Fest Fic: If the Sun Goes Black [H/D - PG-13 - 23k]

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Title: If the Sun Goes Black
Author: ???
Prompt: PROMPT #4 by capitu
Pairing: Harry/Draco
Word Count: 23,000
Rating: PG-13
Contains (Highlight to view): *none*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: This fic has had so much help! From the lovely this_bloody_cat (who has suffered this fic since I started coming up with a plot) to digthewriter, tavia_d and smirkingcat. You have made this fic the work that it is with your awesome betaing, I cannot thank you enough. To capitu, I know this is not the fic you had in mind when you left your prompt. I still had a lot of fun with it, and after reveals I promise to tell you why I chose to go in a different direction with this.
Summary: With the perverse clarity of nostalgia, Harry remembers everything that was. The trouble is, he can’t recall anything that is.


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There’s a loud screech coming from the darkness, like a terrible bird calling out. Then the flapping of wings that sound too enormous to be possible. He’s got his heart in his throat, hands fumbling for his wand. His mind races with a single thought: he has to tell him.

There’s a bright flash that paralyses him, sends him into nothingness. It feels like falling, falling.

 

Harry Potter wakes up with a start. The first thing he notices is that he is not in his own bed. The second thing is that the lights are too bright, far too bright. It’s then that he notices the pervasive smell of antiseptic potion.

“Hello?” Harry says, tentatively because, while he doesn’t feel particularly ill, he’s quite positive that the fact that he can’t remember how he got to St Mungo’s is a pretty bad sign.

There’s some rustling behind a white curtain before a Healer holding a chart steps forward. She reminds Harry of someone but he can’t pinpoint who.

“Mr Potter, my name is Nancy,” she says. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Harry replies.

“Any pain or discomfort?”

“No.”

“Very well,” she says, checking something on her chart. Her straight black hair falls over her face, hiding it from Harry.

It bothers him not knowing where he’s seen her, but Harry is so sure he has met Healer Nancy before.

“Do you remember anything about your accident?” she asks.

“No. Uh, what happened?”

“Nothing at all, Mr Potter?” she insists, ignoring Harry’s question altogether.

“No.”

“Okay. Do you know what date it is?”

“I don’t know how long I’ve been here. But it’s October, right? October, 2001.”

Healer Nancy’s quill stops dead before it resumes scribbling furiously on the parchment. She takes a moment to look straight into Harry’s eyes. Harry holds her gaze and sees something flash in her dark eyes that sends a chill down his spine.

“Mr Potter, I will need to bring in the Head Healer to continue your examination,” she states simply and is gone before Harry can ask a single word.

Ten minutes later, Harry finds himself trying to come to terms with the fact that he appears to have lost all memory of the last couple of years of his life.

The Head Healer explains the possible treatments and strongly recommends acting immediately. “In cases of memory loss,” the Head Healer says, “research suggests that the best course of action is to start treatment immediately.”

Nodding, Harry signs his name on a few forms. He’s not really thinking about much else until the Healer mentions something about having already owled his emergency contact. The comment makes Harry stop signing his forms. He frowns, looking up at the Healer.

“My emergency contact?” Harry asks. He can’t remember ever signing a form for one of those and cannot help but wonder whose name is on that list.

The last thing Harry expects is for the Healer to flip through his chart and say, “Mr Draco Malfoy.”

 

Before the first round of potions, Harry has to undergo a series of complicated tests that leave his head in a fuzzy state. That, however, is nothing compared to how his mind feels like it has been covered in fog after the first batch of potions. He starts drifting in and out of consciousness quickly after that. And in between, Harry hears things. It’s mostly voices, but there’s something else underneath all of these. A flap, flap, flap.

At some point, Harry must have passed out definitively because the next time he wakes up, he feels decidedly lucid, if a little groggy. Someone is yelling behind the white curtain, a man with an edgy voice.

“What do you mean there’s nothing else? There has to be something else, something you can do! That’s Harry bloody Potter lying on your bed, you pathetic excuse of a—”

“Draco! That’s enough.”

And Harry recognises that second voice. He feels so relieved to know that Hermione is there that her using Draco Malfoy’s first name does not even register.

“Hermione?”

In the blink of an eye, the white curtain is drawn again, and Hermione is quickly making her way to Harry’s bed, Ron following after her. “Oh, Harry.” She throws her arms around Harry’s shoulders, squeezing until Harry feels the need to pat her arm.

“Hermione,” Ron says, placing a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Come on, you’re choking him.” Hermione lets go of Harry with a sniff.

“And I thought our days of seeing you like this were over,” Ron says conversationally. “You are rather prone to trouble, mate.”

“Ron!” Hermione chastises him.

Smiling, Harry says, “It’s good to see you.”

“Is it true you’ve forgotten the past couple of years?” Ron asks.

“Ron,” Hermione says. “You can be so insensitive.”

“Well,” Harry begins but the words die in his mouth.

Behind Ron and Hermione, Harry sees none other than Draco Malfoy with his hands in his pockets. Ron turns around to see what Harry is staring at. Harry can tell the moment Ron realises just how awkward the situation is because he gets this embarrassed look on his face. Hermione, on the other hand, reacts as though there is nothing weird at all.

She says, “Ron, let’s go find some tea.” And when Ron opens his mouth to protest, Hermione grabs his hand, muttering, “Honestly.”

It’s quiet after Ron and Hermione leave, and Malfoy steps forward. He looks older than Harry remembers, although there’s something familiar about the greyish tone to his skin. Malfoy looks worried, his face an older echo of the face Harry saw in a Hogwarts bathroom years ago.

“So,” Malfoy starts and stops.

But Harry has no time for Malfoy’s hesitation. “Why are you listed as my emergency contact?”

Malfoy licks his lips and looks away. “I… You suggested it,” he answers.

Harry’s stomach sinks. “Why would I do that?”

“You really don’t remember the past couple of years?” Malfoy retorts, voice earnest, as though Harry would confess something to him that he’s been hiding from his own Healers.

“Not a single thing.”

“Right.” Malfoy takes a deep breath before he utters the words Harry’s been suspecting all along. “We’re living together, Harry.”

And it’s the use of Harry’s first name, really, what trips him the most. It sounds odd coming from Malfoy’s voice. And not exactly in a bad way. Just sounds like it… belongs.

“So we’re…” Harry’s voice trails off. He’s not sure what the appropriate word would be. Lovers? Boyfriends? Partners?

Then Malfoy does an unthinkable thing. He takes two small steps until he’s standing right next to Harry’s bed. He takes Harry’s hand in his and his fingers shake around Harry’s. His voice is surprisingly steady when he says, “At the moment, Harry, we’re nothing but what we want us to be.”

Malfoy’s grey eyes look very bright and full of intent. There’s this thing tugging at Harry’s chest, like a part of himself is drawn instinctively to Malfoy.

But the bigger part of Harry, the one that feels like it is drowning in all the confusion, that part drops Malfoy's hand and says, “I don’t even know you.”

Malfoy’s face visibly falls at this. Like it’s been wired somewhere deep within him, Harry’s hand reaches out. He stops himself and wonders if Malfoy noticed.

Harry starts, “That was—”

But Malfoy shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Harry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Harry replies before he can think better of it.

For the first time, Malfoy looks away from Harry. Staring at a white wall, he says in a small voice, “We had a fight before you went missing. If I hadn’t—” Malfoy stops himself before he reveals to Harry what their fight was about.

If this were anyone else, Harry would probably ask about the fight. But it’s not. Being around Malfoy feels like standing on thin ice. Instead, he waits for Malfoy to break the silence.

“They’re letting you go tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Right.”

“We really live together, then?” Harry asks.

There’s a faint blush across Malfoy’s cheeks that Harry can’t help but find endearing, of all things. It distracts Harry to the point where he’s taken by surprise by Malfoy’s next words.

“It was your idea,” Malfoy says. There’s an edge to his voice and he’s not looking at Harry again. “It was all your idea.”

“I…”

“I think you need rest.”

“Malfoy,” Harry says, not sure of what he wants to say.

“You know, you haven’t called me that in months.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s… You’re taking this much better than I would’ve.”

Harry considers Malfoy for a moment. Even Malfoy’s profile looks different from what Harry remembers. It dawns on him that he’s just lost two years of his life. Two very important years of his life. Because if this was all his idea… Well, Harry can’t even recall thinking about wanting to live with Ginny. Up to now, he would not be able to imagine wanting such a thing. And yet here, Malfoy is the living proof that he did, at some point, want just that.

The words rush out of Harry and it is not until they are out that Harry realises how true they are.

“I wish I could remember,” he says.

“You’re too noble, Harry,” Malfoy replies. It’s a moment of such pure honesty that it takes both of them by surprise. “I…” Malfoy starts, then halts. “I’ll come by tomorrow.”

He gives Harry a hesitant smile. With that, he’s gone, leaving Harry frowning at the ceiling, wondering what Malfoy meant by “too noble”.

He doesn’t get much time to think about as Ron and Hermione walk in again. They each bring a chair to the side of Harry’s bed.

Ron holds out a cup for Harry. “We brought you tea.”

Thanking them, Harry takes the cup and sips. He burns the tip on his tongue on it but it’s nice to have something warm to hold in his hands.

“How are you feeling, Harry?” Hermione asks.

Harry shrugs. “I’m fine. Other than the obvious.”

Ron and Hermione exchange looks. It’s Hermione who speaks first, “Well, Ron and I have been discussing it, and it’s all very odd.”

“Is it?” Harry asks. “I sort of figured it was an assignment gone wrong or something.”

Hermione nods. “That’s the thing, Harry. You weren’t working on anything dangerous.”

“And that must have been a very powerful spell if no one at St Mungo’s can reverse it,” Ron quips.

“But why erase my memory? They could’ve just killed me!”

“Harry, don’t say that!” Hermione exclaims.

“Well,” Ron says. “It’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“It is very strange. All known Death Eaters are accounted for. Kingsley started interviewing them as soon as Draco reported you missing.”

“I went missing?” Harry asks, now even more confused.

“Only for a few hours. But it’s you we’re talking about, and Draco seemed pretty sure something had happened to you.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah,” Ron answers. “He showed up at ours two nights ago, convinced you’d been murdered.”

“He was really worried, Harry,” Hermione says.

Harry rubs the back of his neck. He’s firmly staring at the white wall when he says, “I still can’t believe it, you know? With Malfoy.”

Ron chuckles. “Took us by surprise, too, mate. One day you were married to your job, the next you were all but married to him!”

“Ronald!” Hermione takes a moment to glare at Ron before turning to Harry with significantly kinder eyes. “Harry, I can’t imagine how hard this must be for you. But Draco really has changed. You’re both very happy.”

Harry looks sideways to catch Ron’s eye. Whatever Harry is expecting, it’s not Ron nodding. “I didn’t believe you when you first told us,” he says. “But he’s not the same. And you two, you make sense, in a bizarre sort of way.” Ron pauses for a moment before grinning at the thought of something. “Mum reckons you both need to feed yourselves much better.”

Ron and Hermione are not allowed to stay much longer. A nurse that reminds Harry of Madam Pomfrey comes shortly after to tell them visiting hours were over an hour ago. And the truth of the matter is, their conspiracy theories can only go so far. Kingsley has interviewed and accounted for all the whereabouts of known and suspected Death Eaters. Harry can’t remember a thing, and Malfoy, who at the time had seemed so certain something had gone wrong, had never felt the need to explain why he thought so.

“Of course he was worried,” Hermione had said when Harry ventured to question Malfoy’s motives for thinking he’d gone missing after only a few hours. “Harry, there are still those who don’t look kindly on your defeat of Voldemort. And Draco had all the right to worry, you never just disappear.”

Hermione’s reasoning had made Harry feel like he was back in Sixth year, coming up with conspiracy theories about Draco Malfoy. Harry’d been right in Sixth year. But he’s not so sure this time around.

 

Harry’s morning is uneventful. The Healers run more tests before he is cleared to go. They give him a potion to take a couple of drops of with water every morning, it’s supposed to help the trauma in his brain that is the alleged cause of his memory loss. But even the potion might not do the trick, he might never recover his memory, the Healers say.

Harry changes into the regular clothes Malfoy brought the day before. He stares dubiously at the potion before stuffing it in his pocket. For a moment, it looks as though he’ll have to figure out what to do with himself. But then, just as he’s tying his shoes, Malfoy shows up.

He’s breathless with dark circles under his eyes. Malfoy apologises for being late, asks Harry if he needs help with anything and then, when Harry replies no, he leads the way out.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks.

“Long night,” Malfoy answers. “Are you hungry?”

“I had breakfast just an hour ago.”

“Oh.” Malfoy stops walking for a moment. “I thought… Never mind, we’ll go straight home, then.”

Harry visibly tenses at the mention of their shared home. Whether Malfoy notices or not, Harry has no idea. He keeps walking like nothing has happened and soon, they’re outside St Mungo’s Muggle entrance. Disoriented, Harry has to follow Malfoy as they turn a couple of corners until they’re walking down a busy London street. Then something unexpected happens.

They stop walking to stand on the sidewalk, where Malfoy pulls out his arm and efficiently flags them a perfectly Muggle cab. Harry cannot help but stare as Malfoy opens the black door.

“Harry?” Malfoy asks.

“You… This is a Muggle cab,” Harry says, still perplexed.

Malfoy frowns at him, still holding the door open for Harry. When the driver asks them if they are getting in or not, Harry moves without thinking. Five seconds later, he finds himself in the backseat of the Muggle taxi with Draco Malfoy giving the driver directions.

“What is it?” Malfoy asks again, when Harry can’t seem to stop staring.

“I… You!” Harry says. Then, in a lower voice, “This is a Muggle cab.”

Harry reckons that fact bears repeating. In case Malfoy made a mistake and is expecting the taxi to start flying over London traffic or something.

