Cosmic Latte

by Cielle_Noire

Summary:

Draco goes to Exmoor to look for obscure potions ingredients, instead he finds an amnesiac Harry Potter working at a coffee shop.

All Draco wanted was a latte. Instead he gets an object lesson in "no good deed goes unpunished".

(rated M for language and dark themes)

Notes:

UwU and so it begins. This is my first fanfic, I hope you enjoy it! It's a bit slow to start, but I think you'll find it's worth sticking with it!

thanks for reading, really looking forward on getting this out there!

I have a tumblr if you want to chat-- http://noir-renard.tumblr.com (it's pretty disorganized ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ no one's perfect!)

Chapter 1: The Barista

“Potter? Is that you?”

 

It wasn't a very good opening line, especially when it was the first time Draco had seen The Boy Who Lived in nearly five years, but there it was. Draco didn’t know whether he was incredulous, surprised, or just confused. Probably some horrendous combination of all three, he reasoned.

 

A small, unacknowledged part of him would admit he was mostly embarrassed, and why shouldn’t he be? He, a paragon of pureblood wizardry, had entered a muggle coffee shop to purchase a beverage. A latte, as it so happened, but he could be persuaded by a cappuccino or—in a desperate situation—a café au lait, as long as it was sugary, caffeinated, and hot. There were plenty of Wizard Cafes—not here, of course, but in general—where he could frequent. He could even have summoned a house elf to bring him coffee from the Manor, no matter where he happened to be.

 

But here he was, buying his coffee from muggles. Or Potter, as it so happened.

 

Here, in what he had previously believed to be a strictly muggle town. Now that he was (quite literally) facing the fact that he had been mistaken on that front, he had to worry about what anyone else who knew who Draco Malfoy was might think of his being here. Anyone capable of thinking things through to their logical conclusion might guess (correctly) that his being here meant he carried muggle money with him.

 

Which meant he had prepared to come here. Willingly.

 

Or, perhaps, not so willingly. Maybe they'd think he had been imperio’d for reasons unknown, by persons unknown. If anyone bothered to ask (they wouldn't), Draco would’ve told them that it would have been a waste of waste of an imperio, really, for not making him do something more shameful than buy muggle coffee. Waste of an unforgivable, too, had they managed to get the drop on Draco; more than half of wizarding Britain would happily crucio him, given the chance.

 

They might also assume he was here to start the Third War of Wizarding Purity, if only because people already assumed that about Draco whenever he walked into an establishment, muggle or otherwise. He'd wish they'd stop, really. He had been acquitted, after all. Not to mention that he had better sense than to initiate an endeavor that was, at best, derivative. And morally wrong, of course, he reminded himself. Not that he needed to be reminded. He just liked to demonstrate that he did, in fact, now know it was wrong, heedless of whether he was being grilled by the Wizengamot or just…buying a coffee.

 

He hadn't gone through that blasted muggle education course just to have people think he hadn't changed. Or worse: think that he'd sunk even lower.

 

But Draco had changed, evidenced by the fact that he was now thoroughly addicted to flavored muggle lattes and would go to any length to get one every morning. It might be a negligible change, in the grand scheme of things, but Draco rather thought it demonstrated the larger mental shift that had taken place in the six years since the war. He could get coffee anywhere in the world, and he chose to buy it from muggles. To help their economy and participate in their culture, after a fashion. To interact with them regularly; daily! A small thing, certainly, but something which would have been unthinkable to the ‘Draco Malfoy’ he used to be. It had been difficult to change, and Draco was proud of that effort.

 

He was not exactly proud of his need for the muggle beverage, however, nor was he prepared to declare his love for muggle lattes to all of Wizard Britain, let alone the Chosen One. Dependency wasn't a flattering shade on anyone. He wanted every witch and wizard in the UK to know he was better—to give him a chance to prove it to them. But he had his dignity, and he didn't fancy everyone thinking him unrefined. He’d reformed his ways and prejudices, yes, but he wasn't a yokel now, for pity's sake.

 

But while he was a decidedly changed man, one thing that hadn't changed about Draco was that he expressed his embarrassment through projection. Which was how he came to the conclusion that Potter should be the embarrassed one, not he. For Harry James Potter, Saviour of Wizard Kind, was standing at the register, for all appearances working at the Muggle Establishment.

 

He also had yet to answer Draco’s question, although it was no longer necessary; Draco had no doubt that it was the Boy Wonder who stood before him. Even though Potter's face was obscured by that lawless thatch of hair and visor (part of a uniform, presumably), Draco would know him anywhere. It rankled that Potter hadn't even looked up when Draco called his name, either willfully ignoring him or too engrossed in whatever he was working on to notice. Regardless, it was a matter of respect; when someone asked a question, the polite thing to do was acknowledge them.

 

Draco had grown accustomed to being ignored in past years; he was an unpleasant reminder of things most would rather not think about. But Potter had never ignored him, even when he’d wished for it. Now, Draco certainly did not wish for it, and he certainly wasn't going to stand for such blatant disregard.

 

Fuming, Draco stalked up to the counter and cleared his throat meaningfully. Still Potter did not lift his head, apparently lost in what Draco could now see was a crossword puzzle. He’d never attempted one himself, but he’d learned all about crosswords during his Muggle Education course. They’d emphasized the pride muggles felt at being able to complete the Saturday edition, since it was supposedly the most difficult.

 

But today was only Tuesday, and Tuesday’s crossword was the easiest to solve after Monday. Potter never struck Draco as an intellectual, but surely Tuesday's Crossword was not so difficult that it required such rapt attention as to ignore any customer, let alone Draco Malfoy.

 

It wasn’t until Draco all but leaned over the counter into Potter’s personal space and growled,"Excuse me," that the Chosen One deigned to notice him. A strange emotion flickered in Potter’s eyes, but it was gone before Draco could identify it.

 

"Oh," Potter said dully, giving Draco a long stare before blinking a few times and adopting a forced, saccharine smile that screamed 'this is my customer service face'. “Welcome to Cosmic Latte," he crooned, completing the image of a typical muggle barista. "What can I get you?” It looked like it cost him a little piece of his soul to say it. Draco almost felt a little bad for Potter.

 

Almost.

 

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, eyes narrowing.

 

“Uh...I work here?” There was no expected follow-up, such as ‘what are you doing here?’, to which Draco would have (reasonably) responded ‘Getting a coffee, Potter, what do you think?’. But Potter didn’t ask, so Draco couldn’t tell him.

 

All he could say to that was, “Surely not.”

 

Potter seemed to deflate a bit, as though he couldn’t believe he worked here, either. But instead of saying as much, he confirmed that he was in fact an employee by pointing to the green apron embroidered with a black galaxy, pinned with a name tag reading' John' (inexplicably), and the matching green visor that, somehow, made Potter's already frightful hair worse. It did however hide the infamous scar effectively, which Draco wasn't sure was an improvement...

 

No, he decided. It wasn't. Harry Potter was almost ordinary without it. It was as much a part of Potter as those hideous clunky glasses, or the signature scowl he carried whenever Draco was in sight. Now the scar was hidden, the glasses replaced, and the scowl absent, superseded with affable confusion; the overall effect was chilling. It was still Potter, but somehow...not Potter.

 

Draco stared wordlessly for a moment longer before snapping out of his shock-induced stupor. “Potter, I asked you a question.”

 

“Potter?” The Wizard-Cum-Barista repeated. Understanding dawned, an acerbic smile displacing the confusion. “Oh. You’re one of those people.” Draco was about to ask what exactly Potter meant by ‘one of those people’ when Potter’s put-upon sigh interrupted him. “Look, sir, I’m not Harry Potter. I’m just a barista.”

 

"Sir?"  Draco choked out, before plunging into a stunned silence for the second time in as many minutes. When he found himself come hurtling back to reality again, he asked, “Are you having me on, Potter?”

 

Potter shook his head. “I’m afraid not. It’s been a while since any of you kooks came in, but I assure you, it’s just a case of mistaken identity.”

 

“Kooks?” Draco repeated. “Mistaken identity?”  he continued, just to try it on for size.

 

Draco took in the green eyes, the unruly black hair, the tan skin. “I think not,” he said at last, “Unless Harry James Potter has a long lost twin.” Draco shuddered, finding the very idea abhorrent. Potter was changed, but he was still undoubtedly the same sanctimonious Gryffindor underneath it all—even if he was, currently, wearing green.

 

“Sir, you’re holding up the queue, so if you aren’t going to order something, please step aside," Potter said wearily, as though this were a common but tedious experience for him.

 

“Please?” Draco blinked. “Did you say please? To me? " It was probably the most polite thing Potter had ever said to him, adding a new layer to what was turning out to be the most peculiar conversation he’d ever had with Potter. The fact that Potter was only pretending he wasn’t the Chosen One and he didn’t know exactly who Draco Malfoy was greatly soured the experience, but it was shocking nonetheless to hear Potter say it.

 

Registering—a bit belatedly—what Potter had said, Draco cast a look over his shoulder, and indeed he was holding up the queue. If two old birds chatting happily and discussing Draco with unconcealed curiosity could be considered a queue, that is.

 

Perhaps for a small town like this one, it could, but the women didn't seem to mind the wait; Potter just wanted Draco out of the way. In any case, it didn’t seem Potter intended to break character and reveal that yes, of course he knew who Draco was, and wasn't this a delightful joke between friends, feigning unfamiliarity?

 

It wasn't funny, and they weren’t friends, but that was fine: Draco knew how to be patient.

 

Draco snapped promptly and neatly into his role of ‘normal muggle customer'. If Potter was going to dissemble, so would he.

 

“Double shot vanilla latte, whole milk, in a mug,” he rattled off, pretending their strange interaction had never happened. Potter had the gaul to look annoyed about it, punching the order in to the muggle register and reading off the price. Draco paid in exact change (£2,37), in pennies no less, simply because he knew it would annoy Potter further. Serves him right, Draco thought.

 

A smirk that quickly developed into a grin of gleeful mischief spread across Potter’s face. Draco had a sense of foreboding; no one should be that happy about 237 coppers. “Did you know,” he said with a self-satisfied twinkle in his eye, “that it’s illegal to pay for more than 20p in 1p coins?”

 

Draco did not know that, and he suspected Potter knew that Draco couldn’t have been aware. Rather than say so, however, he replied, “Oh? Since when?”

 

“Since 1971.”

 

Definitely the same moralistic Potter.

 

Draco wondered why his ‘Muggle Education‘ class had spent so long on crossword puzzles when information like this would certainly have been more useful. “...it’s a silly law, honestly,” he said with a sigh, pretending to cavil instead of admitting ignorance. “Most people don’t enforce it…" or know about it, he added silently.

 

“Most people don’t attempt to pay in only coppers,” Potter countered. “Rather rude, you know. Time is money, and you’re wasting mine.” Draco was eerily reminded of a Gringotts goblin when Potter continued, "If more people valued the art of finance, we wouldn’t have little hold ups like this one.” Truly discomfiting, indeed.

 

“I wasn’t aware you were such a bastion of financial mores out here in nowheresville, Exmoor.”

 

“Gleyma,” Potter corrected.

 

“Right, being out here in Gleyma, I didn’t think you’d care about such...petty trivialities.”

 

“The Queen’s Law reaches all corners of the land, sir. Even Gleyma.”

 

Draco didn’t feel the need to point out that they both knew how patently untrue that was; magic folk weren’t exactly required to follow muggle laws, after all.

 

Scowling, Draco collected his coins, and paid with a £50 banknote instead. “Sorry, I haven’t got anything smaller, you don’t mind, do you?”

 

Potter shot him a look that said he’d gladly flay Draco alive were it not for society frowning upon such barbarism. Not to mention that the customer was always right, and it was bad for business to flay people (living or otherwise).

 

He counted out £47,63 while glancing up periodically to glare at Draco. Draco just smiled pleasantly and realized this really was the better solution all along, vis-à-vis needling Potter. And if there hadn’t been a line before, there were now three people standing behind Draco, watching his interaction with Potter like Prime Time Telly Vision.

 

Finally done counting, Potter unceremoniously handed Draco his change, and pulled out a paper cup to write Draco’s order on it.

 

Draco seized yet another opportunity to vex Potter. “Excuse me, perhaps you forgot amidst the discussion of Treasury Law, but I said I wanted a mug."

 

Potter smiled sweetly. “Oh, I didn't forget. Unfortunately, we’re out of mugs. I hope a paper cup ’s alright?” he quirked an eyebrow at Draco, daring him to complain. A quick glance behind the counter revealed there were plenty of mugs.

 

If he thought it would be so easy to get rid of Draco, he was mistaken.

 

“I suppose whatever you have left will have to do, then,” Draco replied, barely biting back the habitual Potter tacked on to the end. Draco all but stomped off to await his order.

 

Before he could wander too far, however, Potter called out, “Can I get your name?”

 

Draco turned around, fixing him with a stare that asked, ‘Surely you can’t be serious? ’

 

“For the order?” he said earnestly, the liar. “To call you when it’s ready?” the corners of his lips twitched, as though fighting back a smile.

 

He definitely knows who I am, the git. “Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.” 

 

“Right. Draco it is, then.” He thought he heard Potter mumble ‘of course he’s got a pompous name, they all do’, but Draco was too far away to respond, and Potter was already speaking to the next customer. It struck Draco as an odd thing to complain about after knowing someone—and their name—for over ten years, but he figured there was no use trying to understand Potter's garbled thinking patterns at this point in the game.

 

Rolling his eyes, Draco swept off to the (rather comfortable, if not worn) brown corduroy sofa in front of the fireplace to wait. He’d never admit to brooding—it was unbecoming of a Malfoy—but honestly, it was the only word to describe what he was doing, as he stared into the fire and internally groused.

 

His brief exchange with Potter had put him in a rather foul mood, but now that he had some distance from it, he had to admit there was something odd about the whole thing. Potter had insisted he wasn't Potter, that he didn't know Draco, and yet his behavior was exactly what Draco had come to expect of the Boy Wonder: sarcastic politesse that was worse than outright discourtesy.

 

There was also the strangeness of the fact that Draco had stumbled into Potter acting like a barista in a remote, muggle town. Maybe this is an undercover investigation?  It didn’t seem likely—why use a muggle barista as a cover story?

 

Something was amiss here, and Draco was going to put those would-be auror skills to use and figure it out. Just the thought of telling Potter that he'd figured the whole thing out with his wits alone was satisfying enough to make the whole experience worthwhile.

 

Course of action decided, he reviewed what he knew about the situation...which was admittedly not much.

 

The news of it had died down in recent months, but it had been on the front page of every wizarding newspaper for weeks: the curious absence of the Boy-Who-Lived. No one had seen hide nor hair of Potter for months, either in public or at work. Granger and Weasley declined to comment, and the Minister for Magic (a known friend of the Saviour) said the details were “classified” and he couldn’t discuss them.

 

Draco hadn’t thought much of it at the time. It was hardly unprecedented for Potter to disappear without a trace; he’d done as much in the months leading up to Voldemort’s defeat. Since ‘sources close to Potter’ wouldn’t comment, he had assumed that just because the world at large didn’t know where Potter had gone off to, someone knew. After all, if their Golden Boy had actually gone missing, the Ministry would've had every capable man, woman, and child out looking for him.

 

So satisfied, Draco hadn't given it a second thought and got on with his life. He had his own problems to deal with, like making yet another appeal for his rejected auror application and convincing all of Wizard Britain to give him a second chance. Even if he hadn’t, he was comfortable in the knowledge that even if Potter had truly disappeared, it didn’t—and wouldn’t—affect Draco in any way; he didn't care what Potter got up to these days.

 

Or so he’d thought. Now that he was face to face with the absentee Saviour, he discovered he was in fact very curious indeed.

 

It hadn’t made much sense to begin with, but the longer he thought about it, the less the ‘undercover investigation’ angle seemed to be a plausible explanation for Potter’s presence here. Although this town—Gleyma, was it?—was surrounded by Wizarding communities, it was not itself at all connected to the Wizarding World.

 

Unless it is, a small voice offered unhelpfully. You’re here. Potter’s here. That’s two connections, isn’t it?

 

Alright, so there were no obvious connections, he amended. After all, Draco wasn't here for any reason other than he happened upon it while conducting his research. In fact, he'd chosen the town because it wasn't too close to any major Wizarding settlements. He didn't like the kinds of interruptions that came with being Draco Malfoy in a Wizard-dense area. He'd tried to "rough it" along the coast for a few days, tried to pick somewhere isolated, but then the aforementioned coffee dependency reared its ugly head. And when Draco discovered this town—Gleyma—well. Towns had coffee, among other conveniences. So, yes, Draco hadn't exactly picked Gleyma because it was a muggle town, but Draco prided himself on knowing where the notable Wizarding places were—to better avoid them—and Gleyma wasn’t one.

 

But, he grudgingly admitted, it was possible he could be unaware of a small Wizarding Constituent in this sad, seedy town.

 

On the other hand...Potter was one of the most recognizable faces in the wizarding world! Even if  there were undercover work to be done, Potter would have been forced to use polyjuice potion or a glamour, at the very least. But this was just Potter, himself, pretending to be a muggle barista, which heavily favored Draco's previous assumption that this was a muggle town. Not a very good tactic for investigating wizards, in Draco's opinion. Most wizards would stick out like a sore thumb in this small town, anyway. It was just so endearingly muggle.

 

So then, perhaps Potter was, for some reason, investigating a muggle crime, but that didn’t make sense either; muggles had their 'Police' (Draco knew this from his studies), and even if they hadn’t, there was no reason why the Ministry would send Saint Potter to this isolated town to track down a criminal element. Potter was too important for that—certainly too self -important, Draco was sure.

 

Feeling comforted by his ability to logically out-reason the answers most wizards and witches would’ve accepted, Draco moved on to more concrete details he could suss out from the bizarre situation he now found himself confronted with.

 

He noted that Potter did seem to know what he was doing, and so comfortable was he in the procedure of take-order-write-it-down-accept-money-next-customer, that he didn’t need to pay close attention to the task of running a coffee shop single handedly. And as no one else was working currently, it was Potter himself who set to making the drinks when the “queue” dwindled, and he was just as comfortable in that facet of working at a coffee shop. It spoke of a known habit, of a tempo so familiar Potter could do it without putting much thought into it.

 

Almost like he’d been doing it for months.

 

Draco stared brazenly, looking for any sign of... something. Anything. Recognition; nerves; repairing a blown cover. But there was nothing of the sort. There was almost a sense of...tranquility to Potter as he went about his routine, a calm that Draco had never associated with the boy—man, now—who personified a firestorm. And yet here he was, a zen master in his garden, skillfully coaxing the best out of each facet of coffee-making. The hiss of the milk steamer was more like a song, the screech of the espresso grinder more like a purr, the buzzing of high pressure scorching through the portafilter more like a hive of bees on the move. Were these really the same cacophonous sounds Draco associated with coffee shops? The usual nerve-grinding racket transformed into the likes a grateful beast tamed by a master?

 

Draco was quickly disabused from waxing-poetic about the ambience of coffee shops by a bored voice calling out, “Draco,” with a weary sigh.

 

Gathering all the poise a Lord of Malfoy Manor should possess, Draco coolly glided up to counter to fetch his order. Potter had already returned to fixing other drinks, and missed Draco’s offended scoff.

