey stones and trusting white window frames. He imagined the ancient oak in the front garden, the rope swing hanging from a branch like a loose string on a jumper, the flashes of colour along the rock wall where Hermione's flowers blossomed. He pictured his friends happy and whole, Ron standing tall over Hermione, kissing the top of her frizzled hair while she looked down, blushing.

Closing his eyes, and willing this to be vision that met him when he opened them again, Harry Apparated.


Chapter Twelve

Petitio principii
An assumption at the start


Hemlock Lane was a sleepy little road at the best of times. At twenty past one on Saturday night, even the barn owls had dozed off, leaving the field mice to drowse peacefully in their burrows. So there was no one to hear the distinctive crack of an Apparition, or to see the lone wizard appear as if from nowhere.

Harry had wanted to Disapparate directly inside Ron and Hermione's home like he had always done before, but decided against it. The foot of their laneway was close enough. From this vantage he could see their farmhouse which, to his great relief, looked perfectly normal. The waning moon reflected just enough light that Harry could make out white smoke rising like ghosts from the chimney, and the glow of candlelight reaching out with warm fingers through the kitchen window meant someone was awake. Drawn irresistibly forward, he picked his barefoot way gingerly down the gravel path and knocked on the door.

After a moment he heard a deeply suspicious voice. "Who's there?"

"It's me, Hermione." Realising that his voice boomed in the still night, he added more quietly, "It's Harry."

He needn't have bothered with the clarification. Tumblers were already rolling in the door locks, both magical and Muggle, and before he'd finished saying his name he had his arms full of his friend and was being hugged so tightly he couldn't breathe.

"Merlin, Harry, but it's good to see you!"

Harry let himself hug her back, just as genuinely pleased to see Hermione. And for the first time that he could remember, she pulled away before he did; he would have been content to stand there for longer.

"Hurry, come in, we don't want anyone to see you." She pulled him in and re-secured the locks with one hand; with the other she gripped him tightly, reluctant to let him go after so long apart. "I can't believe you're here! We've been looking everywhere for you; you disappeared without a trace!"

"Not by choice, believe me," Harry replied, but his bitterness was tempered with his elation at seeing his friend. "How did you find me?"

She hesitated for just a second. "Draco," she finally said, frowning at the name. "Ron will explain—oh, I need to let him know you made it, he's been worried sick."

Hermione squeezed his hand once more before rising. Instead of calling to her husband, however, she threw a handful of Floo powder into the fire and said, "The Lovegoods, Ottery St. Catchpole." A second later, Luna Lovegood's face shone from the charred embers.

"Hello, Hermione," the blond girl greeted her, apparently not at all surprised to be Firecalled in the middle of the night. "Funny, I was just thinking of you. Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"I was, but I just found some lavender in the garden. I'm feeling better now. I wondered if you'd like me to bring you some next time I visit."

"That'd be lovely. You're welcome any time."

"I'll see you soon, then. Good night, Luna."

"Good night."

Harry, who'd been watching this exchange intently, turned to Hermione in confusion as soon as Luna disappeared. "What was that all about? I thought you were going to talk to Ron?"

"He's at the Lovegoods'. And they're waiting for us."

Harry's eyes flew open wide. "That was some kind of code," he puzzled out. "You were making sure that it was safe there ... and I'm 'lavender'?"

Hermione nodded. "Got it in one. We have to be careful about You Know Who's people listening in. And Harry," she added, her eyes shining urgently, "it's very important that you don't say his name. We're not sure if they've jinxed the word like before, nobody's ever tested it, but it's just too dangerous."

"Okay, I wo–" He stopped abruptly as the meaning of her words dawned on him. "What do you mean, 'like before'?"

His friend nodded sheepishly. "I remember, Harry. It's just started coming back over the past month. And I'm truly sorry for not believing you before. It must've been awful for you!"

"It wasn't your fault, though. But you remember everything now? Both versions?"

"Do you mean what really happened and what I believed had happened, afterwards?" When he nodded, she knit her forehead in confusion. "It's the strangest feeling," she said, grasping for a way to explain it. "It's like I read two different history books with different facts. I know only one is true, but sometimes I have to remind myself which one it is." She handed him the issue of the Quibbler that was lying on the coffee table, grimacing. "It's getting easier, though. You Know Who's not letting us forget."