“I think I know what these are, Harry,” Malfoy says. Then it must dawn on Malfoy why Harry is so confused for he blushes and takes one long look out the window before he turns back to Harry. In a voice barely above a whisper, Malfoy adds, “I had to learn.” When Harry asks why, Malfoy simply answers, “You’ll see why.”

The why becomes pretty clear when the taxi drives into a suburban area. They drive past a park where there are people walking dogs and pushing strollers and small children running around. There’s a gazebo surrounded by trees and a couple sitting on the railings. It is the exact opposite of where Harry would’ve imagined Malfoy’s residence to be. Reality only gets more incongruous when the cab stops in front of an exceptionally unexceptional Muggle house, and Malfoy pays the driver with bank notes. Bank notes he even knows how to use.

“Nobody ever told you staring is rude?” Malfoy teases once they’re both out of the cab.

Without thinking, Harry answers, “Aunt Petunia’s favourite hobby was to spy on our neighbours over her gardenias.” He’s too busy taking in the front garden when he distractedly adds, “She was not exactly what I’d call a role model.”

Malfoy’s laugh takes Harry by surprise, and when he turns to look at him, he realises Malfoy has dimples in his cheeks.

Another stroller-pushing woman comes up their way, waving and asking about their day.

“Not too bad, Mrs Field,” Malfoy answers. “And yourself?”

“Just taking the baby out for a walk, you know how it is.” She smiles pleasantly at the both of them. “Have a nice day, boys!”

“Our neighbours know us,” Harry states.

Malfoy nods. “Hence why we can’t exactly be Apparating in and out.” He sighs as he takes a set of keys out of his pockets. He says something under his breath that sounds a lot like, “I still can’t believe you convinced me to live here.”

Harry feels like now is his opportunity to start asking how exactly was it that they came about. But then Malfoy has opened the door to a bright corridor with mahogany floors. Malfoy drops his keys in a bowl on a table next to the door. There are fresh flowers on the vase beside the key bowl — moringa, Harry thinks somewhere in the back of his mind. If he hadn’t been so distracted by the framed pictures on the wall, Harry would’ve been astonished at knowing the name of the flowers.

But it’s hard to focus on flowers when staring at you are the faces of a happy couple. They wave at Harry, and he has to rub his eyes under his glasses to make sure he isn’t seeing visions. Because the faces smiling at him are Malfoy’s and his own.

“I can make us both—” Malfoy halts when his eyes meet Harry’s.

Harry blinks at Malfoy. He loses track of his own thoughts for a moment, and the only thing in his mind is the fact that they really are together.

If it was very strange thinking about himself and Malfoy back at St Mungo’s, the thought’s got nothing on how Harry feels just staring at pictures of a life where he looks so genuinely happy. He gets a horrible feeling in the pit of his stomach, like he might vomit.

Coming to stand next to Harry, Malfoy says, “I thought about taking them down.” Malfoy’s shoulder accidentally brushes against Harry’s and the warmth of it feels familiar. Then Malfoy adds, “But I read somewhere last night that things can help trigger memories.”

Harry picks one of the framed photographs, one where it’s not just Malfoy and Harry, It’s them and Hermione and the Weasleys. Everyone but Malfoy and Harry is waving and grinning broadly. Harry has his hands around Malfoy’s waist, he’s whispering something in Malfoy’s ear, and Malfoy has a small smile on his lips. Like they’re sharing a secret.

“When was this?” It’s when he looks from the photo to Malfoy that Harry notices the way Malfoy has his eyes trained on the floor. “Malfoy?”

When Malfoy lifts his gaze, Harry sees something like fear flash in them.

“About four months ago,” Malfoy answers. “Joint birthday party for us.” Taking a deep breath, Malfoy says, “I can show you around the rest of the house.”

Nodding, Harry follows Malfoy around their house quietly. He listens as Malfoy points to the rooms on the ground floor, a guest toilet, the kitchen, the living room, the dining table. “The house used to have space in a cupboard under the stairs but you had that sealed off when we moved in,” Malfoy explains conversationally as they climb the stairs.

Harry doesn’t have to remember living in this house to know exactly why he had the cupboard sealed off. He wonders if Malfoy knows.

Upstairs there is a library that goes from end to end of the wall. “Between your Auror training books and mine on Potions, we have too many books,” Malfoy offers when he notices Harry stopping to read titles. Next to the library there is a bathroom and across from it, there are two bedrooms. The guest room and the master bedroom.

Malfoy is holding tight onto the doorknob of the guest room when he says, “I moved my things in here.”

For a moment, Harry is quite speechless. He finds it hard to reconcile the Malfoy standing in front of him with the Malfoy in his head. The Malfoy he hasn’t seen in years, the one who wouldn’t be caught dead living among Muggles, much less interacting with them.

Harry is on the verge of saying something to this effect. And perhaps it’s a blessing that Malfoy beats him to it and says, “I have to get to work.” It occurs to Harry that he has no idea what Malfoy does. And like he’s reading Harry’s mind, Malfoy adds, “I own an apothecary in Diagon Alley.”

Harry says a very eloquent, “Oh.”

“There’s Floo powder next to the fireplace downstairs,” Malfoy says, closing the door to the guest room. He walks past Harry, making his way down the stairs. “Mrs Weasley has sent over some pies, it’s all in the kitchen. And…” Malfoy, who has met Harry’s eyes exactly once since they entered the house, looks straight at Harry. “If you need anything, let me know.”

Malfoy grabs his keys from the bowl, opens the door and leaves.

 

The truth of the matter is, Harry has no idea what to do with himself. The house is so foreign to him that doing anything other than politely sitting on the couch feels like he’s rudely snooping into someone’s personal space. And yet, Harry can see signs of himself all around the house. There’s a significant amount of Muggle appliances for one thing. From the fridge in the kitchen to the telly in front of the living room couch, there are things that Harry immediately recognises as his.

But after sitting on the couch for who knows how long, Harry decides his choices are to either lose whatever is left of his mind to boredom or go snooping around his own house. It’s not really much of a choice. Plus, didn’t Malfoy say something about things triggering memories? At any rate, if it’s in this house, then chances are whatever Harry finds is either his or partly his.

On this new mission to reacquaint himself with his place of residence, the safest place seems to be downstairs. Harry starts with the kitchen, because there’s a giant silver refrigerator familiarly humming away. The one Harry remembers owning was white, considerably smaller and had faint stains that, no matter how hard Harry scrubbed, would never come off. He’d got it second hand.

The new one is pristine. When Harry opens it, everything is perfectly organised in such a manner that seems entirely incongruent with Harry’s personality. The greens are safely stored in the clear drawers at the bottom; the milk carton and orange juice are neatly stacked on the fridge door; there’s cheese, butter, eggs and few containers, all elegantly placed on the shelves. While Harry is positive the refrigerator could have only been his idea, he is also fairly certain the upkeep of it and its contents are not part of Harry’s daily routine. Unless he’s drastically changed in the past two years and has suddenly decided a compulsive obsession with order is his new thing.

Frowning at the refrigerator one more time as though it has personally offended him, Harry closes the door and moves on. The rest of the kitchen is similarly ordered. Everything appears to have a place. At one point, Harry considers conjuring up a ruler to measure whether it’s his eyes or whether the glasses in the cupboard are, indeed, placed within exact distance of each other.

Experimentally, he moves a blue cup to the left. It does not bother Harry in the least, where the cup is. Then, to further prove to himself that he has not developed some serious OCD over these past years, he moves everything in the cupboard. It does not bother him one bit. If anything, it makes him lighter, like he can finally see a hint of himself in the otherwise immaculate kitchen.

Harry’s relief is short-lived, however. Because as soon as he realises this kitchen is not a product of his own mind, he also realises who is responsible for it. His stomach sinks with guilt. There’s something like a memory prickling in the back of his mind but, like an itch he can’t scratch, Harry is unable to get to it. Somehow, he gets a sense of déjà-vu, except it’s more like déjà-felt. Like he’s felt this exact same way before, over this exact same thing. And he knows without really remembering that this, control, is hard for Malfoy.

Harry does the best he can to put everything back where it was. He knows he fails miserably because his final attempt does not make him feel as uneasy as he did when he first started opening cupboards. He stares at the glasses and cups and plates and bowls and remembers nothing about them.

A sudden urge to smash everything against the floor overcomes him. It takes all his willpower not to do it. Instead, Harry forces himself to take a deep breath. He forces himself to calm down as he slowly avoids not throwing shut the cupboard doors. He still bangs his head against the last door.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself.

He stays there, forehead pressed against a cupboard he can’t remember being his. He has to swallow against a lump in his throat and push everything down before he can open his eyes again. Squaring his shoulders, Harry decides there’s no use in being angry.

There’s nothing particular about the living room that jumps out at him other than the telly, which Harry recognises as the same one he remembers buying just after he got his flat. He goes through drawers and flicks lamps. He flips through the pages of the couple of books on the coffee table, one about flowers and the other about the Scottish countryside. The page showing a picture of the empty space where Harry knows Hogwarts is has been bookmarked. Like a private joke.

Harry drops the book and goes to the kitchen to fix himself a plate of food. He takes out one of the containers from the refrigerator, drops its contents on a plate and places it in the microwave. Like he’s on autopilot, Harry rinses out the container while he waits for his food to heat up, laying it out to dry just as the microwave beeps. He wipes the mess of water he’s made around the sink before picking up a fork and settling on the sofa.

Harry eats mindlessly, not really tasting anything on his plate as he turns on the telly and starts flicking through channels until he finds some random cartoon that he’s never seen before. He makes a mental note to tell Malfoy that they’ve ran out of orange juice and they should probably get more cheese. He makes a mental note to ask Malfoy about who does what around the house. Maybe they have a house elf? Maybe Kreacher is still around, Harry thinks sleepily. He makes another note of it, dozing off.

 

It’s very summery outside, the grass is bright green and the sky is the perfect, cloudless shade of blue. Harry has his head on Ginny’s lap, and Ginny is stroking his hair, just like she had done back in Sixth year. Her fingers feel slightly rougher and longer, but Harry can’t help pushing into the touch. It feels so nice, safe.

“Harry,” Ginny says. “Harry wake up.”

Harry shakes his head. He wants to stay there forever, in this place he knows and remembers. But he can feel himself entering that fuzzy state between the end of a dream and awareness. He yawns, fully expecting to see Ginny’s face hovering over him. Then he blinks awake and the face is not Ginny’s but Malfoy’s. His mouth goes dry.

“Sorry,” Malfoy says, immediately removing his hand from Harry’s hair. “But sleeping on the sofa will give you a crick in the morning.”

“Right.” He’s having trouble swallowing against the rising lump in his throat. Harry sits upright and gives himself a moment to gather his thoughts before he speaks again. Then, “How was your day?”

He figures it’s an innocent enough question so he doesn’t really get why it makes Malfoy pull a face. Malfoy recovers quickly, though. With ease, he schools his features into something vaguely resembling pleasant.

“Uneventful,” Malfoy answers. “Did you get up to much?”

“Not really.”

“Is that so? I thought I saw your fingerprints all over the kitchen,” comes Malfoy’s reply.

This immediately jolts Harry out of his weird, post-sleep mood. He feels his cheeks flushing. “Er…”

“I can always tell when you start mucking around in there.” The corners of Malfoy’s mouth are turned up in a small, faraway sort of smile.

“Sorry about the, er, mess,” Harry finishes lamely.

Malfoy shrugs. He flops against the sofa, looking more relaxed than Harry has seen him in these couple of days. “It’s a good thing I’m a wizard,” Malfoy says. He’s smirking when he adds, “You’re such a slob.”

Harry opens his mouth to protest but then decides against it. Instead, he says, “I finished the last of our orange juice.”

“Your orange juice,” Malfoy corrects him. “You’re the one who buys it and you’re the one who drinks it. You tried to get me into it, but it’s just foul.”

“How are you even a person?” Harry demands in absolute shock. “Who even hates orange juice? Of all the things to—” Harry stops mid-sentence because Malfoy has started laughing rather loudly. “What’s so funny?”

Then Malfoy looks at him and laughs some more, like Harry’s entire face is the punchline of his private joke. Harry is about to say something else, when Malfoy takes one deep breath, chuckles again before finally apologising. “Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, it’s just you said the same thing, almost word for word, Harry, when I first told you.”

“Er…”

Malfoy has calmed down and is now simply smiling pleasantly. “We do have to go to the shops, though. I meant to go last night but—” Malfoy stops himself awkwardly. Then, “We can go now, if you’d like.”

“So we shop together?” Harry asks without thinking.

He feels himself blushing, both at the thought of them pushing a shopping trolley and also at his own clumsiness and lack of tact.

“Usually. We have very, er, different tastes,” Malfoy replies, emphasising ‘different’ like he had another, less polite term to be used in this situation.

“Different,” Harry parrots but says no more.

“Well, then, shall we?” Malfoy asks, getting up from the sofa.

Nodding, Harry stretches out before he follows Malfoy down the hall. His stomach sinks when he passes the portraits in the hall. He stops in front of them, his fingers twitching nervously. Something like melancholy takes over, making him feel cold.

“Harry?” Malfoy asks by the door.

Harry forces himself to look away. He has to make sure he’s standing on steady legs before he follows Malfoy out the door.

Outside, it’s late afternoon and the air is getting colder with the start of autumn. They walk in silence down the streets of their neighbourhood, with Harry taking note of when they turn left and when they turn right.

Fifteen minutes later, Malfoy is showing Harry where the trolleys are. Malfoy pulls one from the line, then another.

“How do we do this?” Harry asks as he takes the first trolley.

Malfoy tilts his head to the side. “Oh.” Putting the second trolley back where it was, Malfoy says, “I suppose we might as well just take the one.” Then, probably because Harry is looking lost, Malfoy adds, “We usually divide and conquer, or something.” He frowns. “It’s something you say. A Muggle thing.”

“What do I usually get?”

“You mean besides that foul orange juice?” Malfoy teases. “Well, usually you get everything but the fresh produce. You’re pants at picking fruit, don’t ask me why.”