 

He was briefly torn between leaving in a strop and making his grievances known, but the thought that Potter had forced a paper cup on Draco presumably just to annoy him pushed Drao's favour toward giving voice to his dissatisfaction. Besides, he reasoned, what was the point of storming out if the one who caused it wasn't aware you were doing so?

 

So decided, he cleared his throat. “You spelled my name wrong.”

 

Potter paused, then half-turned to fix Draco with an amused smirk. “I know,” he said, then returned to his work. Smugly, it should be noted.

 

And that was how Draco got to both make his grievances known and storm out in a strop, the mystery of Potter's presence here momentarily forgotten in favor of being simultaneously annoyed and impressed. He sipped the double-shot whole milk vanilla latte and cursed internally. It was sweet, creamy, delicious, perfectly made exactly as Draco liked it, and he hated it.

 

Well, he wanted to.

 

For scrawled on the side in offensively untidy letters, if you could call them that, was a gross butchery of his name: DREY-KOH .

 

Saviour, my foot, he grumbled as the bells above the door to Cosmic Latte jangled cheerfully. They were mocking him, he was sure of it.

 

Draco felt like he’d lost that battle of wills, but this was far from over—whatever this was. Now that he’d discovered Potter, he was not only going to make him admit defeat by the time Draco went on his merry way, but reveal the full story behind Potter's being here.

 

One way or another, Draco was sure he'd find his trip to middle-of-nowhere—Gleyma—much more flavorful than anticipated.

  

---

 

 John sighed to himself and shook his head, bracing himself for what was sure to be a headache.

  

The Blonde Git was back. He had an air about him that spelled ‘self-appointed mission of importance’ as he waltzed up to the counter.

 

What was his name? Draco. That was it. John was almost annoyed he’d remembered, but it was a very distinctive name, he reasoned, and like it or not the arrogant prat made quite the impression.

 

Although he couldn’t possibly know the twit, there was something almost familiar about him. The moment John had laid eyes on him yesterday, he was struck with a sense of what is he doing here?. It wasn't quite familiarity, but something adjacent to it. There was also the inexplicable need to push the buttons of this stranger, which was rather out of character for John. Perhaps it was just 'Draco's' arrogant attitude that made John react that way, but somehow it felt different. Like something more. Something deeper...

 

John had tried to brush it off; he didn’t even know who he himself  was, let alone this handsome stranger (and he was quite fit, even if he was a prat), but the fact that this ‘Draco’ seemed to recognize John as well made it harder to ignore the tingle of recognition.

 

He sighed internally, something he'd been doing quite a lot of since Draco had appeared in his life. The things that were sure in John’s world were few and far between, but upon reflection, he was forced to conclude with uncomfortable certainty that it couldn’t just be Draco's snobbish attitude that drove John to get a rise out of him. Arrogance and coffee went hand in hand, so it was hardly the first time John had dealt with an annoying customer. Usually he just brushed it off and satisfied himself with making their coffee perfect in spite of their obvious misgivings about his ability. He didn’t know much, but he did know how to make a personalized drink for every soul who wandered in to Cosmic Latte.

 

Normally, he didn’t misspell names, and never intentionally; it was below him. Sometimes he even asked for proper spelling if he wasn’t sure. But with ‘Draco’, he couldn’t help himself. Something pushed him to put the wanker in his place. It was childish and petty, he knew, to disfigure his name so thoroughly. But he’d done it anyway, thinking he’d never see the silly git again and could put the incident behind him.

 

But now Draco was back, bringing the discomfort he caused John with him.

 

John had been in the small town of Gleyma for some months now, almost seven that he could remember, and possibly more; he was the only one counting. Gleyma was an inconsequential coastal town in Exmoor National Park, more of a ‘drive-through’ town than a place you settled down—or stopped in at all, if you could help it. It was the kind of place that marked the passage of time in two seasons: Off Season and High Season.

 

Even High Season wasn’t really busy, as such. But there were more people in the park during the summer when the weather was agreeable, and consequently more people happened upon Gleyma, much to their dismay. It had no harbour, wasn’t close to the motorway, and didn’t intersect with the best walking trails, either. There wasn’t even a petrol station in town. If you came to Gleyma, it was almost certainly an accident.

 

The wise took one look at Gleyma and thought better of stopping, unless driven to desperation for toilets, coffee, or directions.

 

The polite way to describe Gleyma was quaint; the diplomatic word for it was quiet; but the honest word for it was gloomy. Apparently, it’d started as a single homestead, nothing more than a deer blind according to some. There were legends of pagans or vikings living there “in the Age of King Arthur”, with dubious evidence to support said myths. John figured if they’d ever been there to begin with, they’d made the right decision in leaving.

 

Over time Gleyma had grown—marginally—but no one from Gleyma felt any need to compete with the other towns around Exmoor or the natural beauty of the park itself. “Being just average is just fine,” seemed to be the Gleyma motto.

 

John knew it wasn’t the kind of place he would've chosen to spend his life, but Gleyma was where he’d ended up nonetheless. No one seemed capable of telling him when he'd arrived there exactly, only that it was sometime in January. He didn’t remember, of course; he’d woken up in the Gleyma medical clinic, head aching, with no memory of who he was, much to everyone's disappointment. Most of all, his own.

 

He later learned the "clinic" was a building seldom used except for tourists suffering from heat stroke, and wasn’t even properly staffed. His nurse—someone brought in from the closest hospital in Ilfracombe—had explained that John had been in a coma for several weeks. He'd informed John that the local kids had found him washed up on shores of Gleyma. Then he told John everything they knew about him, the clinic's one and only ward, which was precisely: nothing.

 

He had no ID, no address book, not even a set of house keys. In short, nothing to define his identity. So they'd called him John Doe, a moniker that stuck from the weeks he’d been unconscious. They figured he'd remember his name when he woke up, and when he didn't, there didn't seem to be any sense in giving him a new one. So John Doe it was.

 

Some had taken to calling him ‘John Stag’, due to his tattoo and solitary nature. It was a little more personal than John Doe, at least.

 

Only one of Gleyma residents called him John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag: Mrs.Frond. A widow and as alone as John, everyone said she was mad. John liked her. She felt like the nan he'd forgotten, or perhaps never had.

 

Queenie had called him John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag once or twice, but John had the distinct feeling it was to mock Mrs.Frond or attempt to endear herself to him. That he didn't appreciate.

 

His only possessions were: a strange, polished, wooden stick he felt deeply attached to and a leather pouch full of what had collectively been identified as "money". No one could ascertain the purpose of the “fancy twig" nor the origin of the “mangled coins", but everyone had a pet theory, from aliens to government conspiracies.

 

Everyone but John, that is. He didn't feel like an alien. He understood and spoke English in a perfect south east London accent, and couldn’t recall any other language (not for lack of trying), so it didn’t seem likely he was from another country, even if his tan skin indicated the possibility. “Just an oddity,” the nurse had said, then quickly tried to defend himself as "not a racist" and that he "had nothing against desis".

 

John rather thought if you had to defend yourself as such, it was a bad sign; better to just say 'sorry'. The nurse hadn't; instead, he'd gone off on birthmarks, which John had as well. Or something like it, at least: a white, jagged scar on his forehead. The nurse had insisted it was "old" and "barely detracted from his appearance" and "not to fret". He had atrocious bedside manner, that one. The only useful thing he'd been able to tell John was that the cause of his amnesia had been determined to not be head trauma; John's amnesia had nothing to do with his scar and the true cause of both was, like everything else, a mystery.

 

But at least he didn't have brain damage, right?

 

In the end, the search for John Doe’s true identity turned out to be nothing but dead ends, not that there had been many ends to follow at all after no national or international missing persons matched his description. There was no Police Station within Gleyma, but John sent weekly requests for new missing person reports to the police station in Lynmouth through Gleyma's library. He'd sent so many requests that the Police had taken to sending new reports proactively.

 

In seven months, none of the reports were ever for John.

 

With no memory of where he came from or where he’d been headed, John decided to stay in Gleyma. The town was small, but no one minded accepting a new member into their fold. He’d even found a place to live until he either a) scraped together enough money to leave or b) his memory came back. The local coffee shop, Cosmic Latte, had been in need of morning help, so they hired him, and he’d been there ever since.

 

His plan had always been to stay in Gleyma “just for a little while”, until a better plan became available.

 

Now it was mid-September, six and a half months since he’d awoken, and John still hadn’t saved much money, and still didn’t remember his former life. Somehow, ‘just for now’ had become ‘until further notice’, and John had gotten used to being…well, John Doe, Sometimes Stag. Cosmic Latte barista, record holder for longest stretch of Employee of the Month. Gleyma's most eligible bachelor—in fact, the only bachelor. Save for Cyril, to which John said a heartfelt "No Thanks".

 

Everyone knew John, and John knew everyone, in name if not personally. All one-hundred-and-thirty-five-or-so residents, hurrah. Being John Doe felt like wearing someone else’s clothes, but it was better than having no clothes—or rather, no identity—at all. John didn’t love his mundane existence, but he had nowhere else to go, and no one else to be.

 

Even if he did on occasion think 'anywhere would be better than here', every time he thought about leaving, something held him back. It was something he didn't care to name, but could name if he dared to: fear.

 

There was little variation, but occasionally John did encounter strangers of a most unusual nature. Strangers who tried to offer John a different, borrowed cloak to wear, just as ill-fitting as John Doe but far from mundane: that of Harry Potter.

 

As it so happened, Draco wasn’t the first person to wander into Cosmic Latte, see John, and exclaim some variation of “Harry Potter!”, “Harry…Potter ?”, or “Blimey, is that Harry Potter?”

 

John had no idea who this ‘Harry Potter’ character was, other than he seemed to be a celebrity in a very niche group of people. Library searches had turned up nothing. He'd tried asking people, but questions about Harry Potter were met with two responses.

 

The most common reaction was a sad shake of the head, a claim they knew nothing about any 'Harry Potter', and a look of concern in John's direction, often accompanied by the suggestion he spend less time with Mrs.Frond.

 

Or they laughed and told him he had a very good sense of humour. This response came only from those who thought he was Harry Potter, on the rare occasion he asked them about their vaunted celebrity.

 

John himself had decided that the whole thing was either some elaborate practical joke or one of those rare cases of finding your doppelganger.

 

The number of such cases of mistaken identity had dwindled with the end of the High Season, but never once had anyone returned to “make sure” he really wasn’t the illustrious Harry Potter. Their eyes always strayed to his forehead, often with a frown, but whatever they saw there seemed to convince them they’d made a mistake. They left with an apologetic smile, often mumbling something about ‘muggles’ and 'unlikely coincidences'. John didn't know what a muggle was, but he wasn't sure he wanted to find out at this point.

 

But even though John didn’t know who he’d been before he was John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag, he was fairly sure ‘Harry Potter’ wasn’t it.

 

The main reason he didn’t think he was this ‘Harry Potter’ was that Harry Potter seemed to be a person of import. Surely if Harry Potter had gone missing, people would notice? Surely they would say ‘There you are, Harry! We’ve been looking for you!’ or 'Harry, where've you been?' or 'Thank God you're alright, Harry!'

 

But no one said anything of the sort. In fact, no one called him Harry after the initial bout of mistaken recognition; they called him Mr.Potter. They asked what Mr.Potter was doing in a “Muggle Coffee Shop” in West Somerset? How long had Mr.Potter been here? When would Mr.Potter leave? Was Mr.Potter planning on joining a team out here? Sometimes they said even stranger things, like 'so wonderful what you're doing here, Mr.Potter ', or 'A man's man you are, Mr.Potter, working with your hands', or 'Merlin's Beard, coffee made by Harry Potter? Brilliant!'.

 

But when John explained they got it wrong, that he wasn’t Harry Potter, it was like a spell had been broken. All and sundry were easily dissuaded that he didn’t know what they were talking about, sorry, no don’t fret, no harm done. It was odd, sure, and sometimes it irritated John, but it had only happened maybe three or four times, no more than six. Not nearly enough times to ever really make him worry that maybe there was something more to this Harry Potter conundrum. Potter's acolytes went about their business and John went about his. He tended to forget about it except in the dead of night when he couldn't sleep and had nothing better to think about. Which was rather more often than was probably healthy, but who could blame him?

 

He'd thought about Draco, too. Wondered about his story, what brought him to Gleyma. He wondered about his relation to the elusive Harry Potter and for the first time, felt a little envious of his mysterious look-alike. Draco was a disagreeable sort of fellow, but John couldn't deny there was something compelling about him as well.

 

Unfortunately, wonder was all he would ever do; no one who had the option to leave Gleyma spent longer than they had to here and Draco was no exception.

 

But then Draco had come back. Unlike everyone else who had called John 'Harry Potter', Draco had come back, and now John had something he'd never had before: the chance to find out more.

 

The fact that Draco had returned wasn’t the only way he was different, of course. While others insisted on the full 'Harry Potter' moniker, Draco had merely said Potter. Where others had called the name with reverence and joy, Draco said the name with incredulity and contempt. The others had easily accepted that they'd been mistaken—with apologies! But the more John tried to convince Draco, the more certain he’d seemed that John was undeniably Harry Potter.

 

Not to mention how offended he seemed that John could believe Draco would think otherwise.

 

It was curious, certainly. Refreshing, really.

 

But now, hidden below the curiosity, there was a small part of John that was worried. His well-reasoned dismissal of anything to do with Harry Potter was faltering, and the reason was Draco. Draco was an enigma amongst enigmas. Draco clearly did not like Harry Potter—he’d been quite vexed when he saw John yesterday—and yet Draco had returned .

 

The obvious question was why, but the more important question was 'will he make my life difficult? '.

 

The look in his eye indicated that yes, he would make John's life more difficult. It was clear he hadn’t given up on “getting to the bottom of things”; he saw John—or perhaps, Harry Potter—being in Gleyma as a mystery, a problem to be solved.

 

He would be sorely disappointed when he realized the truth, and John almost felt guilty that he had to be the arbiter of that disappointment.

 

But a small part of John rebelled a more loudly than ever before. What if he’s right? It asked. What if he knows you?  He wanted desperately to ignore it when it pressed, Don’t you want to go home?. It had asked him that before, but now that he might have a way of doing just that… 

 

John wasn’t sure. He couldn't say he loved Gleyma—no one did—but people treated him like he’d always lived there. Allowed him his eccentricities. Gave him a job, a place to stay, a name or two. If not a fondness for the town itself, he felt grateful for the people here who'd accepted him as he was. Incomplete, but doing his best. Meanwhile, wherever he'd gone missing from hadn't even put out a missing person's announcement. They weren't trying to find him. So either they didn't care, or hadn't noticed he was gone.

 

He didn't want to stay here forever, but Gleyma would notice if he left, of that he was sure. So why couldn’t this be home?

 

Because it isn’t your home, the little voice protested. Each and every time his mind wandered down that path, it persisted that no, you can't stay here. This time was no exception. Gleyma wasn't home, and never would be.

 

It shouldn't be possible to long for a place you couldn't remember, but John knew from personal experience that it was. He felt it with all his heart (even if he wouldn't admit it) that all he wanted was a place he belonged. A place he'd chosen. A place where he wasn't "John Doe" by default or "Harry Potter" by mistake. He'd convinced himself that wherever he'd come from couldn't be that place, because they hadn't come looking for him.

 

And yet here he was, questioning what he’d believed since the first time someone had mistakenly called him "Harry Potter", that maybe there could be something to it, after all.

 

All because of a blonde prat who didn’t like him—or at least, who didn’t like Harry Potter. A prat who was approaching John's register with predatory grace.

 

John was torn between being pleased to see him again and wishing he'd left Gleyma like every other Potter-Adjacent Stranger. Because while he wanted to know, he also didn't. The idea that Draco was mistaken was a comfortable one, but it frightened him more than thought that Draco was right.

 

He didn't want to be stuck in limbo between being 'John' and 'Harry' for the rest of his life, but he didn't want to confront that reality right now, either. Half-seven on a Wednesday morning was no time for that kind of life-changing realization.

 

“Hello, again,” Draco drawled, eyes alight with what was undoubtedly some dastardly plot.

 

“Hello,” John sighed, mentally willing Draco to go away.

 

It didn’t work, of course.

 

“Is that how you treat all your customers? With a resigned sigh of exasperation?” Draco shook his head solemnly and clicked his tongue.

 

“It’s how I treat strangers who act like they know me,” John countered. “If you don’t like it, you’re welcome to go to the other coffee shop in town. Oh wait, there isn’t one. Blast. Guess you’ll have to make your peace with it, or go without.”

 

Draco’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

 

“So? What’ll it be? Double-shot whole milk vanilla latte? Or nothing?”

 

A note of surprise lit up Draco’s face. It was a good look for him, unfortunately for John. “You remember my order.”

 

“It’s my job,” said John blithely. Other than not knowing anything about himself, he had an excellent memory. Perhaps forgetting his identity had vacated thinking power for remembering the inane.

 

Draco tapped his fingers on the counter, a expression calculating. Looking around, as though to make sure no one was listening, he asked in hushed tones,“You really don’t remember me?”

 

“Course I do,” John replied. “You came in here yesterday, called me Potter, and left in a huff. And your name is Draco Something Pompous Malfoy.” John surprised himself even as the words left his mouth. He'd forgotten the ‘Malfoy’ part of Draco’s name until the name was past his lips. Somehow, it felt more natural to call the blonde git that than Draco.

 

Draco’s perfect eyebrow twitched, and then he patted his pocket and mumbled something John couldn’t quite hear. Inexplicably, the sounds of the coffee shop dwindled into a low hum, as though John and Draco were in a separate bubble of space. “Alright, Potter, I put up a privacy charm, so you can speak freely. What are you doing here, really? I can’t take it anymore, I must know.”

 

Privacy charm? John didn’t think those words made sense, but something tingled  in the back of his mind. Unfortunately, the tingling soon gave way to a throbbing headache. “I didn’t understand half of that, Malfoy, but like I said yesterday, I. work. here.”

 

“But why? ” Draco demanded, throwing his hands up in the air. "Why here, in the bleeding middle of nowhere?”

 

“It’s not nowhere. It’s Gleyma.”

 

“Middle of Nowhere,” Draco insisted. “Do Granger and Weasley know you’re here?”

 

John sighed again. “I’m assuming those are cohorts of the notorious Harry Potter?” The names didn't sound familiar, and he found he was disappointed by that realization.

 

“Cohorts?” Draco snorted. “Now there’s a word I didn’t think you knew. I imagine they’d be hurt to hear you use that word to describe them.”

 

“What are they, then?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know, friends? ” Draco sneered, like it was something he’d rather not discuss. “Or, at the very least, ‘sources close to Harry Potter’.”

 

“Look, Draco,” John started, matching Draco’s sneer, “I don’t know why you’re so fixated on me being this ‘Potter’, but I assure you I’m not merely pretending I don’t know who you are. I really, truly don’t. This…harassment is getting a bit old. Now, do you or don’t you want coffee?”

 

Draco stared in John’s eyes, as though hoping the answers would be written there, and John felt a strange pressure on his mind. He had the impression that someone was leafing through his thoughts, politely but thoroughly, but that didn’t make sense of course. John's headache intensified and he was starting to think it should be named after its cause: Draco Something Pompous Malfoy.