Harry unfolded the paper, but saw nothing extraordinary about it. The front page featured an interview with a shaman in New Mexico; a helpful sidebar offered tips on smudging for your home or office. Below that was an advertisement for a pub and a weather report noting that Pugglewinks would be prolific from the tenth through the eighteenth of the month. "What's a Pugglewink?" asked Harry.

"Merlin only knows," laughed Hermione, "but you won't find anything reading it that way. Didn't you learn anything from Luna?" She turned the print upside down and handed it back, along with a pair of spectrespecs. "Now what do you think?"

Harry warily slid the glasses over his own frames, bracing for the gut-clenching vertigo he was sure would follow. But the sight that met his eyes disoriented him in an entirely different way:

"YOU KNOW WHO UP TO NO GOOD!"

Shocked, Harry pushed the spectrespecs up over his forehead. Without their psychedelic perspective, the paper in his hand looked like any innocuous issue of the Quibbler, with "Happy Hour at the Thirsty Toad" in the place where he'd seen the secret article, he asked, "What is this?"

"It's how we've been communicating. Well, one of the ways." She canted her head back to the paper. "Did you read the article?"

He pulled the spectrespecs back on and the article rematerialised before his eyes, the words floating like streaks of oily colours on wet pavement.

"A reliable source reveals that You Know Who's followers are gathering for a special Solstice ceremony. While details of the ceremony are yet unknown, the auspicious nature of this night as a time of rebirth gives rise for concern. This news follows last week's appointment of Antonin Dolohov, known Death Eater and erstwhile Azkaban prisoner, as new head of the Auror Guard. As the so-called "Knights of Walpurgis" show their true colours, can a return of He Who Not Be Named be far behind?"

In a panic, Harry whipped off the spectrespecs and turned to Hermione. "If they're planning something, we've got to stop them!"

"Of course we do, Harry. Merlin knows there's so much we need to tell you—I promise, we'll explain at the Lovegood's." She gently took the paper from his hand. "You must be exhausted, but if you're up to it, we should go there now. It's safer."

Harry knew he should be tired, but he was still fuelled by adrenaline and excitement; the sleep charm from St. Mungo's seemed ages ago now. "Sure, I'm ready." He took to his feet, but frowned when his jeans started to slide down his hips. "Can you do something about my clothes first, though? I stopped by my flat to change, but everything was gone."

His friend nodded. "Don't worry, Kreacher moved it all to Grimmauld Place when we couldn't find you. I can transfigure your clothes, but let's do it away from the wards, just in case." Hastily she donned her cloak and led Harry through the back door, grabbing Ron's Wellies as they passed the barn. "Magic is tracked now," she explained, helping him pick his way over the stile in the rock wall. "The Guard can trace anything through the Eye."

Harry thought of the news article where Minister Thicknesse praised the reach of the new system—and now it was in the hands of the Death Eaters. "Yeah, I know," he remarked absently, "Draco was working on that."

"Why does that not surprise me?"

Harry was startled by the resentment in her voice. "It's not like he wanted to," he retorted, automatically defending the Slytherin. When she fixed him with a glare, he asked, "What? You aren't blaming Draco for this, are you?"

Hermione's chin jutted out stubbornly; Harry knew that look well, and knew that it meant she was about to argue. He was surprised when she held back. If this was because she was so glad to have him back, he wondered just how long it would last. In truth, he hoped not long—if there was something going on with Draco, and from Hermione's reaction he suspected that there was, then he needed to know. But Hermione didn't offer him any clues; instead she was studying him critically.

"Let's get you some proper clothes." She quickly transfigured the boots and Seamus' clothes to fit, nodding with approval when she'd done. "There, that's better."

"Much better," agreed Harry, slipping on the leather boots. They fit like a glove, and some of his frustration dissipated. "So what's going on at Luna's?"

Hermione shot back a proud smile. "Dumbledore's Army."



The Lovegood kitchen had been rebuilt much as Harry remembered, with its corkscrew staircase in the middle surrounded by round furniture and bright walls painted like an abundant garden. The stalk of one particularly large sunflower stretched up the length of the wall and blossomed in an explosion of purple on the ceiling. It was next to this blossom that a familiar face suddenly appeared.

"Harry!"

Ron took the spiralling steps two at a time, flying off the last few and propelling himself towards Harry. In seconds, he was smothering Harry in a bear hug as tight as Hermione's earlier one.

"I can't believe you're here, mate!"