“I’ve been capable of feeding myself perfectly well without—” Harry gulps.

An awkward silence falls upon them. The word may not have left Harry’s lips but they both know what it was.

Then Malfoy says, “You’ve been perfectly capable of poisoning yourself, you mean,” and they go inside.

Harry pushes the trolley while Malfoy picks things off shelves. They start on the left hand side, where all the soaps and toothpastes are. Malfoy picks up Harry’s favourite toothpaste and drops it in the trolley without a word.

Then, in front of the deodorants, Malfoy turns to Harry and says, “You’re running out of these things.” He points at the deodorants with his nose scrunched up.

“You don’t use deodorant?” Harry asks.

“I don’t get anything from here that’s not edible,” Malfoy replies. And when Harry looks down at the toothpaste, he says, “I’ve been staring at a tube of that for months. Colgate, or whatever it is.”

Except Malfoy says it like ‘col-gat’, which makes Harry snigger, which in turn makes Malfoy roll his eyes.

“You really should use the wizarding stuff,” Malfoy says, a little exasperated, like this is not the first time they’ve had this argument. “It’s bound to be better than that.”

Harry doesn’t say anything as he picks up the last brand of deodorant he remembers buying. They quickly move onto milk, where Malfoy tells Harry to get whatever he likes while he himself comes back with a carton of almond milk.

“Almond milk?” Harry says in disbelief. “Really?”

“Did you know almond milk was a popular substitute for cow’s milk back in the Middle Ages?” Malfoy asks. “People seem to think that it’s some sort of new discovery. But the truth is, almond milk has been around for centuries.”

“Are you one of those people?”

“Those people?”

“You know, the ones who wake up at five in the morning to go for a run, come back to make themselves a smoothie with celery and carrots and almond milk.”

Gobsmacked, Malfoy says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Neither of us wakes up at five in the morning to go for a bloody run.” Then, “Mother is lactose intolerant, I grew up on this. Merlin, the things you come up with.”

Malfoy is still shaking his head in disbelief by the time they make it to the meat section. Harry is secretly wondering whether they’re gonna skip this one altogether because Malfoy is a vegan or something. Harry will not deny he is a little surprised to see Malfoy walking up to the butcher to expertly ask for a few cuts of beef and lamb. He picks up chicken, too, then asks Harry if there’s anything he feels like before they move on.

It’s a bizarre thing, to be walking around the spacious aisles pushing a trolley next to Malfoy. Harry wonders if he felt this odd the first time they ever came here together. He thinks maybe Malfoy would’ve felt more lost. Thinks maybe it was Harry showing him where everything is and not the other way around. The thoughts make Harry’s head swim and his fingers start twitching again.

Harry doesn’t realise the extent to which his mind has drifted until he takes a look at their trolley and finds it half full with bags of the fancy kind of lettuce, Spanish onions, regular onions, carrots, potatoes and an abnormally huge watermelon.

The first thought to cross Harry’s mind is, who on earth is going to eat all of these? The second is, who is going to cook all of these? Because as far as Harry can remember, he was living on a steady diet of takeaway, Mrs Weasley’s leftovers and sandwiches made with sliced cheese and ham and the occasional tomato, if Harry felt fancy.

He looks over and finds Malfoy standing next to the fruit. He already has a bag of lemons in his arms and is currently filling another one with green apples.

“Do you cook?” Harry asks, genuinely curious now.

Malfoy hums, dropping the bags in the trolley. “I do,” he says now that he has moved onto the berries. “I do most of the cooking because you’d poison the both of us if it was left to you. You do the dishes and your house elf comes round twice a week to clean up the house.”

“Kreacher?”

“Yes, he came just yesterday.” Malfoy picks up strawberries and blueberries. He’s staring thoughtfully at some raspberries and asks, “Say, how do you feel about raspberries? We haven’t gotten any in a while.”

Harry is so taken aback by the question that all he can say is, “What?”

“Raspberries. Yes or no?”

“Er… Yes?”

“Okay, then.” Malfoy is choosing peaches and avocados before he finally looks down at the trolley. “I reckon that’s about it.”

“Oh, really?” Harry says. “You sure you didn’t want to buy whatever is left of the store?”

“You think you’re funny, Harry,” Malfoy says as they walk up to the cashier.

They help the grocer bag everything and then put it back in the trolley, which Harry pushes outside.

“We cannot carry these between just the two of us,” Harry says, looking down at the bags.

Malfoy rolls his eyes dramatically. “Really? Are you a wizard or what?” he says, taking out his wand.

And it hadn't even occurred to Harry that they could use magic. That they could pick up their bags and Apparate into their house. And it is only as he watches Malfoy charm the bags so they’re lighter and easier to carry that Harry realises just how Muggle-ish they have both been behaving.

The realisation punches the breath right out of him. He can’t figure out what it is. He watches Malfoy walking just a step ahead, and he cannot believe that this man is the same person who tried to kill Dumbledore.

“There’ll be a full moon soon,” Malfoy says suddenly, staring up at the sky as they walk back home.

Harry doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Astronomy was never his best subject at Hogwarts, and he’s never particularly cared for the stars. He watches Malfoy, though, studies the way Malfoy frowns at the sky. They walk silently the rest of the way, Malfoy eventually losing his frown and replacing it with half a smile for Harry.

Harry is unpacking groceries while Malfoy organises them in the kitchen when he finally finds what he thinks are the right words, “You hated Muggles when I last saw you.”

“I wouldn’t use the word hate,” Malfoy says a little too smoothly.

“Whatever word you would use, I doubt anyone who knew you would’ve thought you’d end up living amongst Muggles.”

Malfoy stops arranging fruit in the refrigerator. He closes the door and drops his forehead against the stainless steel. Harry watches as Malfoy takes in a deep breath.

Without looking at Harry, Malfoy says, “Circumstances change.”

“Yes, but you’re like a complete different person!” Harry exclaims, the words finally spilling out of him in a burst of anger and frustration. And it’s not until he’s said them, until they’re out in the air, that Harry realises how much this has been bothering him.

Then Malfoy looks up from his peaches, jaw set. “Is that really so bad?”

“No, but—”

“I’m sorry if I’m disappointing you for not cursing Muggles left and right,” Malfoy interrupts. “I’m sorry if that’s confusing for you, shall I go out and bring you the head of one of our neighbours. Would that make it all right?”

Malfoy looks properly angry now. And the thing is, the horrible thing is that this is what makes Harry feel better. This is familiar territory. This Malfoy he can handle.

They stare at each other, wands not quite raised but both of them still ready for curses to start flying. It’s Malfoy who moves first. Instinctively, Harry jumps back and raises his own wand.

But Malfoy mutters, “For Merlin’s sake,” before he points at the groceries behind Harry. Apples, lemons and carrots start flying into the refrigerator. Everything moves around until all that’s left on the counter are the empty paper bags.

“I’m going to bed,” Malfoy says, putting his wand away.

He leaves without another word, and Harry is left staring at an empty space. He feels numb as he makes himself some tea to take to the sofa. He feels numb as he sits, numb as he turns on the telly and numb as he flicks through channels and settles for a nondescript animal show.

Harry falls asleep like that.

 

There are giant wings flap, flap flapping against a window, the noise deafening him. A long, drawn out groan, and the next thing he knows, Harry is waking up with a start.

Harry sighs, feeling an awful crick on the right side of his neck. He considers skipping his memory potion that morning, seeing how it’s had no effect yet. In the end, though, Harry pours himself a glass of water in the kitchen and puts in a couple of purple drops.

It takes him exactly six minutes to confirm that Malfoy is already gone. Harry looks for him downstairs. When Malfoy isn’t there, Harry climbs the stairs. He knocks on the guest room door. Next, he looks into the bathroom and his first reaction is to forget he is looking for Malfoy at all. Because their bathroom is about the size of Harry’s old room. There’s a very modern-looking shower with three heads and what looks very suspiciously like a jacuzzi. There are two sinks and a large mirror. The tiles on the floor are white with deep blue streaks. The tiles on the walls are white with a single line of deep blue tiles cutting through the middle. There are a lot of bottles next to the sink, on the shade of the jacuzzi and in the shower. Harry blinks a couple of times to make sure he’s taking everything in.

He has half a mind to start teasing Malfoy about this bathroom instead as soon as he finds him. Which reminds Harry that he’s looking for Malfoy. Bracing himself, Harry knocks on the master bedroom door. When nothing happens, Harry opens the door.

When Harry opened the guest room, he saw nothing but things he wouldn’t own. When he opens the master bedroom? It’s almost like walking into his old room. The bedding is different, but he recognises most of the pictures on the dresser. Those are what pull Harry into the room.

He picks up the frames he knows first. The one of his Auror graduation. The one of Hermione’s first day at Magical Law Enforcement. One with all the Weasleys in front of Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

He used to have another picture in the same sort of frame as these three. It was of Ginny in her Holyhead Harpies uniform. Harry remembers Ginny’s smile in the photo, remembers Ginny rolling her eyes at Mrs Weasley just before it was taken. Harry remembers Ginny breaking up with him almost a year after that photo was taken. With the perverse clarity of nostalgia, Harry remembers everything that was.

The trouble is, he can’t recall anything that is.

The next thing Harry does is open the drawers to look for Ginny’s picture. He rummages through what he assumes is his own underwear — it’s a fair assumption, the briefs are the exact brand and size Harry has been wearing for years. When that produces nothing, Harry moves onto a sock drawer, then a shirt drawer and then a drawer full of papers. Nothing.

He moves to look under the bed. Then in the night stand drawers. He throws open the door of his wardrobe and makes a mess of his shoes and trousers. He makes a downright mess of everything in the room before he is ready to give the portrait up as a lost cause. Then, feeling like an idiot, he remembers he’s a bloody wizard.

“Accio portrait,” Harry says and watches in dismay as a dozen portraits fly to him. He’s not surprised to find Ginny’s isn’t among those.

Harry sits on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, trying to remember how to breathe. He’s tired, he realises. Tired and his neck is killing him and all he wants to do is crawl into bed and wake up at a time where this isn’t his life.

Waving his wand, Harry manages to clear a good portion of the clutter in the room. He buries himself under the covers, placing his head on a soft pillow.

 

When Harry wakes up again, it is midday. It takes him a moment to register his morning was not a dream. The proof of his breakdown is staring at him from the floor. There are a couple of broken frames, one from downstairs and one that was on his dresser. There are papers spilling out of one of the drawers and his socks are in complete disarray.

Harry starts with the easiest part. He sets his socks right, or as right as he can manage, with a wave of his hands. He repairs the broken frames and makes them float to their respective places. Then he crawls to the floor to see if he can figure out the order of his papers.

It’s a heap of files, some labelled ‘Muggle’, some labelled ‘Wizard’ or ‘Witch’. Some have been marked with red tags, some with green, and some have nothing on them at all. He flips through them, finds names and photos to go with the names. Brief descriptions of their lives. Under the space for ‘Notes’ there’s nothing on any of the pages. There isn’t even a general note explaining the tags. Harry resolves to organise the files alphabetically before putting them back in a drawer. He fetches ink and a piece of parchment from his nightstand and writes down a note to himself so he remembers to ask Kingsley about the files when he sees him.

What he needs, Harry thinks, is one long bath. He makes his way to the bathroom and snorts at the sight of its vastness. He runs a bath while he looks through the bottles next to the tub. He’s trying to decide between “Relaxing Lavender” and “Energising Mandarin” when he finds, tucked in between bottles like someone has forgotten it, a long black feather. He picks it up only to drop it as soon as his skin touches it.

And in the split second when Harry’s skin makes contact with the feather, Harry gets a vision. Or rather, a memory of a naked Malfoy, knees to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees and face hidden. Then he turns his face sideways and whispers, “I’m scared.”

It’s a memory so vivid that Harry is almost surprised to not see Malfoy in the tub when he opens his eyes. He takes a deep breath and gets in the water gingerly, trying to will his mind to remember more.

Still in the tub, Harry gets an owl from the Ministry. He tears it open and reads a letter from Kingsley who, apart from asking Harry how he’s doing, asks when would it be okay for Harry to come by the Auror Office. Harry rinses off and gets a towel before he summons quill and parchment to write down a quick reply for the Ministry owl to take back with him. Harry is getting dressed when Kingsley’s reply owl flies through his opened window.

It’ll be nice to get out of the house tomorrow, Harry thinks as he gets on a pair of trousers he doesn’t remember buying.

 

The rest of the day is fairly uneventful. Harry makes himself a sandwich for lunch before taking himself and the sandwich out on a walk. The sky is clear and the weather is pleasant, which means a lot of people are also out on a walk. People who wave at Harry and ask how he’s doing. He almost runs back to the house in fear when an old lady stops him to talk to him about her cats.

It’s a good thing Harry knew Mrs Figg because he knows just the right questions to ask without raising any suspicions. Harry perseveres after that, though, reckoning if he can hold a fifteen-minute conversation about cats, he can deal with two-minute small talk.

Fortunately, once he reaches the park — a feat he only manages by stealthily following the troop of power-walking ladies — no one seems to know him or care that he is there. It’s a small relief for it lets Harry stroll around the edges of the park before he sits down to eat his sandwich.

It’s a nice neighbourhood, Harry concludes after a while. The trees are leafy and bright green. It smells fresh and Harry likes the noise of (mostly) happy people and their dogs in the background. It’s a place Harry knows he wouldn’t take long to love. It’s the place he once saw himself settling in with Ginny. The place where people go to start a family.

He wonders if that’s what he had in mind when they moved to that house. If starting a family was the whole point of moving there with Malfoy. It’s a strange thought to be sure. But then Harry remembers Malfoy and their neighbour the day before. Malfoy organising groceries in the kitchen before Harry sent any semblance of normalcy out the window.

It’s getting late, he should probably turn back.

 

Harry gets in just before Malfoy does. In fact, Harry has just put on the kettle when he hears Malfoy opening the front door.