 

He thought perhaps he should avert his gaze, but he didn't. Couldn't. He felt....captivated. Captured. It was as invigorating as it was frightening, familiar in a visceral way John didn't want to define at the moment, thanks very much.

 

But as quickly as it began, it was over, and Draco seemed almost cowed. “You really don’t know,” he said at last, looking strangely bereft. Seemingly making up his mind about something, Draco continued, “I’ll have a pumpkin spice latte, in a mug .”

 

“We don’t have pumpkin spice,” John responded automatically, equal parts relieved and disappointed that his dealings with Draco had shifted towards the typical problems he had with customers. “It’s not in season.”

 

“Yes, you do, I just saw—what do you mean it’s ‘not in season’? Pumpkin Spice is always in season. And besides, it’s autumn.”

 

“Not until next week,” John corrected, clicking his pen twice to punctuate the sentiment. Draco’s eyebrow twitched as he zeroed in on the pen. "But we'll start serving Pumpkin Spice on Saturday."

 

“That’s only three days from now,” he advised, eyes never leaving the pen.

 

John shrugged, clicking the pen again. "Sure is."

 

"You aren't even waiting until the actual autumnal equinox anyway," Draco pressed. "Why not start today?"

 

“Sorry, my hands are tied." Privately, John also thought it was silly to wait, but he'd been instructed in no uncertain terms to wait until Saturday. Most people didn't even know they had Pumpkin Spice, so it wasn't difficult to wait. People couldn't ask for what they don't know about, but Draco knew. He must be from London, if he knew about it already. It wasn't as though he could read minds or any such nonsense. "You'll have to come back Saturday if you want pumpkin juice.”

 

“Pumpkin Juice?" Draco repeated. "You mean Pumpkin spice, surely?”

 

John had been too distracted by the mental meltdown he was having over the fact that he'd invited Draco to come back Saturday to notice his slip-up. He sounded so pathetic…though, he was a bit pathetic, wasn't he? Amnesiac barista, stuck in a sad little town.

 

He bit back a sigh.

 

Even so...did he say Pumpkin Juice? Surely not. It sounded unpleasant. Thoroughly nettled, he clicked the pen again. Then once more for good measure. “Yeah, Pumpkin Spice. That’s what I said.”

 

“Would you stop that, ” Draco said at last, grabbing the pen with lightning quick reflexes.

 

John was too surprised to feel annoyed. If anything, he felt triumphant at eliciting a reaction. “I think you’ll find I’ll be needing that back,” he smirked.

 

Draco eyed it curiously. “This is a...writing utensil?” he asked, like he’d never seen one before. He pressed the button experimentally, letting out a fascinated 'hmm ' when the pen retracted. John was reminded that anyone who mentioned Harry Potter always behaved like they operated on a different plane of reality.

 

“Why does it click?” Draco clicked the pen again with delight, punctuating the question. It didn’t seem he was joking, but then again, John had no precedent for what a ‘joking’ Draco Malfoy might be like. Draco pressed his lips into a firm line, concentrating on the click pen. He was unscrewing the barrel now, investigating how it functioned.

 

John decided he was serious. “It’s so you don’t have to worry about losing the cap. You lose the cap, the pen dries out...terribly annoying, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

“Terribly,” Draco agreed, mind clearly elsewhere. He'd already extracted the spring and put it back together again with surprising speed.

 

John ought to be annoyed, but it was oddly charming. Maybe he wasn't from London after all, considering he didn't know what retractable pens were.

 

Draco clicked it a few more times and nodded, seemingly pleased at solving that mystery.  John thought Draco, having satisfied his curiosity, would hand over the pen now. But instead, Draco simultaneous proved he was indeed a Class A wanker and dissolved any and all feelings of charm John had towards him, by tossing the pen like a child, instead of handing it over like a sane person, the prat. John, fortunately, had excellent reflexes and caught it deftly.

 

"Gee, thanks, " he grumbled, checking to make sure the pen still functioned after all Draco's fussing by scribbling on a napkin.

 

Draco’s smiled slyly, unbothered by John's renewed prickliness. “I think there’s hope for you yet... John .”

 

John tensed. “How do you know my name?”

 

Draco rolled his eyes and pointed at the name on John’s chest. “It’s written on your apron. I’m not a mind reader, John.”

 

“Of course not, that’s impossible.” John felt a bit foolish, and wondered not for the first time what it was about Draco that put him so off-balance. His self-deprecating thoughts were interrupted, however, by a soft popping sound, and the subsequent return of the coffee shop's hum.

 

A line of three had formed behind Draco, and John wondered how long they'd been talking. It was unlike him to get so caught up chatting at work that he neglected other customers, and he felt a bit guilty and…something else. Embarrassed? Reluctant? Caught-in-the-act?

 

Shaking his head to clear any daft thoughts, he renewed his efforts and forced himself to focus.

 

Alright, so there were only three of them lined up—Mrs. Wilkins, Mz. Atcheson, and Mr. Oda—and they seemed happy enough talking amongst themselves about Draco—they were shameless, really—but the way John saw it, it was a matter of principle. And pride.

 

In seven months, he'd never let a queue form because he was socializing. Clearly, this was Draco's fault. “You’re holding up the queue. Again. ”

 

Draco sighed, almost disappointed it seemed. “Yes, yes, dear John hasn’t got time for little old me, I understand. Since you are bound to the iron-clad rule of no pumpkin spice ‘til Saturday...I’ll have my usual.”

 

“You don’t get to call it your usual if you’ve only ordered it once,” John objected, feeling petulant.

 

“And yet you still remember it,” Draco said with a knowing smile and a twinkle in his eye. Without another word, he placed the payment for his drink on the counter. Exact change in an annoying array of small coins—again with the coppers!—and floated away to sit in front of the fire like he owned the place, so John couldn't even scowl at him.

 

Shaking his head, John took the next customer’s order, smiling internally.

 

Just because Draco wasn't present didn't mean John couldn't get petty revenge, which he achieved by writing DO-REY-CO on the pompous git's paper cup.

 

It was a double insult for being a paper cup with a misspelled name, and John was satisfied to hear an enraged huff when Draco picked up his order.

 

The sphere of strangeness that surrounded John during his conversation with Draco had shattered, but John was unable to get back into the rote orbit of Cosmic Latte for the rest of the day, mind elsewhere.

 

Somehow, though, he couldn't find it in himself to be upset about it.

Notes:

There's a lot of thinking in this chapter, but there will be more talking in the future ^w^'

find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 2: How To Do the Right Thing™

Summary:

Draco struggles with the Categorical Imperative.

Draco sipped the once-again-perfect latte and brooded, once again, in front of the fire. It was the third time he'd been to Cosmic Latte in as many days, and he was no longer peeved about Potter.

 

He was worried.

 

And while Malfoys never worried, and certainly not about Gryffindors, these were extenuating circumstances. As unlikely as it was, Draco had found the Boy-Who-Lived. Only said Boy (well, man) had completely forgotten everything about himself. A brief Legilimens spell had all but confirmed it. Draco shouldn't have even been able to perform the spell on Potter; Draco knew through quasi-legal snooping that Occlumency lessons were required in first-year Auror training, and as Potter was a fully fledged Auror now, occluding his mind should have been second nature to him.

 

If he were, as Draco had assumed, feigning ignorance, Potter would have put up resistance. But there was none. Nor was there anything to occlude, which was the more worrying detail, Draco supposed.

 

He'd been counting on that resistance, hadn't really intended to read Potter's mind. No matter how many times he might have wished to have a clue about what was going through that puzzling mind of Potter's, after his experience with Death Eaters and their Lord, he'd changed his opinion of mind-reading from 'Useful Trick' to 'Invasion of Privacy'. He'd only attempted it to show Potter he could do it if he wanted to; that Draco was on to him; that the jig was up.

 

But it had been easy, and that alone was proof enough that something was very wrong. Breaking past barriers was one thing; understanding what you saw was another. And beyond Potter's non-existent mental blockade…there was nothing. No memories of Hogwarts, of magic, of Potter’s life. It was a large chamber full of nothing but average thoughts of a muggle.

 

With one glaring exception, that is: a gaping chasm between what he knew now and what he used to know. At least, that's what logic indicated it was. Potter himself (or was it John, now?) was likely unaware of it. To Draco, it appeared as a mass of thoughts behind a shimmering veil. The veil looked like a cross between a patronus and a disillusionment spell, with the added delight that it shivered and writhed. Rather, whatever it was concealing was convulsing like a terrible beast caught in a trap, trying to escape.

 

If Draco had to venture a guess, he'd say it was Potter's memories. If they were so violent about getting free, perhaps it was better they were contained. Or perhaps they were desperate for release because they were chained up. That certainly seemed like the kind of reaction Potter would have to the involuntary theft of his thoughts.

 

This wriggling ball of thought was just beyond reach—all the better, for now—beyond a ravine cut ragged in the fabric of Potter's mind. Draco hadn’t been able to get past the chasm, and assumed that Potter couldn't either.

 

Even so, Draco's accidental but cursory exploration of Potter’s mind suggested all Potter's memories were all still there, just…blocked. Separate. Suppressed. It stank of an obliviation spell, and yet there was something dark about it. Unnatural, even by magical standards.

 

Fortunately, it didn't seem all hope—or Potter's memories—were lost. For Potter's surface thoughts about Draco were on the accessible side of the chasm, both fully formed ideas as well as subconscious impressions. It seemed Draco hadn't imagined it when he saw a flicker of recognition in Potter's eyes; they were faint, but the presence of nagging thoughts like ‘why is this person so familiar?’ and ‘what if he’s right about me?’ was undeniable. Draco hoped these intuitions that could be a bridge to Potter's memories—and that Draco was far away when those violent thoughts broke free.

 

In any case, it was clear that Draco meant something to this version of not-quite Harry Potter. Draco didn’t know whether to feel flattered or disturbed that while Potter had forgotten himself and his friends; had forgotten all about magic, the war, his part in it; had forgotten that he was one of the most powerful wizards in the UK—if not the world; he still remembered something about Draco Malfoy. That 'something' might have only been the vague sense that Draco didn't fit into the context of Gleyma, but Potter remembered.

 

How strange, that Harry Potter's own name couldn't break through the fog of amnesia, but Draco Malfoy's did. It was chilling, frightful, and intoxicating.

 

In the twenty-four hours since Draco's discovery of the truth of Potter's mental status, he hadn't made much progress. At first, he hadn't known what to make of Potter’s apparent memory loss, nor what to do about it. He still hadn’t been sure what to do about it as he drank his latte, nor later that night when he returned to his tent and made an instant meal for dinner. The tasteless food hadn’t improved his thinking abilities, and he decided he’d sleep on it. Surely in the morning he’d come up with some kind of action plan.

 

Morning came, but action plans did not. Draco had plenty of thoughts on his discovery of an amnesiac Harry Potter in the middle of nowhere, but none of those thoughts helped him decide what to do.

 

Not for the first time he realized what a terrible responsibility it was to hold Potter’s fate in his hands. The first time had been a simple choice in the end. Not easy, but obvious; Potter would defeat the Dark Lord and free them all, if only Draco gave him the chance to escape. He'd believed in Potter’s power then, and lied to protect. Mostly his own interests, yes, but Potter as well…as a means to that end. He later learned his mother did the same thing, only a short time thereafter. From Potter, no less.

 

Apparently, lying to the Dark Lord came from the Black side of the Family.

 

But now Draco was presented with a choice yet again, and this time the choice was neither simple or obvious. Once wasn't enough, apparently, and fate saw fit to test him yet again. Perhaps the first time he got off easy because he hadn't had long to think about it. Perhaps it hadn't truly been a test of his mettle because it was a lie of omission, of doing nothing, rather than acting. Keeping his mouth shut was a skill he learned during the war, and it had saved him, his family. And Potter. Maybe that was the reason he was being put through this again; the first time had been a test of his pride. A test of whether he would allow himself to trust Potter to save them. He'd passed that test, but this current test was not a test of silence, but of action.

 

Would he act, or would he stay silent?

 

The results of this test affected one person and one person only: Potter. It required Draco had to choose between action and inaction. And in spite of the fact that he was perhaps the worst equipped person to do so, Draco had to decide what to do about finding Potter here. The only point of similarity was that it had to do with Draco identifying Potter where others could not.

 

It wouldn't have been a dilemma for him the past. "Good riddance," he would have said. Gleefully, perhaps. No, definitely with glee and spite, with a touch of malice for good measure. But now it deeply troubled him, because he couldn't turn a blind eye; he had to do something. Was this how Gryffindors felt all the time? How awful.

 

It surprised him to discover that he wanted to make the right choice. Not just the one that was best for him personally, but objectively. He wouldn't say he was grateful for the opportunity to prove himself; that would be mental. But Draco intended to be an Auror, and after months—years!—of training to think about morality and striving for the moral choice, this was the chance to show the world he'd learned something.

 

Or, at least, the chance to show himself  he'd learned something.

 

Anyone could do the right thing; even if they didn't want to, one could easily do the right thing for the wrong reasons. Draco's father certainly had. And after great reflection the past two days…or perhaps longer, Draco realized he didn't want to be like his father, not in that way.

 

He wanted to do the right thing for the right reasons. And not just because he wanted to be an auror. Just…because. Maybe this was why Gryffindors were so adamant about doing good. This feeling. Determination. Duty. Pride.

 

It was a funny, foreign feeling to Draco, but he was undeniably proud of himself, his progress. It wasn't the false pride he got from things his father could buy. It was the kind of pride that could only be won. All those years of trying to reform himself had finally—truly!—come to fruition.

 

On the other hand…reality was quite different from the hypothetical "morality training" he'd undergone. Wanting to do the right thing and knowing what the right thing was were, unfortunately, not the same thing.

 

In his "moral puzzle" book, the moral problems always came with two-to-six options. The instructions never differed: decide what you would do in this fake situation, and we'll tell you whether it was the right choice. But this was no book, and there were no options presented to him. So he had to figure it out himself.

 

It came down to this: did he alert the authorities—or at least Potter’s ‘cohorts’?—that he, Draco Malfoy, had found the Chosen One? Or did he let Potter continue in his peaceful oblivion?

 

Telling someone was the obvious choice, but perhaps it was too obvious. The books often had a choice that seemed right, but weren't quite. For example: You find a sack of gold on the street; what do you do with it? Draco had learned through trial and error that 'using the gold to buy presents for your loved ones' was not the right answer. It seemed very moral and loving to Draco; but the right answer had been "turn it in to the authorities". It did not account for possibilities like "the authorities will use the gold themselves because they are corrupt". Reality was more complex than puzzle books, after all.

 

Based on the things Potter had said, it seemed likely that Draco wasn't the first one to identify him as Harry Potter. If Potter was the proverbial abandoned sack of gold, that should mean he ought to hand him over to the authorities, but…Potter wasn't gold, even if he was a Golden Boy. Sacks of Gold didn't have wills of their own. Potter did. His puzzle book hadn't prepared him with dilemmas such as "everyone else sees the bag of gold and ignores it" or "everyone sees the bag of gold, but the bag of gold convinces them that it isn't a bag of gold". Was he wrong for not believing the sack of gold? No, he'd only gone and opened up the sack of gold against its will and emptied its contents, revealing that yes, it is indeed a sack of gold, trust a Malfoy to know.

 

…this metaphor had gotten off the rails, but the questions it raised still stood. Questions such as: Had the others not felt compelled to report that they'd found Harry Potter? Had they reported it and nothing came of it? Or had they decided that the barista working at Cosmic Latte wasn't Harry Potter after all?

 

It didn't seem likely they wouldn't report it, if for no other reason than bragging rights. Who wouldn't want to be the one who rescued The Boy Who Lived? Potter didn't have to be doing anything interesting for the press to find him worth covering. Potter buys socks, see story on page 11. Potter seen visiting Quality Quidditch Supplies, is he thinking of joining the professionals? See story on page 2. Potter breathes, just like the rest of us! See story below the fold!

 

Finding Harry Potter working at a Muggle Cafe in a remote coastal town was definitely interesting. The Prophet would have frothed at the mouth for a chance to run that story. And if someone reported it to the Ministry, the Prophet would know before the last word left the informant's lips. Discussions of the scandal would run for weeks; no amount of bribery could convince them not to run such a juicy tale. Such a story probably would create a mass influx of wizarding tourists to the gloomy coastal town; Draco could see it now.

 

And yet no such story had been run, and no such spikes in tourism had been launched in Gleyma. In Conclusion: the Prophet didn't know, and neither did the Ministry.

 

No one knew Potter was here, except for Draco.

 

That was a point Draco kept coming back to: Potter had finally found peace, a place where no one would find him. Would he want to hold on to that peace, even if it meant losing himself? Draco couldn't be sure. Because as long as he'd known Potter, as much as he knew about him, Draco didn't know Potter. He couldn't even begin to imagine what Potter would want. Surely this kind of thing ought to have been in his "Moral Dilemma" Puzzle Book, but it hadn't been. He was in uncharted waters.

 

Would Potter resent Draco for violating his privacy? For violating this island of peace he'd found? More importantly, why did Draco care if Potter felt disrespected? 

 

At Hogwarts, Draco had always assumed Potter liked the attention he got. Potter was a show off and never shied away from the spotlight. But age had given Draco some perspective, and Potter’s unconcealed disdain towards the press had planted the idea that, just maybe, Potter was not as fond of the limelight as Draco had believed him to be.

 

The fact that Potter had refused every interview for the past decade (save for the one) spoke volumes. The public still didn’t know how exactly Potter had defeated the Dark Lord. He wouldn’t talk about it, and when pressed for details, all he would say was: “It was Magic.” Then he'd laugh darkly, like it was all a grand joke, and disappear into his apparently untrackable house.

 

Draco had never consciously acknowledged the fact that Potter was a private person. Not until now, when he was faced with potentially violating that privacy when Potter was most vulnerable. It felt cheap, somehow, to set the press on him by declaring ‘By the way, I’ve found Harry Potter. He was missing after all! The Minister lied!’. No matter what his many adversaries said about him, Draco had class.

 

So, that was one mark against telling anyone about his discovery.

 

On the other hand, it seemed more than possible that Potter was missing, and no one knew it. Ministry aside, Draco was certain Potter's posse wouldn't have left him here obliviated and alone, or whatever it was that was wrong with him. Granger and Weasley didn't let Potter do things alone (even if he wanted to be). Shacklebolt was loyal, as well, from what Draco gathered. So it was not only quite possible but almost certainly definite that Granger, Weasley, and the Minister didn't know about Potter being here. So, no matter what they said, Potter was technically a missing person. Draco had a duty to report sightings to someone, surely.

 

Superb.

 

Then again…even if the Minister didn't know, someone at the Ministry might. Maybe this was all a part of some greater plan, and Draco would only muck it up if he interfered.

 

And yet…the fact that Potter couldn't remember his own name rather detracted from the theory that he was on some secret Ministry mission. But if they knew, what was Potter still doing here? He couldn't be hiding here; this town was remote, yes, but Potter was on display in the most likely place for someone to discover him: the coffee shop. There were no other public places to go. Draco had checked. Not thoroughly, but if it were out there, it wasn't obvious.