"I can hardly believe it myself," Harry gasped, much of the wind having been knocked out of him. As soon as Ron loosened his grasp, he said, "Hermione promised you'd tell me how you did it."

"Oh, yeah, it's quite the story," Ron admitted. "Come upstairs and we'll fill you in."

Harry ascended the staircase to the first floor, where Luna and Neville were waiting. More hugs followed, with more exclamations of joy that he'd safely returned. Soon he was ensconced on one of the curved sofas that filled half the second floor. "The printing press has its own house now," Luna explained, noticing his curious appraisal of her restored home. She tilted her head toward the yellow wall that divided the room and made Harry feel like they were sitting in half of a lemon pie. "It was attracting Glubberwings and they made Granny Neville sneeze."

"And you'll be bunking with us here on the couches tonight, mate," said Ron, ignoring Luna's fancies and Harry's unspoken query about Glubberwings. "Hope you don't mind."

Harry shook his head. "Don't mind a bit. I've been sharing a ward with eighty other people." He thought of the man left in his place and a twinge of guilt pricked his conscience. "Not that I don't appreciate getting out of there, but why did Seamus take my place?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged a guarded look, but it was Neville who answered. "He volunteered."

"But why?" Harry couldn't imagine that anyone would willingly go into that place.

"He was searching for someone he'd lost," Luna said brightly, "and so were we."

Harry remembered Seamus mentioning that he had his reasons for breaking into the ward; now it made sense. "Who is it?" he asked.

"His grandmother," Ron said solemnly. "Cassandra Osgoode."

"Callandra." Harry remembered the ancient witch who'd been like a grandmother to everyone in the ward, and who had treated him kindly that night with the newspaper. "She's there, she's been there since the beginning. But how did he know that?"

"He wasn't sure that she was." It was Hermione's turn to talk now. "He just knew his mother had sent her away years ago, thinking she'd lost her mind. Then about a year ago, his mother started remembering. Once she realised what she'd done, she had a kind of breakdown, and she's getting worse."

"That's why Seamus came to us," Ron interjected, "to see if we could find her. He thinks it will help his mother."

"But Seamus said he didn't remember himself."

"No, he works for the Ministry, their wards are too strong," said Neville. "It's only the people whose homes aren't warded who've begun to remember. But he read the Quibbler."

"I saw that!" Harry exclaimed, turning to Luna. "That's brilliant!"

The girl—for that's how Harry still saw her; she didn't appear to have aged a day since Hogwarts—flushed with pride. "My father perfected it last year, after our memories started coming back. He thought there must be more people like us out there."

"And are there?"

"More than we'll probably ever know."

The voice came from above; Harry looked up to see Xenophilius Lovegood on the stairway above. He was wearing a terrycloth bathrobe in the precise shade of pink as Aunt Petunia's; in fact, Harry wouldn’t have been able to swear that this exact robe hadn't been nicked from Privet Drive. From underneath his pyjama pants emerged, plaid, but not a tartan that any Scot would ever claim. Blood-red orange, baby blue, olive, and violet all warred for dominance. Seeking respite for his overwhelmed eyes, Harry looked up to the man's face. His hair was as thin and white as it had been years before, but like his daughter, Xeno had changed little over the years.

"I'm very glad you've joined us," he said as he descended, bowing slightly when he reached Harry. "And I want to assure you that this time you will be safe in my home, not like–"

Harry realised the man was about to apologise for turning them in to the Death Eaters years before. He couldn't let him. Xeno had good cause to do what he'd done, and certainly nothing to apologise for. "Thank you, Mr. Lovegood. Believe me, I'm glad to be here." He nodded toward Luna. "I was just saying how impressive the Quibbler is."

Xeno acknowledged the compliment with a small nod. "In the morning I'd like to show you the latest edition. Now, however, it's getting late," he said, pointing at the face of the pendulum wallclock, which yawned in reply. "I suggest that we should all start thinking about bed. The others will be here at nine."

"Dumbledore's Army," Ron answered Harry's unspoken question. "Neville had the idea to start it up again."

Harry looked over at Neville, grinning to see Luna leaning against him, her eyes closed tight. "That's brilliant, Neville," he said, quietly so as not to wake her.

The recipient of his praise was yawning too, but he managed to smile. "Having Harry Potter back will do wonders for morale."

"Mr. Lovegood is right, though, we should get some sleep," Hermione said, and Harry realised that she looked exhausted, too.