Malfoy stops walking as soon as he spots Harry in the kitchen. He says, “You’re here.”

“Tea?” Harry offers.

“Please.”

Malfoy drops into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He’s messing with the cuff of his shirt, looking even more tired than he did the day before. Harry is too concentrated watching Malfoy’s movements that when the kettle beeps, he jumps just as Malfoy looks up from his cuff. Their eyes meet for a second before Harry turns to drop a bag of English Breakfast in each cup. He places the green one in front of Malfoy and keeps the yellow one for himself.

Malfoy says something that sound like “huh”, but Harry can’t be sure because Malfoy’s lips are around the mug and his words are a little muffled.

Harry traces the rim of his mug a few times before he gathers the courage to clear his throat to get Malfoy’s attention. “About last night,” Harry starts.

“Yes?”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to—”

“You know, for the ridiculous amount of planning that we’ve done,” Malfoy interjects. “This particular scenario never quite made it into our contingency plans.”

“What sort of plans?”

“Oh, this and that,” Malfoy replies distractedly.

Something about the way Malfoy holds his head tilted to the side looks familiar to Harry. He’s trying to remember what it is about Malfoy’s face when Malfoy closes his eyes, and Harry remembers the memory he had in the bathroom. The one where Malfoy looked so exhausted he did not bother with niceties before he flat out confessed to being scared.

Harry’s heart beats faster in his chest. Because he doesn’t have to remember everything to know something is up. Except he doesn’t remember how to ask. Can’t recall how to talk, really talk to Malfoy.

“Are you alright?” Harry asks. Then, when Malfoy just stares, he adds, “You look like.” Like shit is the only word Harry can think of, but that is not terribly polite, is it? “Like you haven’t slept well.”

“I have trouble sleeping sometimes,” Malfoy answers, not meeting Harry’s eyes.

“You know, I didn’t mean anything last night,” Harry says, because he feels that Malfoy’s lack of sleep is partly his fault. It makes him guilty. “I was just…” Harry rubs the skin where his neck meets his right shoulder, massaging the still sore spot. “Confused.”

“I tried to warn you about the couch,” Malfoy says. “And to be honest, I’m rather surprised your outburst took so long.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not exactly what I would call patient,” Malfoy replies, in a tone that indicates his words are a serious understatement. Then Malfoy pushes himself off his chair and moves to the refrigerator. “Are you hungry?”

Harry’s not feeling particularly peckish. But he cannot deny he’s curious to see what Malfoy does with all the stuff they got yesterday from the grocer’s.

“Sure,” Harry says, and settles to watch as Malfoy places things on the counter.

“Really hungry or just slightly?” Malfoy asks.

“Just slightly,” Harry answers.

Malfoy hums to himself as he brings out more things from the fridge. Harry watches with his jaw half dropped as Malfoy charms a knife to chop up some tomatoes, garlic, oregano and onions. When that is done, those ingredients go in a pot over the stove, where Malfoy charms a wooden spoon to stir it occasionally.

The next thing out onto the counter is a package that reads ‘Fresh Pasta to Charm Your Loved Ones’.

Harry cannot help himself, he sniggers. “Where did you get that?”

“Same Muggle shop where I get the wine,” Malfoy says, not taking his eyes off the food. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

It isn’t long before Malfoy is asking Harry to get some plates out. Harry sets them on the counter and then moves to set the table. Malfoy brings out wine and pours two glasses while his charmed utensils serve the Charming Pasta and sauce on plates. They both sit at the table just as the plates float in front of them.

It does not escape Harry’s notice how the first thing that Malfoy does is down his entire glass of wine and immediately serve himself another one.

Without thinking, Harry says, “You might want to pace yourself.”

This makes Malfoy blink stupidly at him. Then he chuckles, shaking his head as he raises his glass to his lips again. He’s staring very intently at Harry.

Finally, Harry gives in. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Malfoy replies. He continues to stare at Harry, like the answer to a deep question is on Harry’s face. “Just, you’re so you,” Malfoy says. “Even when you’re… Well, you know.”

Well, Harry thinks, at least it’s a good thing one of them recognises the other.

Harry doesn’t say much after that. He twirls the Charming Pasta on his fork, and eats with Malfoy in what he can only describe as an odd version of companionable silence.

 

Harry is picking at the seams of his robe while he waits for Kingsley in the Minister for Magic’s office. He’d been under the impression the meeting would take place in the Auror offices, had hoped he could maybe sneak to his own desk. But as soon as Harry’d arrived in the Ministry, he’d been escorted straight to Kingsley’s office.

He’s managed to find and pull out a loose thread from his robes by the time Kingsley throws the door open.

“It’s so good to see you, Harry,” Kingsley says, shaking Harry’s hand.

“You too, sir.”

“Please,” Kingsley says, motioning at the chair Harry had just been seated in.

Harry pulls the chair the slightest bit closer to Kingsley’s desk and waits for Kingsley to get over with the pleasantries and get on with it. Harry has been on the other end of the desk enough times to know what happens when victims are called in. It is then that Harry recalls his last case. He recalls gathering the information, laying the groundwork. He recalls being so close to the truth, so close he could almost touch it.

His hands are balled into fists and he feels tense all over. Only when he lets out a breath does he realise how far his mind has drifted. Kingsley has already moved onto the more interesting bits of the conversation and is talking about ‘preliminary investigations’.

“The bottom line is,” Kingsley states. “We have no suspect and no motivation. Of course we’ll continue with this investigation until we find who erased your memories. But until we know more, I am asking you to please be careful.”

Harry is not really paying much attention. Between his earlier distraction and the idea of there being no leads, all Harry can think of is, “I need to get back to work.”

Kingsley sighs. “I knew you’d say that, Harry. But you haven’t recovered your memories and the culprit is still at large.”

“I am not a child, sir,” Harry says a little harshly.

“No, Harry,” Kingsley says, squaring his shoulders so he appears broader, almost menacing. “You’re an adult whose memories have been erased by a spell so powerful it seems unbreakable. Someone out there wants something from you, and it is my duty to make sure you don’t get killed before we find them.”

Harry sinks into his chair. He recognises that he’s lost the battle and knows it would be useless to press the matter. But this is not the first time Harry’s had to figure out ways of working around the Ministry.

Harry says, “I found some files in my drawers, sir.” He pauses to watch for Kingsley’s reaction. When all the Minister does is nod, Harry continues, “There are no notes on them, so I was wondering if I may have a look at my desk.” Kingsley raises a single quizzical brow at Harry. But Harry, who has barely thought this through, ploughs on, “There might be something there that can help me piece those files together and trigger my memory.”

Kingsley clears his throat. “Harry, I know you well enough to know you won’t sit still. But we’ve already had a look at your desk to see if we can find anything that might point to something. As I’ve said, we’ve got nothing yet.” He levels Harry with a piercing stare before adding, “However, I agree it might be good for you to have a look at what you’ve been working on.” Kingsley writes down a note, saying, “I’ll arrange for your belongings to be delivered to you at your residence.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Nodding, Kingsley stands up. He attaches the note to an owl before he turns to Harry again. “I know this is hard, Harry,” he says. And with a knowing look, he adds, “Be careful.”

Much to Harry’s relief, his desk has not changed much. The files are different, of course, but that was only to be expected. But he recognises his own cluster of papers, the Ministry-ordered set of ink and quill. After he’s gone through all his drawers, Harry has collected a small mountain of parchments and a book titled Black Birds of the World. When Harry first finds this one and looks at the crow on its cover, he wonders if this is why he’s been dreaming about birds. Maybe he’s suddenly developed a bizarre love for birds with black feathers. Shrugging, Harry stores it in his bag along with all his parchments.

At home, Harry leaves the book in his bag as he brings out all his parchments to spread them out on the kitchen table. Reading his way through most of the parchments is fairly easy and straightforward. The good thing about the two-years-older Harry is that he kept a precise and detailed record of his work. Most of the files have stamps labelling them as ‘transferred’, which Harry knows to mean they have been handed to other Aurors, probably after the news of his memory loss reached the department. Some of the cases are already closed, and were only sitting on Harry’s desk as they waited to be filed — another thing two-years-older Harry still struggles with, apparently.

Harry gets through most of the parchments in a matter of an hour. He’s got the closed cases stacked in one pile, the transferred cases in another one, which just leaves a rather small pile of three cases Harry has no idea how to make sense of.

They are clearly cold cases, most of them regarding dead Muggles. There is not even the slightest relation between these and any of the cases Harry’s already sorted into piles, nor between the cold cases themselves. It’s as though two-years-older Harry went on a spree to find random cold cases and, to give himself a bit of hobby, decided to see if he could solve them. For all Harry knows, that’s exactly what happened.

Harry is still at the table, now with notes of his own drawing up on possible connections between the cold cases, when he hears Malfoy down the hall.

“Must you bring work home?” Malfoy says in a long-suffering tone that catches Harry off his guard with the familiarity of it.

Malfoy tuts at the parchments as he flips through them. Then something catches his eye. His disapproving noises come to a sudden stop as Malfoy keeps his eyes trained on one of Harry’s cold cases.

“Where did you get these?” Malfoy asks, masking his curiosity quite poorly.

“My desk,” Harry replies. He opens his mouth but Malfoy beats him to it.

“You had a meeting with Kingsley today, didn’t you?” His back is turned to Harry as he goes to rummage through their fridge. “How did that go?”

“Fine,” Harry says. “There’s been very little progress on the investigation concerning… Well, me, I s’ppose.” Then, “Have you seen that file before?”

“What?” Malfoy asks, face now so deep into the fridge Harry is almost worried he’s stuck in there. “File? No, just looked very odd. The things you Aurors do.”

“Are you sure?” Harry insists. “Because it looked like—”

“I was thinking about soup today, hmm?” Malfoy interrupts, which only serves to deepen Harry’s frown. Malfoy continues, “Tomato soup? We’ve still got basil and everything.”

The thought of basil sends Malfoy into an unprecedented rant about Muggle plant cultivation and how it compares to wizards’, and how today, one of his customers dared asked him about roots of Merlin only knows what. And there’s just someone like this every day, isn’t there? Malfoy goes on and on all the way throughout his cooking of the soup, not even bothering to check if Harry’s even listening. Harry’s sure he could simply up and leave and Malfoy would still be chatting to himself.

By the time a bowl has been set in front of him, Harry has the distinct suspicion he’s forgotten something important. He cannot quite put his finger on what it is. But before he can rack his brain for the answer, Malfoy’s hand accidentally brushes his, and all Harry is capable of thinking about is how light he felt at that smallest touch.

 

Harry owls Ron and Hermione the following morning, and they all agree to meet at the Ministry library. The mysterious files on his desk coupled with the ones in his drawer are all entirely too suspicious to be unconnected. He brings them all along to show Ron and Hermione what two-years-older Harry has been up to.

An hour later, all three of them are still looking for a connection other than Harry suddenly acquiring new, rather unsettling hobbies.

Surprisingly, Hermione is the first to give up.

“I just don’t see that there is a connection,” she says, looking rather flustered. “Either there is something about these deaths that is not on the files, or there simply isn’t one. And either way, we’re not going to get anywhere just by guessing.”

“What do you suggest we do?” Harry rubs his eyes under his glasses. His eyes are tired of trying to decipher his own messy scrawl. “Not even Kingsley has a better idea of where to start.”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Hermione replies. When both Harry and Ron stare blankly at her, she rolls her eyes dramatically. “We have to work on recovering your memory!” Hermione’s so determined on this last thought that she breaks the cardinal rule of any library. Her high voice makes the librarian glare in their direction.

Hermione blushes under the glare, which makes both Harry and Ron snicker.

“Well?” Hermione asks.

“But not even the Healers at St Mungo’s managed to get Harry’s memory back,” Ron says.

Harry nods in agreement.

“Yes,” Hermione says patiently. “But the Healers at St Mungo’s cannot possibly know all the memory spells, especially not if they’re really old. Ancient magic is really powerful. I bet we can find the spell they’ve put on Harry in here.”

She looks around wistfully at the tall shelves around them. The Ministry library is really quite something, Harry supposes. Larger than the one at Hogwarts, it holds all sort of books and publications, from Witch Weekly to The Monster Book of Monsters.

“Every magical book, magazine and newspaper ever published in the United Kingdom, since the establishment of the Ministry for Magic, has a copy here.”

At this bit of information, Ron snorts. “Where did you read that?” Ron asks. “In The Ministry for Magic: A History?”

“For your information, Ronald,” Hermione answers haughtily. “There is no such book. You would know this, however, if you’d bothered reading the pamphlet on how to use the library services.” Then, turning to Harry, Hermione asks, “What do you think?”

“About the library?” Harry asks, a little lost.

“Not about the library, no. About the memory spell.”

“Oh… er, I suppose it couldn’t hurt?”

Harry knows he’s possibly dug a hole for himself and Ron the moment Hermione’s entire face lights up. As soon as she starts leading the way to the section where she thinks they’ve got the best chances of finding something useful, it is clear she’s planned this for a while.

Ron and Harry are each carrying a pile of books that Hermione has dropped into their hands when Ron whispers, “It’s almost like being back at Hogwarts, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry replies, smiling at the thought.

The rest of their afternoon goes by reading books that are entirely useless. At one point, Ron turns another page in exasperation and says, “Exactly like being at Hogwarts. I bet the answer is staring at us right in the face.”

When the librarian comes over to tell them they’re closing down, they each pick out two books to take home for further reading. Though, if Harry’s honest, he doubts they’ll find anything in those either.

 

Malfoy is banging pots in the kitchen when Harry Floos in. There’s a chicken roasting in the oven and potatoes boiling on the stove. On auto-pilot, Harry goes for the wine glasses and a bottle of red to pour. He’s pouring the wine at the counter when he feels Malfoy’s hand on the small of his back.

Malfoy, who is squeezing through the space between Harry’s back and the table, says, “Just need to grab these.” Pair of tongs in hand, Malfoy returns to his original post, like nothing at all has occurred.