 

So, what, then? Had they just decided to leave him here? Draco didn't want to consider that; he wanted to work for the Ministry. But if they were covering this up…what did that mean? He wasn't naive enough to fully trust the Ministry, of course, but he believed they were predictable when it came to Harry Potter. But if they weren't…

 

The thought that Ministry corruption was behind this was uncomfortable, but hardly unprecedented. A scandal could be dealt with; it was manageable. Preferable, even, if only because it was familiar.

 

Because unfortunately, if the Ministry hadn't put him here, the remaining options were grim. Had Potter been in an accident? Had he received a brain injury? Did he even still have his wand? Had he obliviated himself, intentionally or accidentally? Or worst of all: had someone else erased Potter's memories? Potter was one of the best aurors. No one got the drop on him, pretty much ever…or so Draco heard.

 

Maybe it wasn't a nefarious story, but a sad one. Maybe the Ministry failed to launch a manhunt for Potter due to some improbable and unfortunate series of circumstances. Potter taking a leave of absence and somehow getting obliviated after the fact would be the kind of ridiculous thing he often got tangled up in.

 

Draco shuddered. He wasn’t sure what was worse: the idea that Potter had done this to himself, or the idea that something sinister was afoot. A plan to harm the Saviour of the Wizarding World boded ill for all of Wizard Society.

 

So, if not for Potter's sake, perhaps he ought to tell someone for the sake of all Wizard-kind.

 

He sighed and shook his head. This was why he'd never attempted to be moral in the past; too many questions, too many possibilities, too many unknowns. If morality were black and white, he'd have aced it already. The more he learned about it, the more he realized it was all just…grey. How dreadful.

 

Draco was interrupted from his fretful pondering by the sound of Potter’s voice. He sounded annoyed about something—a tone of voice Draco knew well—and Draco was eager for a distraction.

 

He looked over his shoulder and surveyed the scene.

 

Potter was conversing with a young man, a twenty-something. Younger than Potter, if Draco had to guess. He had wavy, sandy blonde hair, was of average height, and presumably had eyes—eyes he was making at Potter, if Potter’s expression were any indication. The lad was leaning suggestively over the counter, and Potter was leaning back as much as he could without being impolite. Draco was sure he’d seen the blonde here both days since he arrived in Gleyma. It was nice to be sure about something, for once. He wondered if this harrassment was a daily occurence.

 

It hadn't occurred to Draco to listen in on the conversation before. The conversations were always short, and he'd been rather distracted on Tuesday and Wednesday with Moral Questions. But it was a welcome diversion now, so he observed.

 

“I’m sorry, Cyril, but I’m busy tonight,” Potter said with a sigh.

 

“With what?” the inferior blonde pouted. "You're always busy."

 

“I have...stuff to do,” Potter said intelligently. “And things, too.”

 

That had to be the lamest excuse Draco had ever heard. Was Potter even trying?

 

When the poor bloke responded, “What kind of stuff and things?” Draco decided Potter probably wasn’t trying all that hard. What would be the point? The lad—Cyril, was it?—couldn’t take a hint if it had been written on Potter’s face in indelible ink.

 

Draco had half a mind to go rescue Potter from the oblivious menace, but it wasn’t really his place. And besides, it was only an excuse. 'Saving Potter' from Cyril was more appealing than making decisions about Potter’s future or researching potions ingredients.

 

A little voice told Draco that even if he did go over to speak to Potter, he'd just be replacing one blonde menace with another: himself.

 

Draco suppressed a frustrated groan and turned away from the pathetic scene playing out in the coffee shop. The little voice was right, but why did it only speak to him in times like this? Why was it was so easy for Draco to read Potter in times like this, but so impossible every other time? If that little voice were his conscience, why couldn't it make itself useful?

 

Draco had never really understood Potter. At every turn, he’d said the wrong thing, done the wrong thing, never been able to get what he wanted from the infuriating existence that was Harry Potter. Why did fate insist on thrusting them together like this time and time again?

 

That train of thought lead back to even more difficult considerations: Potter’s wishes. While Draco couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose to live as a muggle, he’d seen that Potter seemed content here. Perhaps not completely happy—how could an amnesiac be?—but…at peace. Harry Potter was always off chasing one dark wizard or another. The only darkness to chase here seemed to be different roasts of coffee.

 

Potter's life here was simple, from what Draco could tell, but he was free to just be. He didn’t remember his old friends, so he couldn’t wish for them. Perhaps he wondered about his former life, but one couldn't miss what one didn't know. But if Draco alerted the Ministry to Potter’s whereabouts, they would swoop in and restore his memories and the responsibilities that went with them. Whether he liked it or not.

 

Did that count as another mark towards saying nothing, doing nothing?

 

Draco owed Potter a life debt. Several, perhaps. But would bringing Harry Potter back from the brink of oblivion repay a life debt, or merely kill the life of John Doe?

 

Undoubtedly, it would win him favour with the Ministry if he found Potter. It might even be just what he needed to get them to reconsider his auror application. It would say ‘see? I can do good.’ But was it selfish to consider his own wishes over Potter’s? It’s not as though he knew Potter’s wishes, so he couldn’t very well respect them, could he?  Did the fact that he stood so much to gain from it negate the goodness of the deed?

 

And this was where he always got stuck. Doing the right thing for the right reasons was…one of those things you read about in a philosophy book. But how did you know?  Gryffindors seemed to know. Did they get extra courses on it or something?

 

It would have been ideal if it were merely a decision between two choices. But no, Draco couldn't have neat options like that. It was a veritable decision tree fraught with unknowns. But he could do this, couldn't he? One step at a time. First: decide whether or not to tell anyone. That was a can of worms all on its own, but he supposed he'd be diving right in, wouldn't he?

 

Then, if he managed to work his way through that decision—a doubtful prospect at this point—his next decision was: if I tell anyone, who do I tell?  Who could he trust? And, more to the point, who would trust him if he claimed to have found an obliviated Harry Potter in Exmoor?

 

He wasn't sure he'd believe Draco Malfoy making such a claim. Why would anyone else?

 

That small voice whispered, you can tell the ministry anonymously ...then you stand nothing to gain from doing it, except to help. And oh, that stung. Perhaps Draco was still unlearning his selfish tendencies, not as far along on the reform programme as he'd hoped.

 

He’d thought about it many times in the past two days since seeing Potter: he hadn’t cared about Potter disappearing. Hadn’t cared then, and maybe didn’t care now. A good deed done for the wrong reasons might be worse than a bad deed done for the right reasons…

 

He barely registered the “Maybe tomorrow, then,” as Cyril left, sounding disappointed but not disheartened. He seemed to genuinely believe he’d have better luck tomorrow. Poor fellow.

 

If only all things could be so clear to him. This was really all too much for Draco, he decided, sipping his latte. He hadn't asked for this moral puzzle. He’d only come to Exmoor looking for a rare potion ingredient. It grew only on a short stretch of the sea cliffs along the Bristol Channel. He wanted to collect his samples, do his tests, and go home. He didn’t want to be having this ethics debate with himself.

 

One always lost when one fought oneself; Draco had found this to be true for him especially.

 

So caught up was he in his troubles that he didn’t notice until a throat was being cleared in his general vicinity that there was someone in his general vicinity. “Excuse me, Draco, but as we’re closing now, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

“You’re…closing?” Draco’s mind was reeling, in part because Malfoys didn't allow anyone to sneak up on them, much less baristas. The other part was because Not-Quite-Potter was right there, standing over him with that reproachful expression from days gone by.

 

It seemed the interaction with Cyril had put Potter in a bad mood, and who could blame him? Especially if that kind of thing happened often, which Draco would guess it did, based on Potter’s apparent resigned acceptance of the ordeal.

 

Still, Draco had to admit ‘vexed’ was a good look on Potter. The word ‘smoldering’ came to him as he stared back at Potter's quelling glare. And just as they used to, those piercing emerald eyes ensnared him.

 

He didn't know how long he'd been staring when the owner of said eyes coughed meaningfully. “But it’s not even half-one," Draco objected, crashing back on this plane of reality where moral dilemmas and coffee shops closing early awaited him.

 

"Glad to see you can read the time," Potter said.

 

Reality was unpleasant.

 

"The sign says you're open until…” he peered over his shoulder, finding he had quite forgotten what it said, but surely it was open later than one.

 

“The sign says we’re open til we’re closed.” Potter supplied, blasé. “I’ve just been informed my replacement isn’t coming. We can’t very well serve coffee if there’s no one here to serve it, can we?”

 

“You’re here,” Draco observed. Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Not-Potter’s definitely Not-Beautiful eyes narrowed in disdain.

 

“Yes, and I’ve been here since we opened at 7. My shift is over, and my replacement is elsewhere, so the shop. is. closed .”

 

“I’ve also been here since 7,” Draco said sullenly.

 

Potter looked genuinely bewildered by that, like he hadn't realized until just that moment that yes, Draco had been here all day. “Why?" he sputtered.

 

Draco could have mentioned that he didn’t exactly have anywhere else to go, but thought better of it. “I have work to do,” he said defensively. And truthfully. Besides coffee, he'd come here intending to get some research done. At least, that had been the plan before Potter derailed his plans (as Potter was wont to do) by existing in a place where Draco could see him. And thus be forced to think about him.

 

But he couldn't even attempt to work while watching Potter patter around being Not-Potter if the coffee shop were closed.

 

Potter scoffed. “Does your work require you to stare aimlessly at the fire all day?”

 

Ah. So he had been watching Draco, then. “Maybe it does,” he replied in kind. “Or maybe it’s very intellectual, heady stuff.”

 

“Oh? It’s ‘heady’, is it?” Potter said with a suggestive smirk.

 

Draco felt himself flush, realizing what he’d said. “That’s not!” he tried, hotly, but there really was no defense.

 

But he saw an opportunity, and he took it. "I was considering a moral dilemma, in fact." Potter had always been better at ethics, and Draco could only hope that amnesia hadn't taken that away from him as well.

 

"Oh?" Potter responded with an amused quirk of the eyebrow.

 

"Yes. I've been pondering…if you had to make a life changing decision for someone else, what would you do?"

 

Potter considered that for a while. "That's a bit broad…it would depend on who the person was, and the decision as well. Do I know them? Are they good, or evil? Will the decision affect them negatively?"

 

You see? Draco thought. He's already better at this. "Let's say you don't know them well, but you think they're a good person. The decision has the potential to affect them negatively, but not acting might have the same effect."

 

"Hmm," Potter said thoughtfully. "Well, is there a time restriction?"

 

Draco didn't see how it was relevant, but he'd started this charade, so he'd have to go with it. "No, I don't suppose there is."

 

"So their life isn't hanging in the balance."

 

"Not as such, no." Just their happiness and well-being.

 

"Can you ask them their opinion on the matter?"

 

"Let's say you can't." Other than the fact that Draco was doing that right now.

 

Potter frowned slightly, pinching his lip between his thumb and forefinger. "But you can talk to them, yes?"

 

Draco suppressed a sigh and nodded. "I suppose that would be allowed, yes."

 

" In that case, it's easy," Potter said with a small smile, as though it were. "I'd get to know them, and then I'd decide."

 

Was it really that simple? Just…get to know Potter? He'd certainly never tried that approach before. The thought hadn't even occurred to him. But Potter had all but said that's what he'd prefer, hadn't he?

 

The problem was, how did one go about getting to know someone you couldn't bribe or impress? That's where they'd failed in the past, surely…

 

Fortunately, Potter rescued him. “Well, now that that's settled! You might be content to sit here navel-gazing, but I, for one, am quite ready to leave.”

 

“Rushing off to do stuff and things, are you?” he said before he could stop himself. He'd meant for it to come off as friendly, but…yes, that was definitely the wrong thing to say. Something about Potter always brought out his need to be contrary.

 

This was going to be difficult, wasn't it? Why was doing the right thing always more difficult? Maybe that was why he'd never done it before.

 

Potter stared at him for a while, expression unreadable, before replying, “You were listening in, you wanker.” He didn't sound angry, exactly. He was laughing now, but it seemed equal parts amused and incredulous.

 

“Not like I wanted to,” Draco sniffed, hoping to cover up his embarrassment at his inadvertent admission. “Your voice carries, is all.”

 

"Sure it does," Potter said, infuriatingly understanding.

 

Draco paused a moment then, deciding to be bold, added, “You should try the direct approach. He’s denser than mud.”

 

“I think you’ll find it’s none of your business." Potter scowled, but it didn't seem directed at Draco, since he continued, “He doesn’t hear a word he doesn’t find agreeable. I could insult his mother six ways to Sunday and he’d take it as an admission that I wanted to meet her.”

 

For someone claiming it was none of Draco’s business, he sure was chatty. "Do you? Want to meet her, that is."

 

Potter sent Draco a quelling glare that was so reminiscent of their Hogwarts days Draco almost found it nostalgic.

 

Almost.

 

So he returned to the matter at hand: Cosmic Latte closing early. “Can’t you...contact someone else? To replace you?” Draco pressed, not quite ready to give in.

 

"In general or today?" The barista chuckled at his own apparent joke, though Draco fails to see the humour. “Who shall I call, then? This isn’t London. There’s me, Queenie, the Old Man, and Murph. Queenie can’t make a cup of coffee to save her life, The Old Man is...well, old . And Murph is supposed to be here, and he isn’t, hence the reason we’re closing. Now, if it’s really important for your work to stare at the fire, maybe Murph’ll show up later and re-open the shop. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

 

Recognizing that he’d lost this particular battle, Draco stood up, heaving a sigh. “It’s not a very good business model, is it?” Draco grumbled, packing up his neglected papers and books.

 

Not-Potter seemed Not-Bothered by Draco’s attitude. “Business is fine. It’s mostly locals, anyway, this time of year. Except for you,” he added with a pointed stare, as though to say Draco really ought to be moving along, now.

 

“Well then, where do locals go when Cosmic Latte is closed?” Draco asked, sweeping his area for any forgotten items. He had a feeling he already knew the answer. He'd searched the town for other businesses. There wasn't even a pub. Just a general store, a garden, and a haberdashery.

 

"You want to know our secret? Locals only?" Not-Potter also looked around carefully, as though searching for listeners, though they were quite alone. Apparently satisfied, he leaned in toward Draco and whispered, “We go home .”

 

Draco rolled his eyes and walked unhurriedly to the door. “Will you be open tomorrow, then?”

 

“If people show up for their shifts, yes.”

 

“Will you be working tomorrow?” Draco clarified, because really, that was what he'd wanted to know all along.

 

“One can never be too certain of anything,” came the response.

 

Draco realized vaguely that he was acting like a stalker, and perhaps was less different from Cyril than he cared to admit. But! he protested, he wasn't doing it because he was interested in Potter; he was trying to help, for pity's sake!

 

It wasn't a very convincing argument.

 

“No, I suppose not,” Draco mumbled miserably, stepping out the door. He was indeed the last customer, so at least it wasn’t a lie that they were closing. The click of the lock confirmed it.

 

Well, there was always tomorrow, wasn’t there? Tomorrow where he would try, somehow, to befriend Harry Potter, who wasn't exactly Harry Potter. Draco wasn't eleven anymore. He knew how to make friends all on his own now. In theory. Not that he'd tried, recently, but how hard could it be?

 

Especially if they didn't think of him as a war criminal.

 

———

 

'Tomorrow' came both too soon and not soon enough after a restless night dreaming about a rejected handshake and trying to give a lecture about morals to a sniggering Slytherin house. Snape had been there, looking disappointed. Dumbledore had also been there, looking very much like a ghost.

 

Draco woke up to a foggy dawn which quickly broke into a rainy morning, and already he felt the gloom sinking in. Fog always reminded him of Dementors, which in turn reminded him of Azkaban. Inevitably, thinking of Azkaban reminded him of his one and only trip there, when he'd visited his father there shortly before his sixth year.

 

His rage at the imprisonment of his father had blinded him to reason, made him accept the Dark Mark. He hadn't really wanted it, even when he tried to convince himself he did. He knew he'd have to take it no matter what—a punishment, an honor. And if he couldn't say no, at least he could pretend he wanted to say yes, couldn't he?

 

He fed his owl, Atlas, and tried to clear his mind of the negativity that always seemed to roll in with the fog. There are no dementors here, he told himself. No Dark Lord, no one who will judge you for the impossible choices you had to make .

 

No one but Draco himself, anyway.

 

Searching for potions ingredients in this weather was pointless, he convinced himself (it wasn't hard). His time would be much better spent at Cosmic Latte (he had one Harry Potter to get to know). There was coffee at Cosmic Latte (perfect lattes, and pastries, too). A comfortable couch (his spot on his couch). A roaring fire (like the Common Room, a safe place). He could do that research he’d put off since stumbling upon an amnesiac Potter rolled up in a moral dilemma.

 

When Draco stumbled in to the Coffee Shop at a quarter past seven, said Amnesiac Wizard was working, much to Draco’s delight and Potter’s disdain. Still, perhaps the disdain was feigned, if the almost fond eye-roll were anything to go by.

 

Draco definitely felt himself cheering up, and not just at the thought of annoying Potter. You're here to get to know him, Draco, not bother him.

 

Then again, he could always multitask. “Good morning, John!” he sang brightly. It felt unnatural to call him as such, but it was a necessary price for getting close.

 

“John” merely glowered at him. “Hello, Something Pompous.” Apparently, he’d dropped the remembered “Draco” and “Malfoy. Draco didn't mind; he'd never had a nickname before, other than 'Ferret' for a brief time in fourth year before he ended it with several strong, swiftly cast hexes.

 

He didn't think 'Death Eater Scum' or any variation thereof counted as a nickname.

 

“Not a morning person?” Draco asked, sidling up to the counter.

 

“Not a people person,” Potter grumbled.

 

Draco thought of the teeming masses who would gladly do anything for Potter—give him their first born, tattoo his name on their body, die for him. He might not be a people person—Draco wasn't sure, yet—but he certainly was a person for the people.

 

Still, this whole 'getting to know Potter' lark would only work if he tried his best to forget his preconceived notions about the Boy Wonder. (Which probably included the necessity that he stop using those monikers, no matter how funny he thought they were).

 

“You don’t say,” Draco responded warmly. “In that case, I suppose I’m lucky you decided to show up for your shift.” Even if he wasn’t sure what he should do with his knowledge of “John Doe’s” real identity, this banter with Potter was as entertaining as it’d ever been. Better, even, since it lacked the venom of days past. It was almost friendly, Draco realized. He was enjoying this, and it should have been a shock, but somehow it just…wasn’t.

 

“You’d best not forget it.” Potter sighed, then continued, “Would you like to try our seasonal special today?” It looked like it physically pained him to say it; Draco could only imagine it was a requirement from the higher-ups. The aforementioned Old Man, perhaps? Surely Cosmic Latte wasn’t a corporate business.

 

“What is the season special?” asked Draco, though he had a fairly good feeling he could guess based on Potter's expression.

 

Potter did not disappoint. “…Pumpkin Spice Lattes,” he growled.

 

Delighted at this development, Draco continued, “But I thought you couldn’t serve it until Saturday?”

 

Closing his eyes as if to steal his patience, Potter answered, “Queenie says that since autumn weather has come early, so can autumn drinks. Personally, I think the bint just wanted to drink a PSL herself.”