He was feeling tired himself, but his head was still abuzz with questions. He glanced over at Ron, who read his mind.

"Feel like stretching your legs before bed, mate?"

"Love to."

They bid the others goodnight—Harry cocking his eyebrow to see Neville following the Lovegoods to the loft above—and left Hermione to transfigure the sofas into beds.

Once outside in the overgrown garden, Harry took a deep breath of the first fresh air he'd had in months. Freedom had a heady sweet scent; after the close air of St. Mungo's the night jasmine felt almost overwhelming.

Ron clapped his arm around his shoulders. "Merlin's beard, Harry, don't you ever disappear like that again. You had us worried sick!"

"I'll try not to," Harry laughed, then remembered the circumstances that had taken him away in the first place. He touched his scar, dormant now but ready to erupt without notice. "He's back," he said glumly.

"I know," said Ron, equally glum. "Well, I don't know know," he clarified, "but there's definitely something going on."

At first Harry wasn't sure what to make of Ron's statement, then it hit him. "Wait ... you mean your memories haven't returned?"

Ron shook his head. "I'm still working in the Ministry. The memory charms are thick there; nobody's been able to break through them that I know of—unless they've done it and are keeping quiet, which is possible. It'd be career suicide."

"Then Hermione...?"

"She quit just after you disappeared. Once the charm was removed from our home wards—the only good thing that git Malfoy's ever done—she wanted to see if her memory would come back, too."

Harry was stunned by Ron's words. He couldn't believe that Hermione would throw over all her ambitions for something as risky as this. But more, he was shocked by the venom in Ron's voice when he spoke of Malfoy. "Ron, what's happened with Draco?"

"Bastard sold us out, didn't he? Getting all cosy with you before packing you off to St. Mungo's. Not to mention loading the wards up with all kinds of charms. He was even bragging about how the Eye could watch our every movement."

Harry remembered how smug Draco could be about his accomplishments, and certainly getting such a complex charm to work would have been cause for some conceit; he himself had felt proud when he read about Draco's success. But bragging? Harry wondered if Ron had simply misread him. "He's been giving you information about the Eye, then? That must mean he's been helping you. And Hermione said he helped you find me."

Ron snorted. It wasn't a pretty sound; the Snargaluff made an offended "harrumph" as they passed. Ron ignored it. "Pretty easy to do when Ferret Face put you in there in the first place."

His tone hit Harry in all the wrong places. "Don't call him that," he rebuked his friend sharply, not even bothering to answer the charge against his lover. Admittedly, he had his own doubts, but they certainly didn't extend to being sectioned on Draco's word.

"You're right, calling him Ferret Face is an insult to ferrets," said Ron viciously. "Malfoy's a conniving bastard, same as he was before. Good thing he's back with his own now. We can take them all down at the same time."

Something snapped in Harry, brittle and sharp. Maybe it was the uncertainty that he'd felt strangling him in the hospital, or maybe it was Ron's unwavering conviction. Whatever it was, before he realised what he was doing, he had his fists balled in Ron's cloak and was pressing him against the crab apple tree. He heard the Snargaluff exclaim, "Oh, my!" but it didn't deter him.

"You don't even remember how he was before!" Harry spat out. "Just something you've heard, isn't it? Was it Hermione that told you? Or Neville? Well, I'm telling you, it's not true. You know he's..." "...changed ...not a Death Eater ...important to me..." Harry faltered, unsure what he wanted Ron to understand, unsure what was really the truth anymore. He released his grip on his friend and stepped back, feeling his anger sputter out like a deflating balloon. "You're all assuming the worst, you don't even know ... you can't know..."

"Harry, I know you think you know him, but you don't realise what he's been up to. I went to see him right after you disappeared. He didn't seem bothered by it at all—or even surprised. That made me suspicious—that's when I talked to Hermione. She told me about your history ... your real history." Ron exhaled with an air of restrained exasperation. "And yeah, Malfoy did tell me about the charms in the Eye, in the same breath when he told me that I couldn't trust him."

"That's just Draco. He's a Slytherin. He couldn't come right out and say which side he was on," Harry insisted, although his faith was flickering like a faulty light bulb.

"He could've helped us get you out himself, instead of insisting we send someone else in. He could've done it easily enough, he could've gotten everybody out while the wards were down, but he wouldn't even hear of it. Just told us the plan and left us to make it happen."