Meanwhile, Harry is left with a bottle of wine hanging in his hand in mid-air, petrified by the fact that his first instinct had been to lean against the touch.

 

It becomes sort of a routine for Harry over the next week. He’ll go into the Ministry library with Ron and Hermione, spend some time trying to come up with increasingly more ridiculous guesses as to what the cold cases mean before they turn to reading more books on the theory behind Obliviate that are equally fruitless.

Harry comes back home almost always after Malfoy. He finds the man in the kitchen, with something already cooking in a pot or in the oven. Their skins touch, almost always on accident, sometimes with the mindless purpose of routine and familiarity. And sometimes, sometimes Harry gets the impression Malfoy is doing it intentionally. As the week goes by, his touches escalate, lingering longer. Sometimes, Harry finds Malfoy staring at him, like he’s on the brink of saying something. But then Malfoy looks away, and Harry thinks it’s all in his head. Malfoy is just trying to get used to having around the same man and a different one all at once. Maybe that’s why Malfoy’s been looking ill, lately.

Harry wishes Malfoy would cut it with the hesitant touches. Somewhere deep inside of him, they make him want more. And then, his stomach is always filling with butterflies, heart drumming faster, refusing to quiet away until he’s alone, doing the dishes while Malfoy goes upstairs to take a shower.

Between the useless reading and the not-remembering his partner, Harry doesn’t know which situation is more frustrating.

 

On day six of their investigation, Harry witnesses a very upsetting sight.

Ron has stood up to stretch his legs. He has eyes trained on the parchment, staring at it in deep concentration. And something about his overall manner reminds Harry of Malfoy staring intently at the exact same parchment. The difference is, that while Ron is clearly trying to figure out what the parchment means, the look in Malfoy’s eyes had been one of recognition.

Harry can feel anger starting to boil in him. He cannot believe he let the moment pass, cannot believe he allowed Malfoy, Malfoy, to slither out of answering a question.

“Mate, you alright?” Ron asks.

“What?” Harry asks, snapping back to reality. “Yeah. Yes, I think so. I reckon I gotta go now, though.” Harry starts packing up his things in a rush. “Tell Hermione I had to leave, I forgot something.”

“What did you forget?”

“Tell you later,” Harry says, already walking away.

Distantly, he hears Ron say something about Hermione not being too pleased. But Harry has no time to spare for anything but getting home before Malfoy.

 

Harry considers turning Malfoy’s room upside down until he finds undeniable proof of his betrayal. He considers this very seriously until his stomach starts churning at the idea of it. Sitting at the kitchen table, Harry nervously waits. Each minute that ticks by feels like an hour to him. Time cannot move fast enough.

Malfoy gets in at a quarter past six.

“You’re home early,” Malfoy says. He’s looking quite under the weather but he still manages to smile tentatively at Harry. His face falls when Harry just stares. “What is it?”

“You remember those files?”

Malfoy’s face goes pale. Or, paler than it usually is. “What about them?”

“You know something about them, don’t you?”

“I told you I didn’t,” Malfoy says. He turns his back on Harry and adds, “It’s been a very long day. Can we not do this right now?”

“Do what?”

“Whatever it is that you have in mind,” comes Malfoy’s reply. “I’m not up for it just now.”

“Well, that’s too bad,” Harry presses. “Because I need some answers, and I reckon you haven’t been entirely truthful.”

The line of Malfoy’s shoulders goes tense. “Not tonight, Harry,” Malfoy says. “Please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re feeling a bit ill,” Harry starts in mock sympathy. “But you see, I’ve lost two years of my life and there’s a likely murderer out there to get me, so, sorry but this cannot wait.”

“Merlin, you can be so self-involved sometimes, Harry,” Malfoy mutters under his breath. He turns around to look Harry straight in the eye and says, “I’ve never seen those files before.”

“Stop lying to me!” Harry yells. “Stop pretending you give a fuck! What is it, did you trick me into dating you so you could get some twisted revenge on me? Or perhaps your Death Eater buddies bribed you so you could all have a good laugh? Or maybe—”

“Fuck you,” Malfoy says. “Fuck you, Potter,” he repeats, this time around with more strength.

With that, Malfoy storms out of the room.

Harry spends the rest of the night going over what he said. He goes over it so many times that by midnight he’s ready to admit he’d been unfair. But Malfoy’s door remains firmly shut. And when Harry wakes up the next morning, Malfoy is already gone.

Harry doesn’t bother going in to the library, opting instead for owling Ron and Hermione. He spends the day mentally kicking himself for having been such a git. He’s got an apology ready and everything for when Malfoy comes back.

At six in the afternoon, Harry takes his usual seat by the kitchen table. He taps his foot on the floor, counting down the seconds until quarter past.

But when Malfoy comes, he goes straight up to him room, shuts the door in Harry’s face without a single word. Harry is tempted to knock the door down. If not to apologise, then to make sure Malfoy is alright. The man is looking much worse than he did last night, and somewhere deep inside, Harry knows this is bad. Very bad.

But Harry only manages to knock on the door once. And when that gets no response, Harry just gives up, reckoning perhaps all Malfoy needs is time.

 

That night, Harry dreams of giant wings and a wind that threatens to knock him to the ground. He hears a moan of pain that jolts him awake. But when the drumming of his heart slows down at the realisation of it having been a dream, there’s another long, pained moan.

Rushing out of bed, Harry throws his door open and doesn’t bother knocking on Malfoy’s before he turns the knob on that one, too. But he’s already too late.

There is a strong wind blowing against the curtains on Malfoy’s open window. The moon is bright and full out the window. Harry’s stomach sinks.

“Malfoy!” Harry yells out the window. Then he runs down the stairs, two at a time as he yells, “Malfoy! Draco!”

There’s not a single sign of Draco Malfoy when Harry walks out into the street.

 

Harry spends the rest of the night agonising over Malfoy’s disappearance. He cannot help but think this is all his fault. Whoever did this is after Harry. He should’ve ended things with Malfoy before it got to this. He should’ve been smarter, and instead he was too busy moaning over his memories.

He owls Ron and Hermione as soon as he knows Malfoy is gone for good. He writes down a quick note in a messy scrawl that says, ‘They’ve got Malfoy’. Ron and Hermione are calling through the Floo twenty minutes later.

“Are you sure it’s them?” Hermione asks as they all settle around the kitchen table.

Harry is pouring three mugs of tea when he replies, “I heard him scream, Hermione. Who else could it be?”

“Well,” Ron says. “He’s made a lot of people angry, mate.”

“Angry enough for them to kidnap him?” Harry throws back, setting the mugs on the table.

That shuts Ron up. But Hermione is frowning down at her mug. “They didn’t leave anything behind? A note, or something, I don’t know.”

“I would’ve told you if they’d left anything behind. There was nothing in his room.”

Hermione chews on her lip, as though she’s uncertain of what she’s about to say. In the end, she must resolve it’s worth a shot because she asks, “Did you have a proper look, though?”

“At his room?” Harry asks incredulously. “Hermione, I don’t reckon they would’ve bothered with hiding a message if they’d wanted a ransom.”

“Well, no, obviously. But maybe they dropped something or…” Hermione exchanges a nervous glance with Ron.

Before Harry can ask what the ‘or…’ is supposed to mean, Ron says, “Hermione and I reckon maybe he knew something. And we might be able to find out if we go look through his stuff.”

“You mean to go snooping in his room?”

“Harry,” Hermione starts. “We’re not saying we should turn the place upside down. Just, have a look at his books.” Harry levels her with a glare. It flusters Hermione, making her throw her hands in the air. “Maybe he’s kept a notebook, I don’t know! But we won’t know anything if we respect his privacy or some nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense!” Harry replies defensively.

“Look,” Ron cuts in. “We have made very little progress on our own. Maybe he knew something. I’m with Hermione on this one, Harry. It’s worth having a look.”

“He would’ve told me if he knew something.”

“Maybe,” Hermione says. “Maybe he didn’t want to worry you?”

It’s a lie and they all know it. If Malfoy’s been keeping secrets, surely it wasn’t for Harry’s own good. But Harry has the sneaky suspicion Ron and Hermione will find a way to look into Malfoy’s things with or without Harry’s approval. So, reckoning that the night couldn’t get any worse, Harry leads the way up to Malfoy’s room.

To Harry’s immense relief — and to Hermione’s dismay — they find nothing of use in Malfoy’s room. There are no clues or hidden notes. Nor are there any notebooks full of notes on conspiracy theories or books on complicated dark magic. The only books on Malfoy’s night stand are two on cooking and one on ancient Chinese mythology, which even Hermione admits to being unlikely research material.

Having acquired no new information, the three of them make their tired way downstairs. Ron has been steadily yawning for the past ten minutes, and Hermione’s eyes are red-rimmed.

“Maybe we should call it a night,” Harry says, staring at the pair of them.

Ron, predictably, yawns his approval. Hermione is a little hesitant but when she nearly trips on her way to the sofa, she agrees that it’s time to go to sleep.

“We’ll see you in the library tomorrow, Harry,” Hermione says as she and Ron walk into the fireplace to Floo home.

Sleep is hard to come, even with how exhausted he is. Eventually, though, Harry drifts into a dream about crows.

 

The following morning, Harry wakes up hours before he’s supposed to meet up with Ron and Hermione at the Ministry library. And with all the time on his hands, Harry cannot help but walk into Malfoy’s room. Under the morning light, the room feels even more like a crime scene. As they’d promised, last night they did not turn the room upside down. It was easy to put things back where they were, and once they were done, Hermione’d flicked her wand to make the bed.

There’s nothing unusual in Malfoy’s room. His clothes are all black, grey, silver and green, with the exception of one, very Muggle-looking blue jumper. Unlike Harry, Malfoy has no pictures. Really, the only thing that truly screams Malfoy is the way everything is in its proper place. His socks are neatly folded, his robes, collars all pressed, are colour-coded in his wardrobe. His shoes are shiny and his trousers are in perfect order.

Harry smiles at the thought of what their joint armoire must’ve looked like.

“Like someone’s got a split personality,” Harry says to the empty room.

He takes one of the cooking books downstairs with him, to flip through the pages while he eats buttered toast with tea.

 

The day at the library is as productive as the past couple of weeks have been. Ron and Hermione only have a couple of hours to spare between their jobs, and soon they leave Harry to a brand new and entirely useless pile of books on memory charms. For two weeks they have been unable to find anything. The day after Malfoy vanishes is no different.

By the time he gives up and goes back home, Harry’s spirits are hitting a new low. The fridge is full of things Malfoy would’ve cooked into a delicious meal but that Harry is unable to make into anything halfway decent. He flips through the cooking book he’d left on the counter that morning while he mindlessly feeds himself a sandwich.

Malfoy’s made notes on several margins. Harry notes the elegance of his writing, how the h’s are long and loopy, how the whole thing is just barely slanted to the right. The notes are amendments to the recipes that remind Harry of the Half-Blood Prince. Except Malfoy’s amendments only seem to make the original recipe even more complex.

He reads carefully through the first pages, wondering if he ought to try some of it. He’s still vacillating on the thought when he finds a recipe for treacle tart that has been written all over. He reads through the ingredient list, mentally ticking the things already in the pantry and fridge. Everything needed is there, which propels Harry to start carefully reading through Malfoy’s amendments. He has to stop, though, when he reads one that clearly states, ‘For Harry, add handful of Elderflower petals to mix’.

Just like that, Harry feels gutted. More than ever, he knows he has to get Malfoy back. He knows he wants him back.

 

The next couple of days are as frustrating as the first. Harry keeps growing more and more restless, snapping at Hermione and Ron. On the third day, he’s halfway through a particularly mean rant at Hermione when Ron cuts in to say, “You know what, Harry, we’re only trying to help here. But if you don’t want us, we’ll be on our way!” Turning to Hermione, Ron says, “Come on, he needs some space.”

Hermione looks between the two of them before pushing her chair back. “Come have dinner with us tomorrow, Harry,” she says, picking up a few books. “I’ll take these home and make some notes. We’re bound to find something eventually.”

He feels terrible for having whisper-yelled at her in the library. Terrible for not appreciating their help. Mostly, though, he feels terrible for not finding Malfoy. And every hour that passes feels like a lost hour on the ticking clock of Malfoy’s life.

 

That afternoon, when Harry turns the key and opens the door, he hears a banging noise not far away that makes his pulse race. Wand raised, he looks to every side to make sure there’s no one ready to jump at him. He walks down the corridor making as little noise as possible. There’s no one in the corridor, no one in the living room. But someone is definitely pacing the kitchen.

Harry approaches his target carefully, methodically. He gets a familiar rush and thinks, Got you. Wand pointed, he yells, “Expelliarmus!”

By the time he notices that the man standing in the kitchen is none other than Draco Malfoy, a wand is already flying into the air.

“Bloody hell!” Malfoy turns around, eyes wide when they find Harry’s.

And Harry cannot believe it’s him. That he’s not dead in a ditch somewhere. That he’s here and well and—

Harry takes three strides forward so he’s right in Malfoy’s personal space because… Because he needs to see up close that Draco is well. And once he does, Harry corners Draco even further, up against a wall. He has to close his eyes for a moment and allow himself to breathe.

With his forehead rested on Draco’s, Harry moves his hands so they’re cupping the side of Draco’s face. He can’t keep his eyes off Draco’s lips and he has this bone-deep knowledge that he’s thought about it before, that he’s been in this exact position before. And that’s why his heartbeat picks up and why he holds his breath. For the briefest of seconds, Harry believes Draco wants this, too. For the briefest of seconds, Draco closes his eyes.

Harry says, “I’ve been so worried.”

He can feel Draco’s breath on his skin as he angles his face. But the second Harry moves an inch forward, he finds that Draco has opened his eyes and is pushing him away.

“Draco,” Harry says. “Please.”

Shaking his head, Draco replies, “No, not like this. We can’t.”

“Why not? Look, I may never get my memory back but I—”

“Don’t!”