 

“And who is this Queenie that she can dictate such things?” Draco asked with genuine curiosity. The ‘Queenie’ he knew was almost as likely to demand such a thing, but he sincerely doubted Daphne Greengrass was also in this town.

 

Potter had mentioned Queenie once before, but it hadn’t registered as a name to know until now. Someone important to Potter, perhaps? He had broken the rules for her, though the Potter Draco knew didn’t care for following rules, anyway. Unless to spite me, Draco thought with more amusement than bitterness. Today was full of all kinds of surprising revelations.

 

Potter grimaced. “Queenie is my boss.”

 

Ah. That explains it, then. “Is that any way to talk about your boss?” Draco asked with what he hoped was a disarming smile. “It’d be bad if you lost your job.”

 

“She’ll never fire me so long as she remains incapable of making a cuppa to save her life." He shuddered lightly, perhaps at some remembered concoction of hers he'd been forced to drink. "Even if she could, she’ll never work first shift. The Old Man can barely work, and Murph is as dependable as a toilet roll in a downpour, bless him. So my job is quite secure, you see.”

 

Draco felt a momentary pang of sympathy for Potter, being tied to this place, but decided he was better off not pursuing that angle for now. After all, Draco might be instrumental in un-tying Potter from his obligation to Cosmic Latte.

 

But he wasn't going to think about morality before coffee. “I’d love a Pumpkin Spice Latte. Whole milk. Double-shot.” Glancing around, he saw that there were most definitely porcelain cups available. “And I’d like it in that green cup, if you please.”

 

Shaking his head and muttering 'what did I expect?', Potter wrote the order down on a slip of paper using that fascinating writing instrument. Draco slid over the payment—not in small coins this time, since he’d used them all up the previous days. He was surprised when 25 pence was given back. Draco raised an eyebrow, prompting Potter to say, “You get a discount for choosing green options.”

 

“For choosing the Green cup?” were his Slytherin loyalties finally paying off?

 

“For choosing renewable options,” Potter elaborated, as though that explained it.

 

Rather than admit he had no idea what Potter was on about, Draco merely nodded and pocketed the change. “Am I to take it you have been overcharging me for my lattes, then?”

 

“I wouldn’t know, all my lattes are free. Perk of the job.” Potter smiled devilishly. “My personal take? All lattes are overpriced.”

 

“Even free ones?”

 

“This is no free lunch, Draco,” Potter said sagely. “I have to work here from 7 am to noon, six days a week. My lattes damn well better be free.”

 

“If you say so, Pot–... John. ” Draco cursed internally, but smiled to cover his slip up. He turned around and glided over to what he had come to think of as his spot on the sofa and settled in for the day.

 

Getting to know Potter wasn't going to work if he called him Potter. "John" had made it clear he didn't like being mistaken for Harry Potter, though why it bothered him was a mystery to Draco. He thought if he woke up with no idea who he was, and several someones waltzed in and called him as 'Draco Malfoy', he'd take that as solid evidence that his name was Draco Malfoy.

 

In fact, this bore further investigation. Why hadn't it occurred to him before? Investigation was an auror skill, was it not? And if he were going to get to know Potter anyway, perhaps he could find out about how he'd ended up in this situation.

 

Feeling better about having a more definite goal than 'befriend Harry Potter', Draco took out all his notes and was immediately absorbed. So immersed was he that he hardly heard the call for “One appropriately priced Season Special for Mr. Pompous.”

 

He vaguely registered similar calls made over the next couple minutes, but it never made it to the part of his mind where he decided he needed to do something about it.

 

So he startled when the green cup was placed unceremoniously on the table in front of him. “We don’t do table service here.” Draco looked up into a pair of glowering eyes. Don't get enchanted, Draco. Focus.

 

Smiling pleasantly, Draco gestured to the cup before him. “Evidence points to the contrary."

 

Potter rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want a perfectly good latte to go to waste. You seem the type that’d insist I remake it because it got cold due to your own negligence.”

 

Draco would have been offended, but it was true; he would have insisted. Still, he felt it was rude to point out. “What do you mean, ‘I seem the type’?”

 

“Well, look at you, all…ensconced in…historical artifacts.” He frowned, taking a closer look at Draco’s scrolls. “Should you really just be carrying those around?”

 

“My…notes?” Draco questioned.

 

“Here I thought you were a philosopher or something," he muttered under his breath. "Those are scrolls, aren’t they? They belong in museums, not coffee shops.” Draco remembered then that while his notes were glamoured to look like notebooks to a muggle, anyone with magical heritage would see them for what they were.

 

Draco didn't think this was the time to explain that to Potter, though. “Do they really? Belong in Museums, that is?”

 

“Precious historical documents usually do.”

 

Once again Draco was confronted with how little he knew about muggle customs, in spite of his year-long course on them. He was vaguely aware they did not use parchment anymore, but he didn’t think the fact that he did would be so conspicuous. “They certainly are precious, but they’re not historical by any means,” Draco sniffed. “Let’s chalk it up to aesthetic differences.”

 

Potter rolled his eyes again and stomped back to the register. A quick glance revealed there was nothing really to do back there, though. He was cleaning already clean surfaces and checking inventory, but the place hadn’t even been open half an hour.

 

Amusing as it was, Draco really did have work to get done. He was almost too engrossed to notice that Potter’s Pumpkin Spiced Latte was just as good as the vanilla ones. Damn him, he really is good at everything, isn't he?

 

As Potter went about his job, he checked in on Draco with semi-regular intervals. Normally it annoyed Draco to be interrupted, but he was glad for a distraction today. After all, it worked in his favour, if it helped him get to know Potter. “So…are you some kind of professor or something?” Potter asked nonchalantly as he swept the floor around Draco’s sofa.

 

“Or something,” Draco hummed, still under the pretense of doing work. Draco knew from experience that if he pulled back and seemed less interested in Potter now, Potter would be drawn in instead. Nothing nettled quite like losing the attention of someone you’d previously captivated.

 

Potter left for a while, to restock sugars that were hardly depleted and cream that was surely still full. Nettled, indeed.

 

When he came back five minutes later to resume "sweeping", he asked, “What brings you to Gleyma, then? Or rather, what keeps you here?”

 

“Research,” Draco said with a negligent hand wave, frowning at one of his documents to stop a grin at his success.The Dangers of Disguising Dragon Blood didn't sound promising for his research, but he would need to read it eventually. Preferably somewhere Potter couldn't see it and question it too much.

 

“Research?” Potter repeated, halting his sweeping. “What’s there to research here?”

 

“Plenty, for the right kind of person.” Draco unrolled the next scroll. Ineffective or Inconclusive? Inconveniences Conjured through Concealment, a treatise. Another theoretical essay, then.

 

Potter threw more logs on the fire that was already roaring. "I suppose it is a good place to contemplate the void and other philosophical…contemplations." 

 

"What makes you say that?" Draco replied noncommittally. If you Never Try, You'll Never Know! The Humorously Posthumous Publishings of Potioneers Who Shouldn't Have. Really. Draco grimaced. Blaise must have hidden that in his bag as a joke, surely. Or perhaps it was Longbottom, in an ill-advised attempt at helping.

 

Potter looked away from the grate he was wrestling into submission to face Draco. Draco looked up and suppressed a snort; Potter had soot on his nose. "If you weren't so busy glaring at the fire, looking for moral answers, maybe you'd've noticed: people don’t normally stay here, if they can help it.” 

 

Grate securely in place, Potter glanced around, searching for something to do. It seemed he was working up to say something, so Draco let him. As it turned out, the Humorously Posthumous Publishings were quite entertaining and informative, both.

 

Finally, Potter asked, "Where are you staying, by the way?"

 

It was a fair question; there were no inns or hotels or even a B&B in Gleyma, not that Draco would have used them had they been an option.

 

But Draco, for all intents and purposes, had to treat this Potter like a muggle, for now at least. He pretended to make some notes and said, “A tent.”

 

It was a simple answer, and it was true, even if it weren't a normal tent. It should have been a more than satisfactory response. But he could hear the frown in Potter's voice as he replied, "You don't look like the camping type."

 

Draco turned his gaze on Potter, carefully neutral. "Looks can be deceiving."

 

"Yeah, and so can you."

 

Draco tried to remind himself that Potter had always, somehow, known when a plot was afoot, and that he had every reason to be suspicious of Draco. Whether it was now or at Hogwarts, it seemed. Or maybe he was just annoyed that he'd failed to secure Draco's full attention. Still, it baffled Draco why someone would treat the matter of camping with such wariness.

 

"What if I told you I have a magical traveling home that only looks like a tent from the outside, but actually contains a beautifully appointed bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom?"

 

"I'd say you have a fanciful way of describing a caravan," Potter said dryly, wiping his nose and failing to remove the soot.

 

Potter seemed to think Draco was taking the piss, since he wandered off toward the counter again. Apparently, Potter still didn’t feel the need to fight for attention that wasn’t willingly given. How could Draco have forgotten? It’d caused him more than enough grief in his life.

 

Before he could feel too sorry for himself, however, the bell above the door jingled, and a group of five ladies walked in gossiping loudly. Much to Draco's and only Draco's surprise, Potter already had their orders ready to go. They handed over their payment—though Potter had not told them the price—and fetched their drinks. "Excellent service as always, Mr. Doe," the shortest of the women said, taking her hot chocolate.

 

So his full name here was John Doe? Strange.

 

"I live to serve, Paloma," Potter replied in kind, providing them with a bow and a dashing smile. "Literally."

 

The women laughed, delighted, and said they'd be back next week, same time, same drinks.

 

"I know," Potter called after them, cleaning up his station.

 

So. Draco was just being self-centered as usual, thinking everything Potter did was in response to him. He just has a schedule, and you're the anomaly, Malfoy, the small voice in his head reprimanded him. Today, it sounded like Potter, curiously enough. Or not so curiously, perhaps.

 

Sighing to himself, he got back to work. Potter wasn’t going anywhere, so there was no rush to figure him out.

 

The day stretched on and the weather only worsened, and Potter left Draco alone, for the most part. At least, until noon, when Potter pulled up an armchair next to Draco and fixed him with a stare so intense Draco wanted to look away. As usual, he couldn’t.

 

Damn those captivating eyes.

 

Silence stretched between them, until at last Potter asked, “Who is Harry Potter?”

 

Whatever Draco had thought Potter would say, that certainly wasn’t it. “Why do you want to know?” Draco asked, unable to think of a pithy response.

 

Potter shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but coming off sheepish. “I’m curious. I’ve been mistaken for him enough times, I think I ought to know. No amount of searching for his name at the library or on the internet has given me any answers, and yet he seems to be some sort of celebrity.”

 

“Maybe you’re looking in the wrong libraries and internets,” Draco offered. He was certain that Harry Potter was not likely to be listed in any muggle archive.

 

Potter frowned. “There’s only one internet.”

 

Draco didn’t know what an internet was, and once again lamented the ineptitude of his "muggle studies" course.  But since he wasn’t going to admit that aloud, instead he said, “That’s just what they want you to think.”

 

Potter’s sigh was long suffering. “Can you just answer my question?” he paused, then added, "Please," as an afterthought.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be working right now?” Draco countered. “It’s not exactly a short answer.”

 

A calculating look crossed Potter's face. “I’m on break in 15 minutes. Tell me then.”

 

“Why should I?” Draco asked, feeling woefully unprepared for this conversation to be thrust upon him so suddenly.

 

“I’ll…buy you a latte?”

 

“Just a latte?" Draco scoffed. "My time is worth more than that, I'm afraid.” In reality, he thought a free latte sounded quite nice, actually.

 

Potter blinked innocently. “I told you they’re overpriced, so they’re clearly worth a lot.” 

 

“You also told me you get them for free. Do you actually intend to pay for this one, or am I to take it you think my time is worthless?”

 

Potter rolled his eyes. “Fine, a latte and a pastry.”

 

It certainly wasn’t the ritziest of bribes Draco had been offered, but the sheer hilarity of the fact that Potter was bribing Draco to tell him about himself more than made up for it. “Very well. You have yourself a deal, John.”

 

Potter nodded and went back to work, a small smile quirking his lips. It lacked the bitterness Draco had come to expect; it was just…happy. Perhaps relieved. Draco had never seen Potter make such an expression before, at least not in any matter where Draco was involved. It made his chest feel funny, but he wasn’t going to think too deeply about that.

 

He was far too distracted by thinking of what he’d tell Potter in 15 minutes. Or rather, what he wouldn't.

Notes:

hey wow, it's the second chapter! Very Draco centric. He's got a lot of Thoughts™ on Harry's situation. For the curious, know this will be a long fic (20+ chapters, probably). I've already got 140 pages written, but I edit each chapter heavily before I post, hopefully once every week or so.

Chapter 3: La Douleur Exquise

Summary:

Harry/John is very wrong about some things, and spot on with others.

In hindsight, asking Draco—a relative stranger—about Harry Potter—a total stranger—had not been the brightest of all John’s ideas. Maybe it hadn't been his worst idea, but it was definitely up there.

 

Why had he bothered asking, he’d later wonder. It was barmy and foolish, no matter how you sliced it, because what did it matter to John who Harry Potter was? But John with his damned curiosity had pressed on, because being mistaken for someone a few times was a good enough reason to throw caution to the wind. Apparently.

 

The attempt to coax information out of Draco hadn’t started badly. Draco had agreed to answer some questions about Harry Potter, after all. For the very reasonable price of a latte and a pastry, at that. And since Cosmic Latte employees did not have to pay for Cosmic Latte wares…well, Draco wasn't wrong about bad business models…but never mind that. The point was, it did not personally cost John anything to bribe the berk.

 

Or so he'd thought. John wanted answers, yes; what he hadn't quite considered was what it might cost him to learn the answers to his questions.

 

He didn’t know much about Draco, but John was willing to do whatever it took to butter him up. Draco seemed to like things sweet, and a caramel-vanilla latte seemed just the thing. He took both the latte and the accompanying pain au chocolat with cautious acceptance, but the sparkle in his eyes belied his approval. It was all deceptively encouraging, as beginnings went.

 

John watched Draco carefully as he sipped the latte and nibbled on the pastry, unhurried to start answering John’s questions. The noise of pleasure in his throat and the way he blissfully closed his eyes was…interesting. More than John cared to admit even to himself, in present company. Something to think on later, surely.

 

“What’s in this?” Draco asked, pointing to the latte.

 

“Caramel and Vanilla,” John responded, proud that only a hint of impatience leaked into his tone.

 

“You can put two flavors in?” John would’ve thought Draco was joking were it not for the look of wide-eyed wonder. He was reminded of the pen incident and wondered not for the first time just where Draco had come from.

 

“You can put in as many flavors as you like, at risk to health and taste.”

 

Draco considered this, eyes calculating the world of possibilities this new information presented. John was struck with a brief sense of what have I done? but quickly brushed it aside. He was here to get answers, not provide them. “Go on then, tell me. Who is Harry Potter?”

 

Draco nibbled some more on his pain au chocolat, taking his time to reply. “He was…well, is, many things. A man, A myth, A legend. He’s quite the character, he is.”

 

The non-answer was disappointing, but not surprising. Nothing was ever straightforward when it came to Harry Potter, in John's experience, limited though it was. That Draco wouldn't look John in the eye annoyed him more than Draco's evasiveness. It always gave John the impression people weren’t being honest, and as full of uncertainty as John's life was, honesty was something he'd come to value.

 

But he wasn't going to let a little prevarication stop his quest for knowledge. “A character? What, like from a storybook?”

 

“I imagine many books have been written about him,” Draco said, neatly avoiding an actual answer to the question. “But the stories one could tell about him fail to encapsulate his…essence .”

 

John knew books hadn’t been written about Harry Potter; he’d searched for them, and come up empty handed.

 

There was an odd tone to Draco’s voice as he described Harry Potter, like he didn’t really believe the things he was saying. A carefully practiced summary that someone else had written. “I don’t care about what ‘others’ say about him. Who is he to you?”

 

A smile quirked Draco’s lips, something about the question apparently amusing. “I don’t think you’d believe half the things I could tell you about him.”

 

“Try me.”

 

Draco took a sip of his latte, thinking. Stalling. Fidgeting. Was it really so difficult to talk about Harry Potter?

 

The first hints of doubt licked at the edge of John's mind.

 

John exhaled slowly, counting to ten. “Please, Draco. I just want some answers. It’s not like anything you can say about him will offend me."

 

Draco looked uncertain, but with a resigned sigh, put his latte down and turned toward John.

 

“Potter,” he said carefully, “is beloved by all, and can do no wrong. A Saint, by all accounts.”

 

“O…kay?” John said. This was not going at all how he thought it would. There was something so cautiously neutral that it was almost alarming. It certainly didn't match the masked bitterness of Draco's words. And though John had guessed that perhaps Draco wasn’t exactly a fan of Harry Potter, there was something deeper at play. “er…you don't mean literally, do you?” John wasn't religious by any means, but Saint Harry just didn't sound…right.

 

“Well, I always thought he was sanctimonious. But he's not so different from you or me. In fact, he'd probably hate to be called Saint Potter.” Draco chuckled, but there was little humour in the stiff way he held this shoulders and the tightness of his brow.

 

“Do you hate him?” It wasn’t exactly what John meant to ask, but the words had come out without his permission. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know, either, but he’d asked. 

 

“I used to," Draco said quietly, eyes narrowed. "Or, I thought I did. I didn’t know what hate was, and when I realized what it truly meant to hate someone, I realized I didn’t really hate Potter.”

 

"Oh," John said again, casting about for something intelligent to say. Inexplicably, John felt the need to lighten the mood. "Did he run over your cat or something?"

 

Draco gave a rueful smile, staring at his latte. "He certainly was no champion of mine."

 

John was coming to the realization that Harry Potter was more than just a casual acquaintance or celebrity to Draco; he knew him.

 

"Here I thought the worst thing Potter could be was a criminal or a terrorist, or something. But a sanctimonious cat killer? How dreadful.”

 

Surely making a joke at Harry Potter's expense would cheer Draco up. Draco might not hate Potter, but he clearly didn't like him. Unfortunately, it was at this point that failure had been imminent, though John hadn't realized it until after the fact. For things took a sharp turn for “pear shaped”, “downhill”, and any other quaint euphemism for "horribly disastrous" when Draco laughed and said, "He'd never actually kill a cat, but a madman…well. That's another story."

 

John blanched. He probably should have asked what Draco meant by that, but he'd been too concerned with what the hell Draco meant by that to come up a proper response. Other than a muted choking sound.

 

Draco didn't seem to notice, and had apparently decided to speak candidly about Harry Potter, after all. “Some called him a criminal once. Maybe even a terrorist. But he probably would have called himself a freedom fighter, or a truth bringer or…something equally sentimental and moralistic."

 

John's brain whirred at a hundred kilometers an hour, and yet it still wasn't quite fast enough to comprehend the implications of everything Draco wasn't saying.

 

Draco sighed to himself and gazed off into the middle distance. "What Potter is has never changed, even if people’s opinions of him have; he’s a hero. But before all that, Harry Potter is just…a person. A person given a set a shitty circumstances and told to do his best, or else. But a person nonetheless.”