"He must've had some reason, then. He's always working every angle..."

"He doesn't want to see you anymore."

Harry looked up sharply, willing himself to have misheard the words, but Ron repeated them, firmly, without mercy. "He said he'd only tell me where you were on the condition that you'd disappear. He said he never wanted to hear the name Harry Potter again."

"I don't believe you!" Harry wanted to scream, but the frightening thing, the thing that clenched his insides and felt like it was wringing him dry, was that he did believe. Ron had no reason to lie. And Draco ... well, Draco had every reason to. Harry hugged his arms against his chest, testing the truth of what Ron had said, and finding no way to combat it aside from empty excuses, all grounded in an unfounded faith that Malfoy—son of Voldemort's most trusted follower, proud bearer of the Dark Mark, rival and enemy for most of Harry's life—had changed. "He's one of them?" he finally asked.

"He is," Ron said, and his voice was gentler now. "I'm sorry."

Harry didn't know how to acknowledge this sympathy, save for an empty nod. He was empty inside, and suddenly overcome with an intense feeling of weariness. The night had not yet surrendered to the dawn, but the waning moon meandered westward and Harry knew it would be only a short while before morning came and he was expected to play the hero again—The Boy Who Fucking Lived, only he felt anything but alive at this moment.

"We should probably go in, before Hermione comes looking for us."

And wasn't that the reason that Ron had always been his best friend? That he might blather on about something until you were ready to tear your hair out, but when it counted he always knew when to shut up? Harry didn't speak, he just nodded and followed him into the Lovegoods' strange little house, up the winding staircase to the lemon-yellow room where Hermione slept under a shining Lumos spell. Ron waited until Harry tucked himself into the bed on the far side of the room before whispering a "Nox" to his wife's wand and a quiet goodnight to him.

Harry shut his eyes and waited for emptiness to take him. It was long in coming, and when it finally did it wasn't the pitch black he saw a shimmering grey snake coiling around a man's shoulders, his forked tongue flicking through strands of silvery-white hair.



"The third war will begin in exactly one week. And you know what? I'm glad."

Neville's announcement was met with shocked silence. Harry looked out across the meeting room that Hermione had transfigured from one of the crab apple trees, taking stock of the forty-odd people that now called themselves Dumbledore's Army. There were a good few here that he knew and trusted: Dean Thomas, Angelina Johnson and her sister Serena, Michael Corner and his wife whose name Harry couldn't recall, and the entire Weasley clan, including Bill and Fleur.

"I'm glad, because this has been going on long enough. This isn't some sudden reappearance. The signs have been there for years—since the very beginning. Whether you remember the past or not, you've all seen it. These threats to our homes, to our loved ones, to our lives. This Eye that promises we'll be safe, so long as they're watching. This prejudice against Muggles and Muggle-borns—even against those of us who like Muggle things."

Harry cast a quick look out at one member of the audience who he knew, but didn't trust, although Hermione said he had very good reasons not to want You Know Who to come back to power. Blaise Zabini was following Neville's speech intently, nodding slightly. Harry wasn't sure what an Egyptologist did, but apparently it was too close to Muggleness for the Dark Lord to approve.

"This isn't a surprise to those of us who remember," Neville continued. "And we remember why we can't allow it again."

But there were many more new faces, mostly older ones, including Gran Longbottom, who sat gripping her wand tightly in her fist as if she expected the Death Eaters to barge in at any moment. They hailed from every part of Britain with no connection other than their memories of the earlier wars. Harry couldn't help wondering how such a motley bunch could ever be expected to go head to head with Voldemort.

"I know what you must be thinking," Neville said, as if he'd read Harry's mind. "'We're just ordinary witches and wizards. How can we stop the darkest wizard to ever threaten our kind?' Probably a lot of you are wondering, 'Why me? How did I get myself into this?'" Neville paused dramatically, and Harry realised how far this once-timorous boy had come. "You got into this, each and every one of you, because you—unlike everybody else out there—know what will happen if you don't.

"The first Dumbledore's Army started over eight years ago. It seems like a long time ago, doesn't it? We were all students then. Most of us hadn't even passed our O.W.L.s. None of us—save Harry here—knew what we were getting into. But we knew we had to stop what was happening. And we learned what we needed to know.

"Every one of you here today is better prepared than we ever were," Neville said, and Harry heard the pride shining in his voice.