On instinct, Harry takes Draco’s hands in his, rubbing circles with his thumbs because, somehow, he knows it calms Draco down. But Draco takes his hands away, like he’s been burned.

“What’s going on?” Harry asks.

“I… It’s not real,” Draco whispers.

“What?”

“We… We’re not real, Harry,” Draco repeats, voice a little louder this time around.

“What do you mean we’re not real? Everyone says we’re real. We have matching mugs and, and bloody moving pictures!”

With a hand over his own eyes, Draco shakes his head. But Harry wants Draco to look at him, needs Draco to look at him in the eye and say it is not real.

“I’m sorry,” is all Draco says. He takes a deep breath and repeats, “I’m so sorry, Harry, I didn’t, I didn’t know what to do. I thought this was a terrible idea to begin with but you insisted and… And none of us ever imagined you’d go and get yourself irremediably Obliviated. I mean of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, this one didn’t even factor in our list of concerns! And then I get a bloody owl saying you remember nothing. Nothing! And I… And I’m fucking tired, alright? I haven’t been able to sleep properly for over a year, and I’m sorry I lied, I’m sorry I let you believe we were something we never were but I was out of my depth. Still am.”

And like a deflating balloon, Draco sinks into the one of the kitchen chairs.

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” Harry asks.

Draco rubs his hands over his own face. He mutters something that sounds awfully close to “for fuck’s sake” and, of all things, starts unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

“What are you doing!”

“I have to show you something,” Draco says, standing up. “I have to show you because you didn’t believe me the first time we had this conversation and something tells me you’ll be just as reluctant this time around.” Quickly, methodically, Draco undoes the buttons on his shirt. “You’d think this would get easier with time,” he mutters.

Then he’s turning his back to Harry and dropping his shirt to the floor. Whatever Harry was expecting, it was not this. Not Draco’s back scarred, some of the wounds looking angry-red and fresh.

“I’ve been growing wings,” Draco says by way of an explanation. “I’ve been growing wings, and you’ve been helping me figure out why.”

Harry wants to touch Draco’s back. Wants to wash all the dried blood.

Instead, he asks, “Why?”

“Because I don’t remember anything about growing wings,” Draco answers. He picks up his shirt from the floor and puts it back on. He doesn’t turn to face Harry until all his buttons are done. “And because every time I wake up, I’m covered in blood that isn’t my own.” Draco shrugs. “We knew we had to start living under the same roof if we were to figure out where I was off to. It was your idea to tell everyone we were moving in together. It would raise all the wrong questions and give us time and space to look into my curse.”

“I…What?”

“I’m under a curse, Harry,” Draco says. “I’m under a curse that makes me grow wings and disappear into the night every now and again, for a few nights at a time. When I return, I wake up covered in blood, not remembering a single thing.”

“But, if you don’t remember a thing, how do you know you’ve been flying?”

“The black feathers still encrusted on my back.”

And Harry doesn’t know what to think or how he’s supposed to react. For the first time in Harry’s life, his fight or flight instinct kicks in, and he’s not ready to fight.

“I need to get out,” he says. His breathing has quickened and there is not enough air in the room, not enough air in the entire house.

“What?”

“I need to get out,” Harry repeats with more force.

He starts walking out of the kitchen, each pace faster than the last one. His heart is going to burst out of his chest and out, out, out, is the only thought in his mind as he throws the door open.

Behind him, Draco is yelling, “Harry, where are you off to! Harry, wait!”

But Harry isn’t in the mood for waiting. He’s not in the mood for anything but running down the street.

He runs fast, for as long as he can take until his legs start to burn uncomfortably and he’s sure that his increased heartbeat is due to nothing other than exercise.

As he slows down, Harry starts taking in his surroundings and realises he’s somehow ended up near the park. He feels a drop of rain on his face, and before long it’s pouring down. Making his way over to the park, Harry runs, his legs too tired to carry him fast enough to keep him dry. Eventually, he finds the gazebo and drops flat on his back on the concrete slab while the rain pitter-patters on its roof.

He doesn’t know how long he stays there, just staring at the gazebo’s ceiling. After his heart rate drops back to a regular rhythm, Harry finds himself with a lot to think about. A lot of things he really doesn’t want to think about. Because he knows what he felt — feels — for Malfoy is real. Knows, somehow, that it was there even before his memory loss. But their relationship was never real.

At some point, someone clears his throat. Sitting up, Harry watches Draco, dripping from head to toe and shivering because of it.

“Well, at least you’re not dead,” Draco says, sitting down across from Harry. “You’re a bloody arse.”

Draco takes his wand out and flicks it over the both of them. Harry’s clothes dry instantly and he notices Draco’s are no longer soaking either.

“There’s a maniac out there who’s figured out you’re helping me. Don’t—” Draco cuts himself off. He bites down on his lip before he says, “We have to be very careful.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Harry asks.

“I don’t know… I was scared, I guess.”

“That I’d leave?”

Draco shakes his head. He’s leaning back on two shaking hands. “No, that you’d still want to help. I think this is going to get one of us killed, sooner or later.” Then, looking up at the ceiling, Draco says, “Probably sooner.”

“What do you mean?”

“The files on your desk,” Draco says. “I hadn’t realised so many were already dead. You were keeping those from me.” He stands up, dusted his trousers off before he adds, “I’ll show you what we’ve got at home.”

 

With a wave of his wand, Draco sends pieces of parchment, notebooks, and a few books flying. They all settle on the kitchen table, and Draco starts organising them. The files in Harry’s drawers that had no notes on them start showing Harry’s messy scrawl. Books that were on their shelf upstairs start changing covers and titles.

“We decided to hide everything in plain sight,” Draco explains. “You said those were always the hardest things to find.”

Harry supposes he agrees. He’s still having trouble processing the sheer amount of information they seem to have gathered. Once Draco has everything on the table, he turns to Harry and asks him to sit. Then, he starts. Harry’s head is swimming with everything he says by the time Draco stands up to make them tea.

Somehow, Draco has gotten himself cursed by some madman who fancies he’s the next Houyi, the celestial archer, and is recreating the myth of the ten sun crows.

“We figured it out after we managed to open up the first body,” Draco says, like he’s just asked Harry whether he wants any milk in his tea.

“What do you mean open up the first body?”

“Well, after you weren’t able to follow me twice, we figured our next best shot was to autopsy the bodies,” Draco explains. “So, we found the first body—”

“How did we know it was the first one?”

“It showed up on the first day I woke up covered in blood,” Draco answers. And he must have talked about this too many times because he does not even blink at the horrifying words coming out of his mouth. “When we opened the body, we found some of the organs had been pierced with a sharp blade. Although outside the body looks as though it has not been attacked, a Revelio Charm will show where the wounds really are. They have wounds in the back, where… er, the wings grew out of their skins. The first body had five other wounds. Three of the wounds were in muscle tissue, one was in the stomach, the last one, in the heart. The second body had only three wounds and all the bodies after that one have just the one wound in the heart.”

“He’s gotten better,” Harry says.

“Yes. Only took him three to perfect his technique. Assuming those files in your desk are all crow victims, he’s seven down, eight if he managed to kill anyone this last time.”

“So he doesn’t kill every time you disappear?”

“Not always. I reckon sometimes, the crows manage to escape. I came home once with an arrow in my lung.” Draco grimaces at the memory.

“Do you know how he picked the ten crows?” Harry asks next.

Draco shakes his head. “No. We know I grow wings every full moon. We figured the last kill was going to be on a blood moon,” Draco says, now looking down at an astrological calendar. The next blood moon is barely four months away. Draco fixes Harry with a stare. “You should get out of this while you can.”

“Get out of what?”

“Don’t be daft, Potter,” Draco says harshly. “Look at this mess. In about four months, I’ll be dead, and you better not be close to me when it happens.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“This is one of those times where being noble is just going to get you killed, you idiot.”

“No,” Harry counters. “This is one of those times when asking for help is going to make you live.”

“Asking for help?” Draco parrots. “What in Merlin’s name are you talking about? We’re not going to the Ministry for help. They’ll have me hanged or—”

“Of course we’re not going to the Ministry,” Harry interrupts. “For all we know, they’ve been infiltrated, too. No, I’m talking about Ron and Hermione, now that I know what all of this is about we can—”

“You are not telling them about this, Potter!”

“Why the hell not?” Harry asks. “They’re my—”

“We are not getting anyone else involved,” Draco says like he’s having the last word in this conversation. And Harry does not have to remember this conversation to know how it went the first time around. He opens his mouth to protest some more when Draco turns his back on Harry.

It’s the first time he’s seen the back of Draco since leaving the house hours ago. His white shirt is sticking to his back in dark spots that look like blood. Not fully aware of what he’s doing, Harry stands up and touches his fingertips to those spots. They come off smelling of copper and shiny red.

“What are you—” Draco says, turning around. He stops talking when he sees Harry’s hand.

“You’re bleeding,” Harry says.

“It happens.”

“It happens,” Harry parrots incredulously. “Just… Stop moving or something, I’m owling my friends.”

“I just said—”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse what you just said,” Harry says, wondering briefly if this is how Mrs Weasley feels ninety percent of the time.

Thirty minutes later, Draco is on the sofa, on his stomach, while Hermione picks out encrusted feathers with a pair of tweezers. There’s a bowl next to her feet full of bloodied black feathers by the time she starts carefully dripping essence of dittany on Draco’s back. She clears the dried blood with a warm cloth and dresses the wound.

“Try not to move,” she says. “I’m going to go wash my hands.”

Harry catches Draco rolling his eyes, but he reckons he’s the only one who sees it. Ron is too busy grimacing at all the things covered in blood.

“Scourgify,” Ron says, pointing his wand at the bowl of feathers first, then at the cloth Hermione just used. When he’s done, he clears his throat and says, “I’m gonna go put these away.”

Once Ron is gone, Draco says, “I don’t see why you had to get them involved. We have dittany here.”

“Yes, but Hermione’s better at dressing wounds than either of us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Draco mutters.

“You cannot reach behind your own back,” Harry counters.

“But I’m a wizard, aren’t I?” Draco pulls a face as he tries to move. Then, “Merlin, what has she done to me, I cannot move.”

Hermione clears her throat as she dries her hands on a towel. “When Harry told us about the moon part,” she explains, “I made sure to put silver in the essence. It’ll make your wounds heal faster, but it’ll be more painful.” She pauses, arms crossed over her chest. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

 

Once Ron and Hermione have been filled in on everything, much to Draco’s eternal dismay, they all agree two things need to be done. The first one, they ought to find out if anyone else has died and confirm that the other files Harry’s found in his desk are really the victims they’re looking for. The second thing to do, is go back to the Muggle police and see about finding out the connection between the murders and Draco.

Because time is of the essence, they decide to split the tasks between themselves. Seeing how neither Hermione nor Ron knows exactly what to look for, it’s also decided that Harry and Draco will each go with one of them. Neither Draco nor Ron looks exactly pleased that they have to work together, though Ron at least manages not to scowl every five minutes.

Harry and Hermione take on the Muggle side of things while Draco and Ron set out to identify any new victims and confirm the ones in Harry’s files. Hermione forges two sets of P.I. Credentials to take to the Muggle police. Her attention to detail is impeccable, which is about the only thing that calms her nerves as she comes up with scenarios of what to do if the Muggles start suspecting anything.

“Some of these victims are war veterans,” Hermione says in a low voice over breakfast. They’re sitting in a cafe because she managed to convince Harry that they had to study all the information on their fake credentials before going to the Muggle police. “Muggles take those sort of murders very seriously. It’ll look very suspicious.”

“It’ll be fine, Hermione,” Harry says for what feels like the thousandth time.

“Oh, this is so irresponsible, if the Ministry finds out—”

“Hermione, no one will find out. We’ll go in, ask a few questions on behalf of the victim’s family, the er…” Harry takes a moment to look down at the name of the family that supposedly hired them.

“The Murphys, Harry!” Hermione whisper-yells in exasperation. “Mary and Stephen Murphy have hired us to investigate the death of their daughter, Anne, after the police closed the case on account of there being no leads.”

“Yes, yes, I know. It’ll be alright.”

Hermione stares at Harry like she does not believe a word he’s just said but she finishes the rest of her breakfast in silence. Harry pays for their meals, and they both head out to the police station.

Because they didn’t have time to call ahead and schedule an actual appointment with the lead detective on the case, Harry has to Imperio his secretary and have her lie to the detective and say she forgot to tell him about this morning’s meeting. Hermione shakes her head all along, whispering something to herself that sounds awfully close to “so wrong”.

Fortunately, the lead detective, Detective Morris, has the morning clear and can see them straight away. Harry wastes no time explaining the situation, showing his credentials and then spinning a tale about how, while the Murphy family commends the work of the police department, they still believe something else can be done.

“It’s always hard on parents when they lose a child,” Hermione adds convincingly.

Detective Morris nods. “How much do you know about our investigation?”

“We know you believed Miss Murphy’s death to be related to two other military victims,” Hermione answers promptly.

“Indeed, all evidence points to there being some relation between these three murders, but the truth is, other than the victims being men and women serving their country, no other connection was found.” The detective sighs deeply. “They were even in different branches. Miss Murphy, as you know, was in the Navy and regarding the two other gentlemen, one was a marine and the other in the army.” He pauses for a moment, looking between Harry and Hermione as though he’s trying to uncover a hoax. Eventually, though, the detective sits back on his chair and says, “I can have my secretary make copies of the files for you and have them ready by tomorrow for you to pick up.”

“That would be excellent,” Harry replies.

Detective Morris stares at them a little bit longer before saying, “You know, there was something odd about those murders.” Harry and Hermione exchange looks. “About a month ago we all thought we were about to catch who’d done it. This woman who’d shown up in a photo of the first crime scene showed up again near the last body. I might still have a photo of her in here somewhere.”

“Anything you have that might be of help would be fantastic,” Harry says, leaning forward in anticipation.