 

The miserable way Draco said it, one wouldn’t have thought being a hero was a good thing. If John didn’t know better, though, he’d say the misery was inwardly directed.

 

“Of course he’s a person,” John scoffed, because he had to say something. Something that wasn't an admission of horror at the implication that Harry Potter was a criminal and possibly a murderer.

 

He didn't want to think about the fact being a person didn't cancel out being a criminal. Having a good cause didn't justify the things one might do in the name of justice.

 

Still, why should it matter to John if some people thought Harry Potter was a criminal? Unsettled though he was, he pressed on like the fool he was. “So was he…acquitted, then?"

 

"Hmm? Acquitted?” Draco frowned like those words didn’t make sense, but understanding won out. “Oh, yes, yes. He works for the government now."

 

That certainly did not make John feel better, though it was clear from Draco's expression that he certainly thought it would. 

 

"Nevermind who is was…er, is. I’m just curious why anyone would think I am him.”

 

Draco stared at him, as though the answer were obvious and John was a bit slow for not realizing it on his own. “Well, because you look just like him.” John must have failed to hide his dismay at the thought, because Draco added, “There are a few differences at closer observation, of course.”

 

John scooted closer to Draco, pinning him with an intense stare. “What differences?” Maybe he could find evidence to present in future instances of mistaken identity. It was an unappealing consideration, though whether it was the thought of future cases of being mistaken for Harry Potter or how pitiful it was that he was grasping at straws like this…well, better not to think too much about it.

 

Better to think about Draco, who had been silent for a while now, gears turning. Draco, who had observed John’s face for a touch too long for John's waning comfort. Draco, who seemed, inexplicably, trying to appease John's worries, even though John looked like Harry who Draco did not seem to like very much. Stranger things had happened. Probably. Maybe. But not today. “Well, your glasses are all wrong, to begin with,” Draco explained. He nodded once, apparently satisfied that he’d found an adequate difference.

 

John was anything but satisfied.

 

“Harry Potter wears glasses?” he said faintly, stomach lurching. John had gotten his glasses in town, when it was discovered upon waking from his coma that he desperately needed them. He’d always assumed that whatever had disrupted his memory had disrupted his vision as well. Now that he thought about it, he only accepted that because his nurse said it was probable, since he hadn’t been found with glasses on his person on the beach.

 

At that point, John hadn't realized how unreliable his nurse was. He was a registered caregiver; his medical advice had to be worth something, John had thought. It was for that reason he hadn't looked for 'glasses' as distinguishing features in missing persons reports.

 

In retrospect, that had been a foolish decision. Much like this ill-advised attempt to learn more about HP himself. The answers to his questions so far were doing delightful things to John's anxiety.

 

Ignorant of John’s inner turmoil, Draco continued, “Harry Potter also has a rather distinctive scar on his face.”

 

John almost reached for his forehead reflexively, but resisted. His visor was covering it, anyway, as he preferred. “Where?” he asked, and, “What does it look like?”

 

Draco inspected his fingernails with more interest than they deserved. “I never got a good look at it, to be honest…” a lie . “But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I don’t see it on you.” Never mind that he was studiously avoiding looking at John’s face now.

 

Draco took another sip of his latte; a displacement activity. “This really is quite good, you know. How long have you been a barista?”

 

Another evasion. Fantastic. And he still wasn’t looking at John. “Almost seven months,” John replied with a negligent hand wave. He was almost grateful for the change in subject, but his mind was too distracted to really latch onto the olive branch Draco tossed him.

 

The words criminal, terrorist, and freedom fighter coursed through his brain on repeat. All this time…and he looked like this supposed…person? Even if he'd been acquitted…what had he done in the first place? John wasn't sure he wanted to know, but it seemed like something he'd regret not asking.

 

“Draco,” John said once he got his act together. Draco made a disgruntled noise at being interrupted from his waxing poetic about lattes, but John hadn't been paying attention, anyway. “Why was Harry Potter considered a criminal? What did he do?”

 

The expression on Draco's face said he'd much rather go back to talking about lattes, thanks very much, but John held his gaze. Draco bit his lip, which was terribly distracting. John had to look away to focus on the response.

 

“All he did," Draco said quietly, "was tell the truth when the truth was an unpopular thing to say.”

 

“Oh.” Somehow, John sincerely doubted that was all there was to the story. “Is that all?” Surely something about killing a man, even a madman, had something to do with it?

 

He chanced a look back at Draco, who'd returned to worrying his lip, brow creased. “Did you think he was a criminal?” John pressed when Draco didn't respond.

 

“I knew he was telling the truth" Draco said, evading a real response. "But I thought he deserved whatever happened to him because of it.”

 

John was tempted—strongly—to ask 'why?' but had the distinct feeling Draco wouldn't answer that question. Instead he asked,“Did you change your mind?”

 

“I…yes. Eventually.” Draco winced, a miserable glint to his eye. “I told you he was a hero, didn’t I? He was on the winning side, and I…chose the wrong side. The losers.”

 

Ah. Perhaps that was why he didn’t like talking about Harry Potter, then. John sighed and tried not to feel guilty. Draco had been anything but forthcoming in his answers to John's questions, but if it was because it was a difficult topic for him…well. It wasn't like John could have known that, right? “If you didn’t want to talk about him, you could have just said so,” he grumbled.

 

Looking equal parts relieved and guilty, Draco finally met John’s gaze. “I don't mind, really, I’ve just…never had to tell anyone who Harry Potter is. Everyone in our…corner of society already knows who he is.”

 

That, at least, lined up with John’s experiences with the people he’d asked about Harry Potter. If you knew the name, you knew who he was, it seemed. “Can you tell me about this niche group of society he belongs to, then? Why they hold him in such…regard?” Especially if he's a terrorist or a freedom fighter or a criminal or a murderer…

 

Draco scoffed. “I guess people who don’t know him are too busy worshipping the ground he walks on to realize he stirs his cauldron just like the rest of us. Worse than some of us, really.”

 

"Cauldron?" John repeated. Maybe Harry Potter wasn't a criminal at all, and was actually some kind of cult leader? He shook his head, reminding himself that people who spoke of Harry Potter had a strange vocabulary. “But you know better,” John said, pulse quickening. "You know him as more than a…whatever he is."

 

He’d suspected as much, and here was the confirmation.

 

Draco fidgeted in his seat, visibly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. John sighed again, biting his thumb nail. He had half a mind to just…not continue this disaster of a conversation, but something drew him back. “…what did he do to you, then, to make him your enemy?”

 

Draco’s jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin line. John didn’t think Draco would answer, but finally he let out his breath and said, “Nothing at all. And that was the problem, I suppose. Anything he did to me was only reactionary to what I did to him.”

 

“Was there…any particular reason why?”

 

John didn’t think Draco would say anything else, and didn’t press him to, but Draco had other ideas. “We have a storied and complex history together, Potter and I. My father had a hand in the death of his parents and always hated him, so I tried to hurt him, then he attacked me, then I saved his life, then he saved mine, then my mother saved his life because of me, then he saved all our lives…That’s the long and short of it, anyway.”

 

“You don’t say,” John sputtered. So, Harry Potter’s parents are dead? He didn’t know how to feel about that. He shouldn’t have felt anything; it wasn't as though his parents were dead.

 

And yet…

 

He pulled off his visor and carded a shaking hand through his hair. This was mad. He couldn’t be…no.

 

He ignored the tight, painful pull in his chest. He couldn’t think about his identity right now; he could put that aside for later. He’d gotten quite good at putting things aside for later. He was almost as good at that as he was at making coffee.

 

Instead, he sat there for a minute and processed Draco’s whole…story, if you could call it that, bewildered and at a loss for what to say. Finally he settled on, “What kind of life have you been leading to elicit so many near-death experiences?”

 

“You don’t want to know,” Draco said with a dark, weary smile.

 

In that moment, John was sure he didn’t.

 

"You've known him a long time, then?"

 

"We've been acquainted since we were children, but I can't say I ever truly knew him," Draco admitted, eyes haunted as he glared at the fire. “We spent most of our youth trying to make the other miserable, but goodwill won out in the end, I suppose. We didn’t really want each other dead, after all. I imagine that came as a surprise to everyone, ourselves included.”

 

John was unsure of what the appropriate response was in this situation. Draco had either admitted to murderous intentions or was employing a healthy dose of hyperbole. John preferred to believe that Draco was just fond of exaggeration. The thought comforted him more than it should have, if only because it could mean Harry Potter hadn't really killed anyone, after all. He wasn't a criminal, either. Maybe he wasn't even moralistic or sanctimonious. He just had problems with Draco.

 

It's just because I don't want the police to come in here some day and haul me off for crimes I didn't commit, John told himself. He ignored the follow-up realization about how unconvincing that argument sounded, especially in light of mentioned 'acquittals'.

 

Instead he watched Draco, who was eating the last of his pastry and seemed to have his mind elsewhere. It was easier to think about Draco’s problems with Harry Potter than his own problems with…everything, he decided.

 

And as much as Draco claimed to despair of ‘Harry Potter’, there seemed to be an underlying thread of passion, and what with all the life-saving...

 

“Sounds very…passionate. Are you sure the two of you didn’t just have major unresolved sexual tension?”

 

Draco choked on his pain of chocolat, spewing crumbs all over John and the floor he'd just swept. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“All this ‘hating each other’ and ‘life saving’, it’s not normal, you know.” John shook his head, wondering how it was he could be the first person to point this out. “It’s a lot easier to say ‘I hate you’ than ‘I want you'. Especially if your Dad made you think you should hate him. And anyway, kids can be mean about gay stuff.”

 

“Gay stuff?” Draco repeated, face turning an interesting shade of crimson. “People in our wor...scho...corner of society don’t care about that sort of thing!” he insisted.

 

John ignored all the things Draco wasn't saying; clearly, there was a lot to unpack there. “Maybe Harry Potter did. Everyone’s raised differently.” John scratched his cheek in contemplation. “Maybe he was just shy, or afraid of rejection? Especially if he thought you hated him. He did save your life, by your own account. Several times. That doesn't sound like an act of hate to me.”

 

Draco made a indignant sound in his throat, as if to dismiss the very notion as ridiculous. It fell flat, however, and his distracted, flushed face said what he didn't. Was it really that much of a shock? He hadn’t denied being gay, after all. Or that his hate was an excuse for attraction. He had admitted that he realized later he didn't really hate Harry Potter. But why had he thought he did to begin with? Had Draco confessed and been rejected?

 

The bell rang as someone entered the coffee shop, and John was almost relieved for a reason to end this conversation. At least, until he realized what time it was, and thus who it was.

 

He groaned internally.

 

It was Cyril of course. “I better go take care of…that.”

 

Draco glanced over his shoulder, looking similarly relieved. “Ah. Your…admirer.”

 

John grimaced. “Hanger-on, more like.”

 

Draco seemed excessively pleased to focus on John's problems instead of his own. “Remember my advice, John. Straightforward. Direct. Brutal.”

 

Had he said to be brutal yesterday? John couldn't remember. But he was sure he didn't know how to be brutal, in any case.

 

Standing up quickly, John brushed his legs of pastry crumbs and put his visor back on. “Thanks for chatting, Draco. I’d better get back to work. The lunch rush will be here soon.” He had the strangest impression he was running away from Draco, but he couldn’t imagine why.

 

Something to think on later, surely.

 

“John,” Cyril said brightly as he approached the counter. He glanced at Draco sitting on the couch, eyes narrowed suspiciously. John didn't have the chance to analyze it before he schooled it back into his usual flirtatious smirk. “He’s not giving you any trouble, is he?”

 

“Of course not.” But you are.

 

Even if Draco had been bothering him, John wouldn’t have told Cyril. No need to give the clingy bastard a reason to involve himself anymore in John’s life.

 

“Still, I wonder what he’s still doing here,” Cyril said, smile fading again. He wasn't very good at acting.

 

“Research,” John said, pleased to know the answer. He so rarely knew the answer; it was a nice change.

 

Cyril frowned. “What kind of research? He's not another archaeologist, is he?”

 

John exhaled heavily. “Why don’t you go ask him yourself if you’re so curious? I certainly won’t stop you from leaving.” It was more direct than he normally was, but it still made no difference; Cyril lingered on, shamelessly undressing John with his eyes. “Are you going to order anything today?”

 

“Not today!” Cyril cooed, returning to his usual unctuous cheeriness. “The only thing I want still isn’t on the menu!” he waggled his eyebrows, and John suppressed the urge to gag.

 

Feigning obliviousness was the best course of action when it came to dealing with Cyril, in John's experience. “If you have any requests for additions to the menu, we do have a suggestion box.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cyril said with a wave. Before he left, though, he turned back to say one last infuriating thing to John. “If that interloper does start giving you trouble, you come tell me, okay? I’ll get him sorted.”

 

“Cyril, I wouldn’t tell you if you were the only person in this town” was what John would have liked to say. He was so tempted he decided he’d better not say anything, in case his mouth betrayed him. Fortunately, Cyril left with one final insouciant wave. All the better; John had enough on his plate to consider without suffering a protracted interaction with Cyril. Things like the fact that Harry Potter wore glasses—like John. Harry Potter had a scar on his face—like John. Harry Potter’s parents were dead, and John...had no one looking for him.

 

Because they might be dead.

 

He’d asked Draco for answers. He’d brought this on himself. And if this feeling was the result, well, the only conclusion he could come to was that talking to Draco had been a terrible, awful, ill-advised idea.

 

Knowledge is power, my arse.

 

 

---

 

Unresolved. Sexual. Tension.

 

Draco had half a mind to just pack up and leave right then and there, he felt so uncomfortable. Unfortunately, the feeling was inside him, and he couldn’t run away from that. Moreover, Malfoys never retreated, and it wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go, so there he stayed.

 

Still.

 

Unresolved. Sexual. Tension. Draco could hear Blaise and Pansy laughing now, shrieking ‘we told you so!’ with insufferable glee bordering on schadenfreude. On his life, he’d never tell them Potter himself had all but confirmed their favorite pet theory. Amnesia or no, he'd never hear the end of it.

 

For his part, Draco had always maintained he felt nothing for Potter beyond loathing, but from an outside perspective…he supposed his level of obsession might seem like unhinged attraction. But Draco still didn’t accept that it could be true; couldn’t accept it. He and Potter had hated each other, hadn't they? And fine, Potter was fit, but everything else about his personality was off-putting. And that hair. Those glasses. Those ill-fitting clothes he wore…repulsive, right? Surely.

 

Even so…la douleur exquise. It would be easier to say he hated someone than admit he wanted them and could never have them. It was certainly easier now to say he loathed Potter than to psychoanalyze years of antagonization as a desperate ploy for attention. And he had to admit, in the five years since Draco had last seen Potter…well. He'd never been hard on the eyes, exactly, beneath the messy harry and clunky glasses. Now that Potter was wearing clothes that fit him and glasses that weren't a swift breeze away from breaking…the untidiness wasn't quite so off-putting. Wasn't off-putting at all, really. 

 

But it hardly mattered, because even now, Draco couldn't have Potter, could he? They were more different than fire and water, not to mention that Potter was the darling of the wizarding world, and Draco was something everyone wanted to either forget or actively punish. Even if Potter were interested, nothing could or would happen between them. 

 

What about John? He seems available, the small, annoying voice suggested before he promptly squashed it down. It sounded annoyingly like Pansy today, and that was just not on. He wasn't considering that; he couldn't. "John" didn't know who Draco was and Draco certainly wasn't going to tell him. "John" didn't even know who he himself was, and telling him clearly had been a bad job for the both of them.

 

If Potter ever remembered himself, he’d surely be as embarrassed by this conversation as Draco. Even now Draco felt himself flushing, and it took all his willpower not to hide his traitorously red face in his hands and draw attention to his inner conflict. But like a scabbed over wound, Draco couldn't stop picking at it, no matter that it hurt. He couldn't help but to prod at it. It had seemed like a joke in poor taste when Pansy and Blaise had teased him of similar inclinations towards Potter.  Surely they'd only said it after tiring of Draco complaining about Potter.

 

And yet, he'd heard the words from the Abraxan's mouth, hadn't he? Even if Potter hadn't known he was talking about himself, he had the same thinking patterns as Potter. If "Not-Potter" saw their past conflicts as the product of unresolved sexual tension, Potter surely thought so as well. Or at least, would have if he were that self-aware, which Draco doubted.

 

Merlin's beard. He wasn't thinking about this. Wasn't considering it, surely? Still…could it be that Potter had fancied him in school? Unconsciously or otherwise? Draco wasn’t as sure as he always had been that it was dislike he truly felt for Potter. He was comfortable in his sexuality, knew that he prefered men, mostly. But what about Potter? Other than the Weaselette, had he dated? The blow-back from their break-up had been all over the media for months. Since then, there hadn’t been news of Potter dating anyone else. There would have been a media circus if he had. Especially if he'd dated a man—the gay wizards of Britain would have been thrilled to learn they had a sporting chance at the Hero of Hogwarts.

 

Draco spared a moment to think what his own reaction would have been. Scorn, probably. Jealousy, perhaps. Inevitably, some variation of irritation or dismay that Potter would go and snatch up all the best eligible bachelors and ruin everything, like usual.

 

But in the two years since the end of Wizarding Britain's favorite couple, Potter hadn't done any snatching up of eligible witches or wizards. He'd been single, much to the disappointment of rags like Witch Weekly and the like. Draco realized with horrifying self-awareness that the fact he knew that information off the top of his head was not a good sign if he wanted to believe he didn’t fancy Potter at least a little bit.

 

Not thinking about it. I am not. thinking. about. that.

 

Perhaps Potter hadn’t had the chance to date again before disappearing, Draco mused. Potter was always busy chasing dark wizards, and had thrown himself into work after the break-up. The break-up he insisted he only knew so much about because the media was obsessed, and Draco read all news like any responsible member of society ought to. That was all. Potter and the Weaselette had refused to say why they ended things, only that it was mutual and amicable. Draco thought that was a load of dragon dung, but what did he know? He was also single. Regrettably.

 

He couldn't deny that if he'd had any inkling that Potter was interested in men, he'd have given it a shot. Just to prove he could.

 

Still, one did wonder…could it be Potter was gay, too? Or at the very least interested in men and women? Or had he ended things with the female weasel because he realized he wasn’t interested in women, weasel or otherwise?

 

Draco sighed and gave up 'not thinking about it' as a bad job.

 

Not-Potter would know, surely. Forgetting one's identity didn't erase basic truths about oneself, like what types of people one found attractive. What if Not-Potter had suggested Potter had unresolved sexual tension with Draco (unbelievable though it seemed) because Not-Potter himself found Draco attractive? Draco had to admit that talking to Not-Potter without the baggage of their history together was an enjoyable experience. Potter was interesting, funny, and gave as good as he got in the witty banter department. He was almost—Merlin forbid Draco ever admit it to anyone—pleasant when he was being friendly. And he was friendly with Draco; he didn't remember all the practical jokes in poor taste, the ill will, the animosity between them. Every horrible thing Draco had done…he had no reason to hate Draco without the burden of their history. And now, Draco could (begrudgingly) admit he understood why Potter was well-liked, hero status aside.