"This might as well be called 'Longbottom's Army'," he realised. Neville had been pouring his heart and soul into training these people for the past three months—just as he'd kept the DA going during their last year at Hogwarts. He had a right to every ounce of pride he felt.

"Every one of you has been practicing the defensive spells," Neville continued, "and I doubt there were ever as many Patronuses in one place as there were at the last meeting. More importantly, I've seen how you work together. I've seen how you trust each other. I've seen how every single one of you will fight for the person beside you. That's why you're not just ordinary witches or wizards. You're part of Dumbledore's Army!"

Harry felt his heart stir at Neville's rousing words. For a moment he was full of hope, believing that they just might have the strength to finally defeat Voldemort. He looked out at the room and tried to see them in the same way as Neville did, not as a ragtag bunch of volunteers but as a trained force. When he did, though, he saw other faces: Colin ... Fred ... Remus ... Sirius ... Snape... Would these new faces just be added to the list of those who had fallen before?

Neville's voice, more forceful than even before, shook him from his melancholy. "I'm not saying that what we're going to do will be easy. Yes, I'm scared of what we're going to face. We might not be here after next week." He paused to let this dreadful fact sink in. "But remember, courage isn't about not being afraid—it's about doing what's right even if you're scared. And each and every one of you is here because what we're doing is right. I would gladly put my life into any one of your hands."

"A perfect speech," thought Harry, soundly impressed with both Neville's words and the effect they seemed to have on the crowd. The room was positively thrumming with that undercurrent of barely restrained magic that he hadn't felt since the last Quidditch World Cup. It was a powerful feeling, and one which, if harnessed, might just give them a fighting chance.

He hated, therefore, to be the one to destroy the speech's impact. But when Neville asked him if he'd like to take a group to start the training, he had to hold out his empty hands.

"I ... I don't have a wand."

Every eye in Dumbledore's Army turned on him. Several glared at him as if he were an impostor snuck into their midst. Others just looked defeated, wondering if this was the best the so-called hero of the wizarding world could come up with. Molly Weasley looked at him with such a pitying gaze that he wanted to slink into one of the knotholes in the floor.

But Neville recovered quickly. "That's all right. Luna, Hermione, Ron, and I will each take a group. Partner up, people, and let's show You Know Who what we've got."

As the room swung into action, Harry felt Hermione's hand on his arm. "Send Kreacher for your wand," she whispered. "If he can't find it, then we'll go tomorrow to see Mr. Ollivander."

Harry nodded and, not wanting his presence to be any more distracting, left the meeting hall. Sitting on a garden bench surrounded by an astonishing profusion of winter-blooming flowers, he summoned Kreacher. The house-elf appeared almost immediately.

"Master has returned, just as the Mudblood said he would!" he exclaimed happily.

"Hush, Kreacher. You know you're not supposed to call Hermione that." He squinted at his servant. "You've been spending a lot of time with Mrs. Black, haven't you?"

"The gracious lady is kind to keep me company while Master is away," explained Kreacher, making Harry roll his eyes.

"Well, I'm back now, so you need to do what I say." Kreacher looked downcast, and Harry felt bad. Seems he was letting everybody down today. "Um, I do owe you thanks, though. For packing up my stuff. I really appreciate that."

Kreacher's smile made his shrivelled cheeks bulge to his ears. "Kreacher is setting up home for Master. Making the blood-traitor's house just like Master's Muggle flat."

"Kreacher!"

The elf drew back contritely. "Kreacher is just so happy to have Master back, Kreacher is forgetting. Will Master be coming to see what Kreacher has done?"

While Harry was perversely curious to see what might pass as home decorating in the house-elf world, he shook his head. "Not yet. I need to stay here for a bit. But I do need you to do something very important."

"Of course, Master."

"I've lost my wand. I had it on the bus before I collapsed and I must've dropped it there. Do you think you could find it for me?"

"Kreacher will find Master's wand, yes. Kreacher will go to the cave where the bus creatures live and bring it back to Master. It would not do for Master to lose two wands."

"Thanks, Krea–" Harry froze. "What do you mean, 'two wands'?"

"Master once had a wand of holly," his elf said matter-of-factly, "but since the war Master has used the hawthorn wand that belonged to young Master Malfoy. Losing another wand would make Master look careless."

"Since the war? What are you talking about?" Harry grabbed the house-elf by the shoulders. "You remember the war?"