“Yes, well, I doubt it’ll be of much help.” Detective Morris goes through his drawers and files. His voice comes muffled by the papers as he continues, “We brought her in for questioning but it turns out she had solid alibis for both nights on which the murders took place. A-ha!” He hands Harry a grainy photo. “There she is. She even looks a bit odd, don’t you think?”

Harry takes the picture in his hands, holding out so Hermione can see it as well. He and Hermione exchange a brief glance, knowing exactly what Detective Morris means by odd. The woman in the photo is a witch, who has done a rather poor job of wearing Muggle clothing. But there’s also something about her face that makes Harry stare at it. Like he’s seen her before but he can’t quite place her.

“What’s her name?” Harry asks distractedly.

“Nancy Lu,” Detective Morris says.

And that’s when it clicks for Harry, where he’s seen her before. Healer Nancy.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Harry says, and, without thinking about what he’s doing, he’s standing up and heading for the door.

“So, about those files?” Detective Morris asks.

Harry stops dead on his feet, snapping back to reality. He opens his mouth and is at a loss for words. It’s a good thing Hermione came with him.

“We’ll pick them up tomorrow,” she replies, shaking Detective Morris’ hand.

The detective holds out his hand for Harry, too, but Harry’s hands are so unsteady he doesn’t dare shake the hand offered to him. He nods courteously and leads the way out, barely managing not to sprint outside.

“Harry,” Hermione says behind. “Harry, what is it?”

“I know her,” Harry says. “She was a Healer at St Mungo’s when I first woke up. I know her!”

“What?” Hermione asks.

“Listen, just. We need to get to St Mungo’s now.”

Hermione does not require much convincing after that, which is a relief because Harry has room for a single thought in his mind: find Nancy Lu.

 

“There is no one by that name here, Mr Potter,” the Head Healer tells them after what feels like hours of trying to get a hold of him. “A fair number of patients have dreams about waking up before they wake up. It’s very common to assume these as real. But I assure you we have no one on staff under that name.”

Harry feels as though he’ll explode in anger. He knows what he saw. He knows it, and he cannot believe this inane Head Healer, of all people—

“We have a photo of her,” Hermione interjects, shooting a warning glance at Harry that conveys in a perfect manner that Harry must not, under any circumstances, lose his temper.

Harry rolls his eyes before taking the photo from his pocket and showing it to the Head Healer.

“My, isn’t this a funny picture,” he says, tilting the image as though its stillness was a trick of the light. “It doesn’t move at all!”

“Do you recognise the woman in that picture?” Hermione prods.

“Oh, yes, of course I do,” the Head Healer says. “But her name is not Nancy. Or, at least it wasn’t when she was here. Here, she went by Lucinda Long.” He hands the photo back to Hermione, smiling wistfully. “She was a very promising trainee, very studious. She lost everything in the war, her parents, her home. Never saw her after the news of her parents deaths reached us.”

“Thank you,” Hermione says before she elbows Harry as discreetly as anyone possibly can.

“Yes, thank you,” Harry adds, distracted. “Maybe I remember her from somewhere else.”

Outside St Mungo’s, Hermione turns to Harry and says the exact same thing Harry’s been thinking, “I reckon this is an actual lead. I reckon she’s behind this whole thing.”

“I agree. But why murder Muggles? Draco, I can understand if she’s after revenge, but Muggles?”

“Well, that’s what we’ve got to find out now,” Hermione replies. “I think we need to go to the Ministry. There’ll be a file on her and her family.”

Harry nods his agreement. As they set out for the Ministry Harry cannot help but feel lighter and even a little excited. He can feel he’s so close to the truth.

 

As it turns out, there is a file on the Long family in the Auror offices. The Long family used to live out in the country, near the border with Wales. They had a farm where they cultivated a variety of magical herbs. Lucinda Long, the only survivor of the family, had been a Healer in training for one year and a half when Voldemort came back. She and her family had treated the wounded in the area. Soon, word had spread out about her family’s home being a sanctuary for those opposing Voldemort. It did not end well.

The house, the greenhouse and Lucinda Long’s mother and father had been burnt alive. She’d found the Dark Mark hovering over a field on fire one day after work. Nothing else has been heard from her ever since.

“It still doesn’t explain the Muggles,” Hermione says, frowning at the pages in the file.

“No,” Harry agrees. Then, “But doesn’t the myth go that the sun crows set the world on fire when they came out at once?”

“Yes, but that’s just a myth Harry,” Hermione counters.

“I know that. But watching everything you hold dear go up in flames… That must do something to a person.” Harry stops to think about it for a moment. And it’d make sense, wouldn’t it? If something that bad happened, wouldn’t anyone look for answers? And pain can make people lose their minds, Bellatrix Lestrange proved as much. “Maybe, maybe she’s lost her mind,” Harry concludes.

“Harry, I don’t think anyone could—”

“No, listen. Let’s say she grew up with these myths. Then one day, she goes home and her world is on fire. She snaps and convinces herself these were the sun crows. So she takes action, decides to find the sun crows and kill them off, to set the world right again.”

“Harry,” Hermione starts, “she’d have to be extremely delusional and—”

“But it fits!” Harry says. “And after all we’ve seen, I don’t think we’re that far off the mark.”

“That still doesn’t explain the Muggle murders. And you’ve found no other Death Eaters victims.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Harry has to admit. “But everything else.”

Hermione lets out a long sigh. “Yes, okay, I agree that, in a very twisted way, it fits.”

Harry nods triumphantly. He cannot wait to get home and tell Draco just how much progress they’ve made. They are so close. This whole thing will be over soon, and then…

Harry stops walking. He hasn’t had the time to think about the future, hasn’t had a second to spare two thoughts about what happens next. His stomach sinks at the idea of the future, like a perverse part of him is not ready for this to be over.

He doesn’t say anything when Hermione looks over, keeps walking like it’s nothing.

 

Harry’s excitement at the news he has dies as soon as he catches a glimpse of Draco’s and Ron’s faces. They’re sitting at the dining table, with an astronomical calendar spread between them. Harry gulps, noticing there are far too many red crosses on it.

“‘Mione,” Ron says, standing up and going to hug her.

“What’s going on?” she asks, quickly catching on.

Ron glances quickly at Draco before turning his eyes on Harry. He opens his mouth but Draco beats him to it.

“We were wrong about the blood moon,” Draco says. “Turns out, all the files you had in your desk were actual victims. There was another one last night, too, meaning there’s only two left out of ten.”

Harry’s stomach sinks. That can’t be good.

Draco continues, “Weasley and I were looking at the calendar. See, we both agreed waiting four months for the main event seems awfully long for someone who’s gotten so good at the whole murder thing. He—”

“She,” Hermione corrects him automatically. She blushes when Draco raises an eyebrow at her.

“She,” Draco says, “is not likely to wait. And then Weasley mentioned how it was very strange that all of the killings were aligned with the full moon, since we’re talking about sun crows and all.” Draco stares down at the calendar, a bitter smile on his lips. “That’s when I realised there’s a solar eclipse coming up, three weeks from now.”

Hermione clasps her hands over her mouth in horror. It’s too soon. It’s too soon and they’re all thinking the exact same thing. There is not enough time.

It’s Harry who breaks the silence, “Then it’s a good thing we found who’s behind this whole mess.”

 

After Harry and Hermione recount their findings, they all agree, much to Hermione’s doubt, that Lucinda Long is behind the whole thing. Harry watches Draco closely as he relates what is in Miss Long’s file. He watches as Draco turns slightly paler, watches as Draco’s eyes get a little bit duller. Miss Long’s backstory doesn’t surprise Draco, it just… dulls him. Like he’s known all along. Almost like Draco believes he deserves this.

Ron and Hermione leave after dinner. They promise to come back in the morning to figure out a plan. Draco doesn’t seem like a fan of the idea, but he stays mostly quiet throughout the whole night.

It is only after Hermione and Ron Floo back to their home that Harry turns to Draco.

On instinct, he puts a hand on Draco’s shoulder and says, “You know this isn’t your fault.”

Draco blinks at Harry, confused for a moment. Then comprehension must dawn on him because his eyes widen slightly, almost imperceptible. If Harry hadn’t been looking for a reaction on Draco’s face, he probably would’ve missed it. But he was looking for it, and he did catch it.

“It isn’t your fault,” Harry repeats.

“You know,” Draco says. “Most people wouldn’t say that.” And with that, he shrugs off Harry’s hand and walks upstairs.

 

Between the four of them, they come up with a decent tracking spell. Now that they know where Lucinda Long is from, they can make a few educated guesses to narrow down the places where she makes her victims go. That’d been the problem with the first tracking spells Harry and Draco’d tried before Harry’s memory loss; there’d been too much land to cover in any sort of detail much less track a person through it. There is no telling whether the spell will work or not, but it’s the best chance at catching Lucinda Long.

The days progress slowly. Draco talks to them more out of politeness than anything else. When Ron and Hermione leave, he disappears behind his door, not emerging until the following day. He grows gaunter, too. Harry doesn’t know if that’s a side-effect of the spell or if it’s just anticipation. Maybe both.

Harry watches Draco out of the corner of his eyes, tries to figure out the right thing to say. Some days, he feels like the right thing would be to just reach out and hold him tight. And Harry would do it. He’d do that and say anything if he knew it’d make Draco better.

But now, Draco flinches, almost imperceptibly, when he finds himself too close to Harry. He recoils and avoids Harry, and Harry has no idea what to do.

He wants to reach out and touch and say, but the timing never seems right.

 

Two hours before the start of the eclipse Draco turns to Harry, eyes wide. “It’s starting,” he mutters through gritted teeth, snapping his eyes shut.

That’s about all the warning they get.

Before any of them knows what’s happening, Draco is opening his eyes again, but this time they’re white. On instinct, Harry goes to shake his shoulder, to make him come back to himself, by force if he has to. That’s when he hears the first tear. At first, Harry thinks he’s imagined the sound but when he looks more closely, he sees the back of Draco’s shirt has started to come apart. He hears the terrible sound of Draco’s skin being pierced by long black feathers before he sees them growing out of his shirt.

Hermione lets out a horrified scream.

Then Draco yells, a sound so piercing it almost deafens Harry. Draco has tears running from his white eyes and down his cheeks, and Harry has no idea what the fuck to do.

Before long, Draco’s nails are scratching so hard at his own back that, in under a minute, most of Draco’s fingers are bloodied. It only stops when he starts convulsing. He is shaking so violently that Harry is afraid to get too close, and he doesn’t know what to do.

The screams are the worst of it. Harry has never heard anyone cry themselves sore but it looks like he’s about to when Draco starts opening his mouth and sound stops coming from it. Only a thin, raspy sort of breath is escaping his mouth, his face still covered in tears. Draco has stopped convulsing, and for a moment, it seems like everything will stop. But it only gets worse.

With his hands covered in his own blood, Draco tears apart whatever is left of his shirt. Harry moves to make him stop, to make Draco come back to himself, but he stumbles backwards the second Draco straightens up.

The wings that had been kept almost hidden between Draco’s back and the chair spread open, glistening black. Like that, Draco is something straight out of a nightmare. He seems taller with wings, the naked half of his body covered in blood. It strikes Harry that he’s seen this before. Somewhere, his mind is jolted into remembering the first time he saw Draco growing wings out of his back.

Transfixed, Harry stays rooted to his spot. He can only stare as Draco’s wings start flapping, elevating his body from the ground. Harry doesn’t snap out of it until it’s too late. Already, a winged Draco has aimed for the largest window in the living room, is breaking the glass and flying out so fast that Harry doesn’t even have time to gather his thoughts.

And then something strange happens. Like a strong pulse going through his head, something snaps in Harry’s brain, and in a split second memories that he’d thought were lost forever rush back to him. He sees flashes of conversations, snapshots of scenes but one thing sticks with him. He sees his fingers trembling on the parchment as he reads from a very ancient book of spells. His heart sinks at the words he slowly begins to comprehend.

“Harry?” Ron’s voice comes from faraway.

Harry barely grunts in response before he rushes upstairs. With a flick of his wand, Harry moves his bed to the side so he can lift a loose board and bring out a single piece of yellowed parchment, a page torn from a book. He reads the words, hoping against reason that they’ll be different from what he remembers. But his memory was crystal clear on this matter. There, on the page, is a detailed account of the history and use of the spell Draco is under.

Harry hears footsteps coming up the stairs before Ron and Hermione find him on the floor, with his hands over his face.

“Mate, what’s the matter?” Ron asks, sitting down next to Harry.

Harry has to take a deep breath before answering, “I remember everything.”

“But that’s good, Harry!” Hermione says, and Harry can almost feel her beaming next to him.

He can only shake his head as he passes Hermione the torn page. He feels exhausted and defeated. Not even angry, just a strange dullness that comes with the knowledge of being absolutely helpless.

“What is it?”

“It’s the spell!” Hermione says. “It is, isn’t it?”

She mutters the words on the parchment under her breath, excited at the discovery. But as she gets closer to the finer details, her voice trails away. Harry hears her gulp.

“Well?” Ron asks impatiently.

“It’s a very old spell,” Hermione starts in a small voice.

“We already knew that much.”

“Yes, well. It was used as a sort of, of medicinal spell. So to speak, it says here it almost never worked and most patients ended up—” Hermione glances up at Harry.

“Most patients ended up killing themselves anyway,” Harry finishes for her.

“What?” Ron asks, eyes wide. “What d’you mean anyway?”

“It was used on patients who suffered from what we would call PTSD,” Hermione replies, her eyes still on Harry. “Very severe cases of PTSD that’d driven patients to near-madness.” She takes a quick look at the parchment before she focuses on Ron. “You see, it was believed that sun crows were a sign of rebirth after particularly devastating circumstances. So the spell was designed to give the sun crow, in a manner of speaking, to the patients. It’s a very complicated spell that requires extensive knowledge of the magical premises of Healing. But it says here that the spell almost never worked. Apparently having wings grow out of your back is not exactly conducive to curing madness.”