 

But what about if—when —he remembered? That was what it always came back to in the end. It didn't matter if "John" thought Draco was attractive or if their conversation was enjoyable. One day, Potter would remember everything, and things would go back to the way they were. Potter might feel taken advantage of if Draco tried to get close to him while Potter had no clue about their history together.

 

But he does know, that little annoying voice whispered. You just told him, didn't you?  It wasn't enough, Draco decided. All this Not-Potter knew was that Draco had a contentious past with Potter, and this Not-Potter was…well, not aware that history was his as well. But he still had free will, didn't he? He could consent to spending time with Draco if he wanted to, surely? And if things went well…

 

No. No. Draco wasn’t considering this. Admitting attraction was one thing; acting on it was another. He didn’t need an additional layer of complicated thoughts to add to an already complicated brew concerning Potter’s lost memory.

 

The idea of an anonymous tip was growing more and more appealing, damn his resolve to try to understand Potter. He'd never understood the man; what made him think he could start now? Besides, the sooner Potter remembered, the sooner Draco could confront him about this in earnest. Could demand if he’d meant what he said when he didn’t know he was Harry Sodding Potter. And then, if he did mean it, maybe they could…what? Talk? Because that had gone so well in the past.

 

Draco tried again to make himself not think about it. But he did want to know…ugh. Feelings were terrible.

 

Worst of all, now he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to get to know the Saviour if said Saviour were going to drop inconvenient truth bombs on Draco all the while. What would he find out next? That Draco had all along actually harboured a deep appreciation for Hippogriffs? Surely not.

 

He decided he didn’t appreciate the intrusive thoughts, so he drank down the (annoyingly perfect) latte and focused on plants, potions, and definitely not on Potter.

 

I am not thinking about this. Not now, not ever.

 

Unresolved sexual tension. Good grief.

 

---

 

Upon further reflection, John might have overreacted a bit. It shouldn't matter to him so much; it was not as if Harry Potter's felonious past had any effect on John's life. Sure, he hadn't wanted to find out he resembled someone who had once been considered a terrorist or something, but he wasn't personally culpable for those crimes. And his doppelganger had been acquitted, so there.

 

He'd tried to put it behind him—not even aside for later! He thought he could forget about it completely, especially with the distraction of the lunch rush. Fridays always brought an influx of customers to Cosmic Latte, as though everyone had collectively decided that Friday was the day to get a fancy latte. It had happened every Friday since he'd been in Gleyma, and was the sort of dependable constant John was grateful for—for once.

 

Unfortunately for John, the lunch rush did not provide an adequate distraction from his troubled thoughts. Especially since the source of those thoughts—Draco Malfoy—was sitting in direct line of sight. Not to mention that making drinks was so second nature to him by now that it was what John normally did to occupy his hands to leave his mind free to think about things.

 

But if he was going to be thinking about Draco anyway, he might as well try to focus on the things about him that intrigued John, rather than the fact that he made John wonder if his parents were dead. He couldn’t remember his parents anyway, so he couldn’t miss them, but if they weren’t around to miss anyway…well, it made him lonely.

 

He was loathe to admit that anything Cyril said was useful or interesting, but the git had raised an interesting point: Draco’s research. John couldn’t for the life of him imagine what was worth researching here. Gleyma was not the site of any major or minor historical event. There was no interesting social phenomenon to study here. There was nothing. Perhaps there could be scientific research to be done, but as far as John knew no scientist did research on parchment and scrolls.

 

There was also the matter of where Draco was staying. He'd been merely curious about it when he'd asked, but the way Draco dodged answering when pressed made John suspicious. He supposed it was possible Draco was camping somewhere along the cliffs, but why didn't he just say so?

 

Yes, Draco Malfoy was just as strange as every other person claiming to know Harry Potter, he reaffirmed. He didn’t wear their strange attire and seemed to have no problem paying for things like a normal person (other than his petty penny obsession, which John suspected was just to be annoying). But Draco was hiding something. The fact that he had talked about Harry Potter for 15 minutes and John still knew almost nothing about him was infuriating.

 

Watching Draco now, John’s thoughts drifted towards the only part of the conversation that had rattled Draco: the thought that Harry Potter was attracted to him. Draco was, to all appearances, reading an ancient tome, but the fact that he hadn’t turned the page in over twenty minutes indicated he wasn’t really absorbing any information. Had it really been that shocking? Draco was attractive. Obnoxious, but also charming. Clearly intelligent. Passionate. And—though this was only conjecture—he didn’t care about celebrity. At least, not Harry Potter’s. They had known each other for a long time, apparently. John barely knew Draco and he couldn’t deny he found him attractive. How could Harry Potter not feel the same way? Well, unless he were straight…but still. There was certainly a level of obsession that went both ways between Draco and Potter, if all the 'life saving' were any indication.

 

But Harry Potter wasn’t here now; John was. Harry Potter might be straight; John wasn’t. Harry Potter had a complicated past with Draco; John had only just met him. Most importantly, John was interested in Draco, while Harry Potter being interested in Draco was such an appalling concept it had left Draco dumbfounded.

 

And yes, John was definitely tentative about Draco, but undeniably intrigued. For seven months, there had been no one to even be interested in. No one but bloody Cyril.  But now Draco was here—and he wouldn’t be forever. Draco hadn’t denied that Harry Potter could be attractive…well, he hadn't said anything about it at all. But John apparently looked like Harry Potter, and though Draco hadn’t said so explicitly…well, he was certainly very interested in him, was he not? At least in an intellectually curious capacity?

 

Well. At least if John had grossly misread the situation and things went terribly he wouldn’t have to see Draco every day and relive the embarrassment. Then again, getting attached would only end in disappointment.

 

As John tried to Get To The Bottom of Things, the bell rang and Murph walked in, on time and present for once. He wasn't the most responsible of employees, but he was a good chap. At late-thirty-or-early-forty-something, he had enough life experience to give good advice with a hefty grain of salt. A father of two, married, mousy brown hair, kind brown eyes, olive skin, medium height. He perfectly embodied the Gleyma motto of 'just average is just fine'. But John liked him, as a person. As a co-worker…well, nobody was perfect, were they?

 

Most afternoons, John stayed at Cosmic Latte to work with Murph, if for no other reason than he was pleasant to be around. Today, John didn't think he'd be a good conversation partner for Murph. Even if his advice might be welcome, John didn't have his own thoughts in enough order to even know what to ask.

 

Before he could beat a hasty retreat, however, Murph stopped him. "Alright there, John?"

 

Cursing his lack of speed, John replied, "Er, yes?" He knew it was a lost cause; somehow, Murph always knew when something was amiss in John's brain. Even when John didn't know.

 

He crossed his arms and pinned John with a dubious look. "You can't lie to save your arse. What's wrong?"

 

John's eyes darted over to Draco on the sofa, still ensconced in his strange scrolls and ancient looking texts and oblivious to the world.

 

Murph gave him a knowing smirk. "Ah. Troubles of the heart, then?"

 

For a moment, John thought about lying again, but Murph was right; he was shite at deception. His shoulders sagged and he leaned against the pastry hut. "I dunno. Troubles of some kind. I don't know what to do."

 

Murph patted him sympathetically on the head. Normally he might expect that kind of thing to feel patronizing, but Murph couldn't be condescending if he tried. He was nearly a foot shorter than John, to begin with, and even if he'd been a giant, looking down on people just wasn't something he did. "You want my advice, laddy?"

 

"I find myself in desperate need of some, yes."

 

"Don't overthink it." He tapped John's forehead. "You're smart, but this isn't a brain matter. It's a heart matter."

 

"It's stupid," John mumbled. "He'll leave eventually."

 

"So what? You could be struck by lightning and die tomorrow. Embrace the moment while it lasts. What's it those intellectuals say? Carpet diet?"

 

"…carpe diem ?"

 

"That's the one. Smart lad." Murph fixed John with a stern glare. "But turn that dumb brain off."

 

If only it were so simple. John sighed, conflicted. He didn't know if he wanted affection or information from Draco. Getting information had gone poorly, mostly because of what that information had been. Draco didn't seem to like Harry Potter, but he was still here, talking to John. Harry Potter's look-alike.

 

What was he supposed to make of that?

 

Murph flicked John's forehead again. "Whatever daft thing you're thinking, stop. You'll never know if you never try, right?"

 

"I guess not," he said, feeling a bit better in spite of himself.

 

"Budge over," said Murph, fussily moving John away from the pastry hut. Murph was small and portly, but he could move John as easily as his own children, two and four respectively.

 

John glanced back—not pining, he told himself—at Draco, who was rapidly searching through his scrolls like a mad scientist.  It was oddly endearing, and John couldn't have looked away if you'd paid him. His heart panged, just a little bit. He ignored it and suppressed another sigh. "Here," Murph grunted, interrupting John's not-sighing and not-pining. He shoved a pastry bag into John's hands.

 

"What's this?" John asked, peering into the bag. It was full of yesterday's croissants.

 

"Food. Best way to a man's stomach."

 

"When did you become so wise on the ways of wooing men?" John asked suspiciously.

 

"It's how my mum wooed my Dad."

 

"How'd that turn out?"

 

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said with a saucy wink. "Now get out of my coffee shop before I make Queenie force you to take time off."

 

"First of all, It’s not your coffee shop. Second, You wouldn't do that to me. I'd die of boredom. Do you want my death on your hands?"

 

Murph gave a very pointed look at Draco then back at John. "I think you'd manage, somehow."

 

Blushing, John took his cue to leave. Or at least, leave Murph and go talk to Draco. And feed him. Because that thought was healthy for John’s heart spasms, surely.

 

Draco didn’t notice when John walked over to him. Didn’t even seem to notice when John dragged a chair next to Draco’s sofa. The sofa he's sitting on, John. It's not his.

 

He did notice when John placed the pastry bag on the table between them, however.

 

"What's this?" he asked dubiously, foregoing any greeting (there was nothing to say that wouldn't have been awkward) and poking it with his quill. He uses a quill, for heaven's sake!

 

John took off his apron and visor and sat down in the chair. Draco’s eyes flicked to John’s forehead, but John knew from experience that his mass of hair kept his scar covered. The scar that may or may not be similar in shape and location to Harry Sodding Potter.

 

"Croissants? It'll be troublesome if you starve to death on company premises. Do you actually eat, or do you just drink lattes?" John was sure he'd never seen the man eat before today, even though he spent nearly all his time at Cosmic Latte.

 

"I eat," Draco said defensively, but his cheeks were abnormally pink. “Are you sure this isn't another bribe? "

 

Yes, because that went so well for me before. "Why, feel like sharing?" John said instead, pulling a croissant from the bag and eating it before he could say anything stupid. He tried not to notice Draco watching him eat with keen interest, but it was difficult to do with the man sitting only two feet away.

 

He swallowed loudly and, looking for something to talk about, offered, “They're yesterday’s croissants. We can't sell them, so we get to take them home instead.”

 

"Nothing more appetizing than yesterday's rejects."

 

"They aren't rejects, they're leftovers."

 

"If they're still good to eat, why don't you sell them?" Draco said, picking a croissant out of the bag.

 

"We'd be swimming in pastries if we tried to sell them all. New batches come every day, and it's already more than we can sell."

 

"Not a very good business model, is it?" Draco drawled. He had more ideas than was healthy on what a 'good business model' was. Or at least, what a bad one was. "You should order fewer pastries."

 

"It's an older couple that makes them. I don't think they even charge, they're just happy for something to do. It's terribly boring being retired, I think."

 

"Only if you do it wrong," Draco opined, biting into the croissant.

 

The conversation lulled, and John was beginning to accept he'd either have to leave or find some legitimate reason to hang around longer.

 

He wasn't feeling up to lying and had just about resorted to running away again when Draco came to the rescue.

 

"So!" he said brightly, snapping his book shut and abruptly clearing the gloomy air that threatened to settle between them. “Where do people go to have fun around here on a Friday night?”

 

John scoffed, but felt a hopeful bubble bloom in his chest. “There’s no fun-having to be had here on a Friday. Or any day, for that matter.”

 

“Then why do you stay here?” Draco asked, looking scandalized.

 

John opened his mouth to defend himself and his choices, but found he had nothing to say. “There’s the bonfire pit, I guess.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Sounds very philistine. Take me there.”

 

“In this weather?” John raised an eyebrow. It was cold, rainy, and foggy. Starting a fire in this weather would be a pain. “You’re very demanding, aren’t you.”

 

“You said yourself there’s nothing better to do.”

 

“Maybe I have plans tonight,” John said, crossing his arms. “A hot date.” I certainly hope so.

 

“You can have both plans and a hot date if you take me to the bonfire pit,” Draco said with a smirk and seductive eyebrow waggle.

 

Breath caught in his chest, John stared at Draco, mentally remarking how much he prefered Draco's eyebrows to Cyril's. Thinking about Cyril broke his stupid thoughts about stupid eyebrows, and he realized he should say something to not look pathetic and desperate. Because he wasn't, obviously. Just curious.

 

Finally, he came up with, “Ah, I get it. A hot date, because of the fire.”

 

Draco scowled, but his eyes held a twinkle of amusement. “Well? What’ll it be then?”

 

John rolled his eyes. “Fine. I’ll take you to the bonfire. I doubt anything will burn, waterlogged as everything is, but if you insist…”

 

“I do ,” Draco insisted.

 

John sighed, but couldn't quite suppress the smile blooming on his lips.

Notes:

Gosh, they're a disaster, aren't they?

Come bug me on tumblr, if you'd like http://noir-renard.tumblr.com/

Chapter 4: Hot Date at the Bonfire Pit

Summary:

Draco and (Not)Harry go on a Not-Date in a pit, or something.

Not Thinking About It had clearly Not Worked, since Draco’s mouth had decided quite on its own to ask Potter on a date. Or something date-adjacent. But there Potter had been with his croissants and his clearly wanting to say something but being awkward and incapable of spitting it out. Draco knew how to be patient; that didn’t mean he often practiced the skill, especially where Potter was concerned. In fact, he could just as well say his momentary lapse in self-control had been Potter’s fault. If he hadn’t said there was nothing to do in Gleyma but go to a fire pit, and if he hadn't casually thrown out the words ‘hot date’ like he was talking about the weather…

 

Yes, it was certainly Potter’s fault that Draco had asked Potter on a sort-of date. But then again, Potter had gone and made a lame joke, so maybe this wasn’t really a date after all. Just…two blokes, hanging out. Draco tried not to feel disappointed and refused to feel snubbed. It was not as though he’d asked Potter on a proper date (merely implied it, the small voice pointed out), and regardless of what it was or was not, Potter had agreed to it. So it was fine. Uncertainty had never killed anyone. Probably.

 

After all, the uncertainty of whether or not Potter was interested in men likewise remained. But the way Potter’s breath had caught in his throat when Draco mentioned going on a date implied he wasn’t opposed to dating men in general, at least. And that look in his eyes of wonder, curiosity, hope, and confusion at Draco's invitation compared to Potter’s interactions with the notorious Cyril meant that he was intrigued by Draco specifically. Perhaps. Hopefully.

 

And why shouldn't he be? In spite of his dubious past affiliations, Draco was still quite a catch: handsome, intelligent, wealthy, and magically skillful. And although this ‘Not-Potter’ didn’t know about Draco's wealth or his magic, a small part of Draco hoped Potter could finally see his better qualities now that he wasn’t burdened with knowledge of Draco’s…lesser qualities. Not to mention that Draco was also now a mysterious stranger who held the answers to the questions “John” was afraid to ask. Surely the more peculiar thing would be if Potter wasn’t at least a little intrigued by Draco.

 

It would be only too easy to string Potter along, giving him just enough information to come crawling back for more, but…no. Draco was trying to be good now, and going on a power trip, though tempting, was ill-advised. Even if he didn’t care about doing the right thing (which he did), he didn’t want Potter to hex him if—when, Merlin, when—he remembered who he was and who Draco was.

 

Yes, Draco told himself, even if Potter didn’t remember anything about their colorful history now, one day he would. Which is why this pseudo-date wasn’t about wooing or romance; it was about trying to understand Potter. It wouldn’t do for Draco to get carried away with his own desires, even if this was his a chance to explain things from his point of view, to change the way Potter viewed Draco. The Boy Who Lived had never understood Draco either, after all. Hadn’t even tried to. But that went both ways…

 

Draco shook his head and steeled himself. Don’t be selfish. This was about Potter, not Draco. He was strong enough to resist the temptation to make himself look better, surely. He was playing a dangerous game, and though it wasn’t very Slytherin of him to play with such uncertainty of outcome, he was enjoying it immensely.

 

They’d agreed to meet at half 6 outside Cosmic Latte, because Not-Potter worried Draco’s “precious notes” would get wet if he brought them along. Draco couldn’t explain that his notes were charmed to be impervious to water, because Potter as he was didn’t know what that meant and Draco decided he didn’t want to break the International Statute of Secrecy any more than he already had.

 

Another reason for the late meetup was that Potter, apparently, had some “errands” to run and an assignment to finish. Something to that effect, but Draco had only been half-listening at that point, too distracted by Potter’s mention of grabbing “wellies” and a “mac”. Draco hadn’t the faintest idea what those things were, but he’d nodded along sensibly when Potter advised Draco to bring his own ‘mac’ and ‘wellies’ if he had any.

 

So he’d returned to his campsite to put away his notes and books (just because they were water-proof didn’t mean he wanted to carry them around), and consulted his ‘Blend in with the Muggles’ guide to see what a ‘mac’ and ‘wellies’ were. Though he found the accompanying pictures to be unfashionable, if Potter were wearing them then it suggested Potter intended to take him somewhere with water and mud. He groused aloud to Atlas that he hadn't expected there to be mud and water at a place called 'The Bonfire Pit'. Atlas had merely hooted unsympathetically and gone back to sleep.

 

He did end up putting on boots and a thick coat, supposing if he didn't make some effort to look prepared to face the elements Potter might refuse to take him on the grounds that he wasn’t suitably dressed. Draco couldn’t very well say his shoes and cloak were charmed to repel water, could he? He pitied muggles and their having to plan their outfits so heavily according to the weather.

 

When he met Potter a quarter past six (fifteen minutes early; never let it be said a Malfoy wasn’t punctual), he quickly revised his opinion that macs and wellies were unfashionable. There was something ungainly about the rubber shoes to be sure, but on Potter, paired with his ripped muggle jeans, black jumper, and chunky red scarf thrown on as an afterthought, it worked. Draco spared a moment to laugh internally at his choice of colors, though he noted the red wasn’t really the same without its gold accents. He noted also the grey knit hat shoved over Potter’s head, once again obscuring the scar, and wondered if he kept it covered intentionally or if it were merely a coincidence.

 

Probably intentional, he reasoned, recalling the way Potter had patted his messy hair over the scar earlier that day. He used to do that at Hogwarts as well…

 

Potter looked skeptically at Draco’s outfit, apparently dissatisfied in spite of Draco's efforts. “That’s what you’re wearing?”

 

Draco looked at his dragonhide boots and chinos, wondering what the problem was. He vaguely recalled muggles had arbitrary color rules based on the seasons, but he hardly thought Potter of all people would care about that. “What? Have I offended your delicate sartorial senses? Didn’t think you were the type.”

 

Potter frowned, apparently deciding to ignore the subtle gibe.“You’re going to get your nice shoes muddy.”