Kreacher was the picture of confusion as he blinked watery eyes at Harry. "Kreacher remembers all that Master remembers."

It was what Kreacher had always said, whenever Harry had asked about anything from before. Harry had never bothered to take it literally; now he realised what an omission that had been. "Of course you do, Kreacher, of course you do," he said, shaking the house-elf gently as he laughed at his folly. "Just out of curiosity, you wouldn't know what You Know Who is up to nowadays, would you?"

"No..." The house-elf looked extremely uncomfortable, eyeing Harry warily as he would a dragon. Then hesitantly, as if hoping that Harry wouldn't wish it, he added, "Would Master want Kreacher to try to find out?"

As reluctant as Kreacher was, Harry considered it; it mightn't be a bad idea to have the house-elf pop over to the Malfoy Manor, if he could come up with a good excuse. Tarts for Draco wouldn't fly this time. "Right now, no. Just help me find my wand."

"Kreacher will do that right away, Master."

"Oh, and Kreacher..."

"Yes, Master?"

"Take care not to scare any Muggles."

If house-elves could smirk, Harry was sure that would be the expression on the old elf's face. "Kreacher will try, Master."

After the elf was gone and the echo from his Disapparating swallowed by the soft chirping of sparrows, Harry wondered what to do with himself. This was the first time he'd been alone—completely alone—in over six weeks. He probably should have relished it, but in truth he felt very ... lonely. If he sat here, he'd just end up thinking, and that was the last thing he wanted to do. Draco had gone over to the other side, so that was that. Although technically it wasn't the other side—it had been his side all along. Neither of them had changed—they were standing in exactly the same places where they'd been in the beginning.

But the war had changed them, had changed both of them. Harry could still remember those dread visions he'd seen through Voldemort's eyes, of Draco, shocked into a state of resigned terror, reduced to being the tool to mete out that monster's torments. The sight had sickened him then, when Malfoy was still his enemy. Now, it was almost unbearable.

"If I was really like that, then I can't blame you for hating me. I did some terrible things."

Malfoy's voice tugged at his memory. He knew now; he must know. Hermione said that her memories had overlaid, one atop another. Draco would remember ... everything. Harry imagined how his memories must look, angry schoolyard taunts mingling with lazy morning kisses, fingers caressing an escaping snitch and frustrated curses at Muggle zippers, his enemy slicing him open in the bathroom, his lover opening his body to him in the shower, remembrances piled on top of each other like a mound of autumn leaves. Knowing what he must know, how could he have gone back?

Or what really bothered him even more, though he would be loathe to admit it—how could Draco have given Harry up?

Yes, thinking was definitely a bad idea. He needed to act, like Neville and the others were doing. He looked at the practice room a bit wistfully. It had been transfigured with a muffling charm, but he could still hear the occasional thumping of bodies against the wood when the spells got out of hand. He hoped that there was at least one trained Healer among the group.

Harry thought for a moment about joining the training, but without a wand he was just this side of useless. While debating whether to go anyway, his attention was caught by a bumblebee as big as his thumb, picking its way through the Lovegood garden. The sight was strangely comforting; Harry remembered their early days at Hogwarts, when Dumbledore's seeming omniscience had Ron convinced that his Animagus form must be a bumblebee following their every move.

Now it was Harry's turn to follow the bee, who didn't seem to mind having a two-legged admirer. It led Harry, flower by flower, around the curve of the castle wall. Jus past there, bermed into the fold of the hill, Harry saw a bright blue door, half-open, Dutch style. A pink hydrangea beside the door drew the bee, with Harry two steps behind. As he got closer he heard the roar of an engine and what sounded like metal colliding, as though cars were crashing into each other again and again in a steady rhythm.

Harry peeked over the bottom half of the door to see Mr. Lovegood leaning over a drafting table, wand tucked over his ear. Now he knew where Luna had picked that up. Harry knocked on the doorframe, but the sound was lost in the din. He tried again, louder. Still no response, so finally Harry cleared his throat and called, "Mr. Lovegood?"

The man jumped back, snatching the wand from his ear as fast as lightning. But when he saw who was there, he smiled. "Harry, do come in. I've something I'd like to show you."


Part One | Part Three

Tags:

• [fandom]: harry potter,
• chaptered fic: hp-architects of memory

• Previous Entry
• Add Memory
• Share This Entry
• Next Entry

• Reply