“But—” Ron starts. He’s staring at Harry now, frowning. “That’s not too bad, is it?”

“The reason most patients ended up killing themselves was because, once it’s been cast, only the patient could get rid of the spell. It’s not very clear as to how that happens but,” Hermione stops once more, to check the parchment again. “My guess would be the spell is only broken once the patient is better.”

“So, the spell is basically useless.”

“Yes, of course it is,” Hermione replies. “It’s a silly premise, really. If anything it’s more a marker of something being wrong with someone than any actual cure for their illness.”

“Still, I don’t—”

Harry interrupts Ron to say the one thing that has been clawing at his throat since the glass broke, “It means Lucinda didn’t pick Draco, her spell found something in him that made him suitable. It’s why all her victims are war veterans or have a history of PTSD. It means, even if we manage to get Lucinda, odds are, Draco will still be growing wings. And if the numbers on that parchment are to be trusted, chances are, Draco will end up—” Harry swallows, unable to say the words.

He doesn’t have to. The look of dawning on Ron’s face is enough to let Harry know that much.

“Mate,” Ron starts. He doesn’t say anything else.

It’s Hermione who puts both hands on Harry’s shoulders and forces Harry to look straight into her eyes. “I know this is bad news, Harry,” she says. “But if he’s to have any chance of breaking the spell, he’s got to survive this first. We have to go get him.”

There’s a spark in Hermione’s eyes, the brightness of hope that makes Harry nod and stand up. When they go downstairs, they find Draco’s now static on the map.

“I know where we can Apparate,” Ron offers, pointing somewhere not too far away from the dot labelled Draco Malfoy on the map. “There’s a clearing over here.”

With a loud crack, the three of them are gone.

 

They land in a clearing, just as Ron’d promised. Up in the sky, the eclipse has started, the edge of the moon already covering a corner of the sun’s brightness. No time to waste.

With the map in one hand, Hermione points her wand at it until a small beam of light starts pointing towards the lake where Draco is. There is a forest standing between them and the lake. Harry and Ron follow Hermione, all three of them stepping around as quietly as they can manage. They walk for what feels like forever, the sky growing darker and darker, making their path even more difficult in the absence of light. Harry is almost convinced they’re not going to make it, the sun is almost covered entirely, when Hermione stops dead in her tracks, her eyes fixed upon the sky.

Flying in circles there are two winged figures. Harry recognises the shape of Draco’s body. He thinks the other might be a woman.

Below them, like a conductor orchestrating her masterpiece, a small woman dressed in black is holding out her wand, making it go round and round in the same direction as the flying humans above. She has a quiver slung over her shoulder with a single arrow in it and bow at her feet.

Harry makes a move to step forward, end this before the eclipse even starts. Hermione’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“The lake, Harry,” Hermione says, pointing at a black spot on the ground.

The lake is a steaming pool of petroleum black. Its waters look viscous as the tide rises and falls against the shore.

“What is that?” Ron asks, nose pinched.

Shaking her head, Hermione says, “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s any good.” Then, “We have to wait, we have to figure out—”

But before Hermione can get the rest of her words out, the moon obscures the sun, almost entirely. There is a single ring of incandescent light reflecting off the waters of the lake, and then pulse through the ground that nearly knocks Harry down.

He only has time to react as he watches Lucinda Long pick up her bow and her single arrow, aiming it at the darkened sky.

“No!” Harry yells, running forward.

There is the sharp sound of an arrow being released, then the sound of the arrow slicing through wind. Harry watches the arrow collide against one of the flying humans, and then, in a split second, the arrow pierces skin, light erupts in a loud bang that cancels out all other noises.

Everything goes quiet. After the explosion, the steam from the lake rises fast, covering everything. He cannot see a thing through the smog and has to force himself to stay calm. But calm lasts only so long. There’s a loud splash, the sound of someone being dropped from high above into the lake. Then the screams start.

Like birds gone mad, the loud screeches deafen Harry. It’s hard to tell where they are coming from, never mind what, exactly, they are. In the middle of the frenzy, he hears his own name called out, recognises Ron’s and Hermione’s voices through the noise. But Harry is only looking out for Draco’s voice. Heart racing, Harry calls out to him, blasting the smoke away with his wand in a very inefficient way. It’s like this, with his wand held out in front of him, that Harry runs face-first into Ron.

“Oh, thank Merlin!” Ron yells, swinging his arms around Harry’s shoulders. “Mione’s found the girl, she seems okay.” He pulls a face, hands over his ears. “What the bloody hell are those?”

Ron is staring at the epicentre of the smoke, where the wind has twisted itself into the shapes of screaming faces. They’re flying in circles, spiralling so fast that the body in the eye of the hurricane slowly ascends with the sheer force of the wind. Harry watches as the limp body rises within the hurricane, noticing the black colour of the long strands of hair floating in the air.

“He fell in the lake,” Harry says, realising that Draco is nowhere to be seen because he was what plunged into the water.

Running as fast as he can, Harry is not even thinking about what the hell is in the black lake. He dives, holding fast onto his wand. The light at the tip of his wand is barely enough to see a couple of feet ahead. He has no time for this, Draco is probably already drowned, if whatever is in the lake hasn’t gotten to him yet.

It takes Harry a while to realise he’s being pulled into the depths of the lake by a current. He’s been so concentrated on finding Draco that it is only when he starts swimming up for air that he notices he is being kept down. Kicking at his feet, Harry feels nothing but a strong undertow. Pointing his wand at the blackness, Harry tries and fails to blast himself away from the current. He points, trying a combination of spells, and when nothing works, panic sets in.

He blindly looks around himself for something, anything that he can grab to help pull himself out. That’s when he sees Draco’s body. Harry makes a grab for it, barely managing to hold onto Draco’s arm before the current starts dragging him in the opposite direction. He’s holding fast onto Draco, although somewhere in his mind, Harry knows the pointlessness of doing so, as it is very likely that they’ll both drown.

He tries to keep consciousness for as long as he can, fighting the current with whatever little energy he has left, but, with the added weight of Draco, Harry knows there’s no way out of this one. He feels himself drift into unconsciousness, feels his grip slipping, when he sees the lighted tip of a wand. He grabs the hand offered to him and is barely aware of being pulled out to the surface by someone.

 

Harry gulps the air the second his face emerges from the water. Gasping, he turns to see Ron’s face.

“Mate,” Ron starts, panting, “Jumping into lakes really isn’t your strongest suit.”

He grins at Harry though, and between the two of them they drag Draco’s limp body to the lakeshore, where Hermione is already waiting. She helps them get Draco flat on his back.

“Did no one ever tell you to think before you act?” Hermione asks in a brisk voice. She looks like she’s ready to give Harry a piece of her mind but one more look at Draco makes her stop. There’s an arrow stuck in Draco’s shoulders, but that’s not the worst of it. Draco’s lips are purple when Hermione opens his mouth before listening to his chest. Shaking her head, she says, “He’s not breathing. Help me get him on his side.”

As he and Ron get Draco on his side, Harry sees Draco’s naked back. There’re black feathers everywhere but most of his wings have fallen off. He’s got fresh blood running down his spine where the wings have been torn. Harry is so distracted by the sight that he almost misses Hermione’s next words.

She’s got her wand pointed at Draco’s open mouth but nothing is happening. Then, “Punch his back.”

“What?”

“Punch his back!” Hermione all but yells. “There’s something stuck in his throat, and I can’t get it out.”

Harry slaps Draco’s back gently at first but when Hermione gives him a look, he punches Draco. Once, twice, and then Draco is hacking up a wet cough as Hermione pulls something out with her wand. It looks like a string of bloody algae.

“There,” Hermione says, setting her wand down. “Get him on his back.”

Draco is panting, looking like he’s been to hell and back. But he’s alive, and that’s what matters, Harry thinks.

“The girl is fine, too” Hermione says. It takes Harry a moment to register what she’s talking about. Hermione adds, “She fell down hard but other than a fractured arm, she seems alright.”

“We should probably take the both of them to St Mungo’s.”

Nodding, Harry takes his eyes off Draco for once. Looking up at the sky, he realises that the smoke is gone. It has cleared out well enough that Harry can see Nancy’s lifeless body on the grass. The eclipse is almost over, already there’s a sliver of sun shining in the sky.

 

Draco stutters in and out of consciousness while the Healers in St Mungo’s run their tests. When he wakes up, really wakes up, Harry has his back turned to him. He hears a loud gasp before Draco starts screaming, sending objects flying across the room. It takes two Healers and Harry holding Draco’s hand for him to settle down.

“It’s okay, Draco,” Harry says, stroking Draco’s hair as Draco’s breathing slows down, “I’ve got you.”

Draco keeps waking up in the exact same way in the middle of the night throughout the week. He starts calming down as soon as he hears Harry, eyes falling close as Harry squeezes his hand. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been this exhausted. By the end of the week, though, Harry is allowed to take Draco home.

They sleep in the same room after the first night, when Draco woke up convinced he was dying again, yelling so loudly their neighbours asked about it in the morning. It takes two full weeks before Draco stops having night terrors that wake him up in panic. He has nightmares, though. He screams and tosses in his sleep, and Harry has to turn on a light and whisper to him until Draco is able to take deep breaths and close his eyes again.

 

Three weeks after the lake, Draco starts looking gaunt again. Harry is not exactly surprised when Draco turns to him one morning and says, “You were right about the spell. I can feel it.”

Harry doesn’t have to ask how Draco can be so sure. He can see it in Draco’s face, the way he grows paler as the days push forward to the next full moon.

“What do you think will happen this time?” he asks Harry, staring out the window.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies, honestly. “But I’ll be here.”

The line of Draco’s shoulders tenses but he doesn’t say anything. He has been rather quiet these days. Hermione says that’s normal and suggests that Draco should talk to someone. Harry never passes that bit of information to Draco. Somehow, he doesn’t see a suggestion for therapy going down too well with him. He grows more distant as the days grow colder.

On the night of the full moon, the wind has a distinct bite to it, like it is just waiting to snatch Draco away. Draco locks himself into the room that used to be his at sundown. Out of politeness, Harry stays out of his way.

He hears Draco’s groans in the night, fingers twitching to burst the door open. But Harry doesn’t. He calms himself by thinking nothing bad will happen this time, now that there’s no one actively trying to kill either of them.

At some point, Harry drifts off into a restless sleep. The next time he opens his eyes, the sun is shining through his window. Tiredly, Harry makes his way over to the other room. He doesn’t bother knocking before he uses his wand to unlock the door.

The window is open, blowing cold air into the room. It all looks pretty much the same as it was the day before. Except for one thing. On the nightstand, there’s a parchment under Draco’s book on ancient Chinese mythology. It simply reads:

‘I’m not coming back — DM.’

 

Epilogue

Nobody has seen Draco Malfoy for almost six months when a black bird starts pecking relentlessly on Harry’s window. When Harry opens his window and tries to shoo the bird away, it bites hard on Harry’s hand. There’s something about the way the bird cocks its head to the left that makes it look expectant. It occurs to Harry that this is no regular bird. As though sensing Harry’s change of attitude, the bird flies all the way to the door, where it resumes the incessant pecking until Harry opens the door to his own hall. The bird stands on the threshold, cocking its head again.

“Alright, alright,” Harry mutters, fumbling for his wand.

Before he realises how absolutely mad this whole thing is, Harry is out in the dead of the night, following a black bird he can barely see. He knows the way the bird is flying, and has already a good idea of what — or rather, of whom— he might find when the bird reaches its final destination. And yet it’s still quite something to see Draco Malfoy leaning against the gazebo railing, dressed to the nines.

“So, you’re back,” Harry says a little too dry.

“I broke the curse,” Draco replies.

He looks even paler than usual under the moonlight, blond hair almost silver. But there’s something about Draco’s face, something that seems well-rested. Almost peaceful.

“Why did you bring me here, Malfoy?”

Harry imagines Draco flinching at the sound of his last name but the moment passes as quickly as it came. It’s eerily quiet at this time of night, not even the bark of a dog or the meow of a stray cat.

“You remember, months ago, when you tried to kiss me?” Draco asks.

“What are you getting at, Malfoy?”

“I told you that it was all a lie. But… It wasn’t, not all of it.” It’s so quiet that Harry can hear Draco breathing out. “I tried to kiss you, before you lost your memory.”

Ten different questions swim in Harry’s head but the only one he seems capable of articulating is, “Tried?”

At this, Draco half-smiles. “You said it wasn’t the right time. We had a fight. The next time I saw you, you were in St Mungo’s and had no idea about us.”

“I still don’t understand why I’m here,” Harry says. Then, a bit more quiet, “You left without saying a word.”

“I think…” Malfoy starts. He stares up at the sky like the stars hold all in answers in their infinite brightness. “I think you knew about the spell, back then. I think you knew I couldn’t be with you without it ending badly.”

“You think I knew about who was trying to kill you and didn’t tell you all about it?”

Draco shakes his head. “We were very close to figuring it out, Harry. And when I tried to kiss you, you said the timing wasn’t right, you had something to say but it could wait until morning. I might’ve been drunk.” Draco pauses, closing his eyes. When he opens them again, he stares straight at Harry. “The timing was terrible when you tried to kiss me,” he says.

“You left,” Harry states because the one thing he’s never understood is why Draco felt like he had to leave.

“I couldn’t… When you said it was all on me… Harry, I needed to be by myself, to figure out what it was about me that had made that curse stick.” Draco sighs, pushing himself off the railings. He licks his lips before he can hold Harry’s gaze, and says, “I know we’ve always had bad timing. But lately, I’ve been wondering.” He takes a step towards Harry, then another. “What if,” he asks, his fingertips brushing Harry’s hand. “What if, suddenly, we were to have good timing?” Taking Harry’s hand in his, Draco takes another step to him. Their faces are so close that Harry isn’t all that surprised when Draco presses his forehead against his. “I wonder,” Draco says in a whisper that Harry can feel against his own lips. “I wonder what that would look like.”

 

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