 

“You think these are my nice shoes?” Draco chuckled. When he saw the distasteful face Potter was making, however, he realized he must have said something wrong. Ah, flaunting wealth is frowned upon in Muggle Society, right… “They’re the only shoes I brought for…outdoorsy things.” Potter still looked dubious, so Draco added, “Don’t worry about it; I’ll manage.” It felt uncomfortably foreign to…what? Comfort Potter? Was that what he was doing?

 

But it seemed to be the right thing to say this time. Tension relaxing ever so slightly, Potter shrugged then jerked his head towards the woods. “If you’re sure…let’s get going, then.”

 

It wasn’t a long walk, but the silence made it feel that way. Gone was the flirty atmosphere of the afternoon, as though the rain had washed it away. This excursion was feeling less and less like a date-or-date-adjacent-outing and more like the ill-fated detention he and Potter had served in the Forbidden Forest. That had been the last time he’d actually been in the woods, he realized, and he could only hope this expedition did not end as poorly.

 

There didn’t seem to be a clear path that Draco could see, but Potter had no trouble navigating the expansive, misty woods. The sun hadn’t set yet, but the cloudy sky and dense tree canopy made it seem darker than it was, casting everything in blue shadow. The thickening fog hanging between the trees made Draco uneasy, and he was beginning to regret anew his insistence on coming here. “Say, there’s nothing…dangerous out here, is there?”

 

Potter cast a sidelong glance at Draco. “Define dangerous.”  It was hard to tell in the low light, but it looked like the corners of his lips were twitching.

 

Something funny, Potter? he chided mentally. Aloud, he said, "Anything that could eat us or grievously wound us."

 

“Well, there is the Beast of Exmoor…"

 

"I beg your pardon?"

 

"It’s a local legend," Potter said solemnly. "Some sort of giant cat, or so the legend goes.”

 

“Giant cat? Not a native one, surely.” Draco scoffed at the thought, grateful there were no wampus cats in England.

 

Ignoring Draco's skepticism, Potter continued, "England used to have bears, wolves, lynx…all kinds of dangerous apex predators.”

 

“But not anymore,” Draco replied with forced confidence, scanning the darkness for dangers that lurked within.

 

“So they say. But there is a rewilding effort going on, you know…”

 

Draco swallowed loudly. “Rewilding?”

 

“You don’t know about it? It’s a movement to reintroduce England’s long-lost top predators.”

 

“Good gods, why?”

 

Potter shrugged. “To return to the natural order of things that human interference has disturbed. An ecosystem only works if all parts of it are present.”

 

“I don’t think the absence of bears has significantly affected anything.”

 

“Maybe not in an obvious way,” Potter said darkly. “But on a grand scale, it hasn’t been that long since they’ve been gone. Forests are disappearing, too. Nature isn’t a bottomless resource.”

 

Draco was uncomfortably reminded of some of the very same debates happening in the Wizarding World. He'd always thought that it was muggle expansion that was the problem and had likewise assumed that they were indifferent or unaware of the effects their consumption had. He’d never imagined Muggles might have noticed and were trying to do something about it. “Planting trees is one thing. But we’ll be at risk if we reintroduce creatures that can—and will—eat us. And our livestock. People’s livelihoods depend on their sheep not being eaten.”

 

“All the money in the world won’t do you any good if there isn’t a world left to live in,” Potter said quietly. “Especially if that money comes from exploitation.”

 

Draco (wisely) said nothing. He ignored the part of his mind that said there was nothing he could say to that. He wanted to say his wealth—well, his family’s wealth— didn’t come from exploitation. But he also found he didn’t want to admit he had money.

 

Leave it to Potter to make him feel guilty about something he’d always been proud of.

 

They squashed through the dark in silence, but soon the smell of sea and salt wafted through the trees, and the dull roar of the ocean soon followed. After about fifteen minutes of weaving through admittedly water-logged and muddy woods, the cliffs came into view, vague shapes beyond the mist. Before they reached them, however, they came to an outcrop surrounding a terraced pit dug into the ground, in the middle of which sat a blackened spot surrounded by rocks and charred detritus. Some larger stones had been dragged around the edge of the clearing, in a crude facsimile of Stonehenge. Or any stone circle, you clod, Draco chastised himself. Living as close to Stonehenge as he did, he’d always felt a bit defensive of what he’d deemed poor imitations of the original.

 

“Behold: the bonfire pit,” Potter deadpanned, feigning nonchalance, but something else glinted in his eyes. Pride, perhaps? Or…joy? “It’s not much, but…well, it’s the most interesting part of Gleyma.”

 

Interesting didn’t even begin to cover it, Draco thought. For upon closer inspection, there was the faintest trace of magical energy here. Not only that, but carved along the top of the outcropping and peaks of the stones were runes, barely visible from centuries of weathering, but there nonetheless. “This place is ancient,” he said at last, hoping his voice didn’t betray his fascination.

 

This was a runic circle, a primeval means of doing magic, older than Hogwarts, Merlin, and even the founding of the families that made up the Sacred 28. He’d read about it in Magik before Wands: the Trilogy. It seemed Gleyma was hiding more secrets than Harry Potter.

 

“The local legends say the rocks have been here longer than the town,” Potter continued, unaware of the impact this revelation was having. He glanced sideways at Draco, as though gauging whether to reveal something. “It’s my favorite place in Gleyma, which isn’t saying much. But I always liked it here. I like it even better now that the local kids are at school instead of hanging out here getting pissed.”

 

“Got something against drinking?” Draco asked, raising an eyebrow, glad to have a distraction from all the directions his mind was trying to run. 'What could this mean?'  was the main theme of the thoughts, but the plausible answers to that quandary led to mostly unpleasant ends.

 

Potter grinned and shot Draco a conspiratorial look, pausing Draco’s disquieted thoughts. He pulled two bottles out of his coat, and presented one to Draco. “I have something against rowdy punks crowing in the dead of night while I’m trying to sleep.”

 

Draco chuckled and took the bottle. He didn’t care much for ale—too bitter and heavy for his tastes—but upon further inspection the label said ‘cider’. He’d never had cider aside from the hot spiced juice the elves made around Yule. He didn’t know there was a cold, alcoholic version, but he hoped it was just as sweet as the winter version he'd grown up with. He’d never indulged much in muggle libations, but fermented juice was fermented juice, he reckoned. The only problem was getting the blasted thing open; normally he’d use his wand, but that wasn’t an option in present company.

 

Potter seemed to sense Draco’s struggle and said, “It’s a twist off cap.” That, of course, didn’t really help Draco, as he had no idea what a “twist off cap” was, but fortunately Potter demonstrated, grabbing the top and…twisting. Hmm. Leave it to muggles to name something in such a simple way. Even so, he noted how innovative it was as he twisted his own cap off. It was even easier than using a spell, he had to admit. He discreetly pocketed the trash as a keepsake and future business venture as Potter raised his bottle in a silent cheers.

 

The cider was as sweet and light as champagne, but heartier, with a berry taste. Draco wondered how he’d missed out on this his whole adult life. He’d never admit it aloud, but between lattes and cider and twist off caps, Muggles had the market on the best drinks. Perhaps not having magic gave them extra thinking room for beverages.

 

“So, are we going to light this thing up or what?” Draco asked after they’d been sipping in silence for as long as he could bear. It was tasty, sure, but he wasn’t here for the cider. Or the fire, really, if he were being honest. But why start now?

 

Potter sighed and nodded. “I have to try, I suppose, or you’ll think poorly of me.” Potter handed Draco his drink and Draco marvelled at the unspoken trust in such an act. Potter—or, well, Potter with all his memories—would never have trusted Draco with his drink unsupervised, out of fear that Draco would charm it into something…distasteful.

 

And perhaps he would have had a good reason for suspecting it, Draco admitted ruefully.

 

This Potter had no such qualms as he stalked over to a pile of logs Draco hadn’t noticed before somewhat covered by an overhang in the outcropping. He pulled from the bottom—where the dryest logs sat—and dragged them over to the blackened circle.

 

While Potter went about the muggle way of lighting a fire, Draco busied himself with investigating the runes. They seemed to be protecting the area from wind, but mentioned nothing about keeping the area dry. His runic studies were a little rusty, however, and he quickly got lost in what turned out to be a fairly complex ward. All he picked out were the words ‘safety’ and ‘haven’. Professor Bathsheda would be sorely disappointed in him, but in his defense he was fairly sure these runes were hardly codified; that use of that Uruz wasn’t conventional, Draco could say with certainty.

 

Well, what the old witch didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. It was not as though she had spoken to Draco since he'd left Hogwarts. He wondered vaguely if she’d appreciate being contacted about translating these runes…probably not, he decided, if I were the one asking.

 

He could send an anonymous letter, but the concept of anonymous letters sent him down an uncomfortable mental avenue of doubt as it inevitably made him think about his stalled plans to inform the Ministry of Potter’s situation—anonymously.

 

I’ll do it if I figure out it’s what he’d want, he told himself (unconvincingly) and took another sip of the cider.

 

Potter cursed as another attempt to light the damp logs fizzled out in failure. Glancing over, Draco saw he’d set up a nice pile of dry paper scraps of some sort—likely brought with him from home—that had no problem catching fire, but didn’t get hot enough to burn the logs.

 

Draco was starting to feel sorry for Potter, and thought it couldn’t hurt to help with a little magic when the hapless sod wasn’t looking. Draco was starting to get chilled, after all, and Potter had already wasted ten minutes on the venture. Casting about for a suitable distraction, Draco settled on the magic already around them. “What do these symbols mean?”

 

“Huh?” said Potter, too focused on trying again to get the fire started to look up.

 

“These carvings on the stone just here. Nordic runes, perhaps?”

 

Finally Potter spared a glance for Draco, inspecting the outcropping. “Oh, those. Probably the pagans back in the day before the Romans invaded. Or maybe the Vikings left them.” He returned to his doomed task of lighting the sodden logs. “No one knows the truth, but there’s plenty of made-up stories about them.”

 

“Who’s to say they’re made up?” Draco challenged, now more curious than ever about the origins of Gleyma. It was only a hunch, but he thought there might be something important within them.

 

“The authors themselves,” Potter said with an exasperated grunt as the kindling went out for the fifth time. “Telling tall tales around the bonfire is a time-honored tradition, you see.”

 

“Hmm,” Draco replied noncommittally. He wasn’t as good at diversions as he thought. “Want me to give that a go?”

 

“The fire?” Potter shook his head in disbelief, but gestured to the sizzling twigs. “Be my guest.”

 

Draco handed Potter the ciders and crouched down in front of him, wand out of view. Potter stretched, seeming grateful that the bonfire wasn’t his problem now. He probably thinks I can’t do it and we’ll just go home after this, Draco grumbled internally. It was foolish to get upset about what Potter might be thinking, but the humorous glint in those unreasonably green eyes was just visible enough in the fading light to give Draco a fair idea of what the specky git was thinking. He pretended to fuss about with the kindling for a minute, then set the logs aflame with a wordless incendio.

 

“Blimey. He’s done it,” Potter deadpanned, to all appearances unimpressed, but the set of his jaw belied he was annoyed that Draco had succeeded where he’d failed. Magic really is best, Draco mused.

 

With a smirk, he took his cider back. “To hot dates,” he toasted.

 

Potter chuckled pleasantly and clinked his bottle against Draco’s. Draco tried not to think too much about how lovely the sound was. “I’ll drink to that. Cheers.”

 

What with the fire going, the wind protection runes, and a surreptitiously cast warming charm, soon it was quite comfortable in the bonfire pit. Even the rain seemed to relax and enjoy the soft moment of tranquility. They drank in companionable silence for a while, until Potter broke it. “So...what is it you’re researching out here?”

 

“Hmm?” Draco asked, scrambling for an answer. Potter was sharper than Draco had given him credit for, and too stubborn to forget that Draco had avoided answering him the first time he’d asked about Draco's research.

 

“Well, I was just wondering if maybe you’re an archeologist.”

 

“An archeologist ?” If Pansy weren’t a curse breaker in Egypt, Draco didn’t think he’d have any idea what that was. It certainly hadn’t been covered in his Muggle Education course—another gross oversight, as far as he was concerned. “What gave you that impression?”

 

“You were curious about the runes,” Potter said with a head nod to the carvings. “Most people don’t notice them, but there was a bloke a few years back who came here interested in the ‘ancient and noble history of Gleyma what’s been forgotten and erased’. An archeologist, apparently. Wanted to dig up the town.”

 

Something about the phrasing of that sentence scratched at something in the back of Draco’s mind, but the warm atmosphere and the cider weren’t helping him think clearly at the moment. In his defense, it really was quite good, sweet and crisp as he preferred his alcohol to be.

 

“Anyway, you seemed to know something about runes, and you had all those old looking notes…I thought maybe you studied runes or something.”

 

“I’ve…dabbled,” Draco admitted, figuring that throwing Potter a bone might get him off that line of questioning. Desperate to move along, he changed tack. “Were you here then? When the archaeologist came, I mean.”

 

“No. The archaeologist fiasco was over a decade ago; I only got here a few months ago."

 

"Then how do you know about this archaeologist?"

 

Potter shrugged. "Murph told me about him. It’s probably the most dramatic thing that’s happened here since whoever carved those runes up and left. People love their drama, kicking up a fuss about nothing. I mean, they still complain about the archaeologist. You want to start a frenzied gossip session? Bring up Mr. Wembly.”

 

“Oh,” Draco replied smartly. Grasping for a different topic, he settled on, “When did you get here?” knowing full well that Potter had no idea. But, he reasoned, getting Potter to open up about his condition might give Draco insight into what to do about it.

 

“I dunno exactly,” Potter said with a shrug. “Can’t remember. It's not been too long, though.”

 

As a veteran in the ways of topic avoidance, Draco recognized Potter was being evasive, which in his book meant he was onto something. Feeling bold, he pressed on. “Was your coming here not a hot topic of conversation, then?” Draco asked in mock innocence, sure that it had in fact been a riot.

 

Potter smiled grimly. “Probably. But they’re nice enough not to gossip about me to my face. That, and I imagine they’d just about gotten over it by the time I woke up.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Potter looked like he wished he could suck them right back in. His shoulders tensed up and he glanced nervously out of the corner of his eye at Draco, as though trying to gauge whether his slip-up had been noticed.

 

Finally, a chance to talk about this! “…alright, now I know there’s a story there.” Draco had quite enough of pretending not to know things he did, and pretending to know things he didn’t. Potter’s amnesia being an open secret would be one less thing to keep track of.

 

Sighing in a defeated way, Potter downed the rest of his cider. He scowled at it reproachfully, as though it were responsible for his blunder. It probably was. “Sometimes I wish I could make trash just…vanish, you know? Whoosh, and it’s gone, no need to find a bin to recycle it in.”

 

Draco chuckled and shook his head. If only you knew.  As far as digressions went, it was pretty hamfisted. “Yes, I’m sure there are many who share that sentiment, John, but I asked you a question.”

 

“Technically, you just stated a fact about there being a story. There’s always a story somewhere, though, isn’t there? Whether it’s how these runes got here, or what you’re doing here, or why I thought it’d be a good idea to drink when I know it makes me all…” Potter waved his hands around vaguely, apparently unable to find a word that adequately explained what drinking did to him.

 

“I suppose you’re right; I didn’t ask a question,” Draco conceded solemnly. With a wicked smile, he added, “John, tell me, what is the story behind you ‘waking up’ here? Did you take a particularly long nap?”

 

Potter eyed him cautiously. “I’ll tell you that story if you tell me what you’re researching.”

 

Oh, the devious bugger! He should’ve known it wouldn’t be that simple. “I…can’t. It’s a bit of a secret, you see…my mentor insisted I tell no one.” Blaise Zabini was hardly Draco’s mentor, but he did own the company Draco was helping with research, and calling him as such gave the situation just enough gravitas to justify his own evasiveness. "All I can say is it has to do with plants."

 

Potter looked disappointed nonetheless. “Fine. If you can't tell me about your research…then tell me more about Harry Potter. Equal exchange, and all that.”

 

“Why do you keep asking about him?” What Draco meant was why are you threatening your own happiness this way?, but he didn't expect Potter to understand. He’d seen the way Potter’s face had fallen when Draco had brilliantly brought up his dead parents. But he couldn’t ask about it without raising suspicions and, ultimately, ruining Potter’s happiness on his own.

 

Potter sighed in resignation. “If I tell you my story, I think you’ll understand.”

 

Draco nodded, figuring he probably understood already. Better than Potter himself did, in fact. "Then why don't you go first?"

 

---

 

John groaned internally, wondering what possessed him to reveal his deepest secret in this way. Cider possessed you, John, that’s what. “My name is John, as you know, but actually it’s John Doe.” John glanced at Draco to see if realization dawned at that, but his face was carefully blank. It didn’t really surprise John; Draco seemed oblivious to a lot of cultural cues John had previously thought universal, but apparently Draco’s childhood had been very sheltered. “Some people call me John Stag, because of the tattoo…”

 

“Tattoo?” Draco asked, interest flooding his features.

 

John nodded, pushing up his left sleeve and revealing his forearm.

 

“It’s a stag…” Draco said, mesmerized. Seemingly unconsciously, he reached out and touched it, sending shivers up John’s arm, but he didn’t pull away; Draco seemed entranced by it. It was quite lovely as far as tattoos went, John had to admit. A bold, black stag head, framed with handsome, thick geometric shapes like a bust on a wall, but still alive. It was both strong and delicate, and something about it made John ache with feelings whose roots he couldn’t remember.

 

John shivered again, trying not to notice how smooth Draco's fingers were, and how elegant they were, and how slender…he cleared his throat. “Yeah, hence John Stag…since a stag is a male deer, plus the whole eligible bachelor thing…”

 

Draco pulled his hand back sharply, as though realizing too late he was fondling the arm of a relative stranger. John chuckled, yanking the sleeve down. He hadn’t minded the physical contact. It was nice, if he were being honest.

 

“It’s a beautiful tattoo,” Draco said at last, face pink. Or maybe that was just the flame playing tricks on John’s eyes.

 

“It is,” John agreed,“but it has nothing to do with my name. Er, my real name that is. Actually, I can’t really be sure of that.” He looked Draco in the eye, hoping to convey his sincerity. “I don’t remember my real name, you see.”

 

“Oh?” Draco seemed surprised by this, though whether it was because of the material of the admission or the fact that John had told him was unclear.

 

“Yeah. They say I washed up on the beach here around the New Year, but no one seems too sure about the exact date.”

 

“You washed up. On a beach. In the middle of winter?”

 

“Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he chuckled. “It’s a miracle I survived.”

 

“It’s something, alright,” Draco muttered incredulously.

 

“Anyway. I was in a coma for a while, so they say, and when I woke up in the clinic, I didn’t know who I was.”

 

“Who you are, you mean.”

 

John shrugged. He couldn’t say if he were truly the same person or not, no matter how many restless nights he spent worrying over it. “Now I’m just John Doe, sometimes John Stag, barista and employee of the month at Cosmic Latte.” John hadn’t expected to feel better revealing his secret; usually it just depressed him to talk about it. Strangely, however, he felt relieved.

 

“What about your friends and family?” Draco asked, and there went that relieved feeling.

 

“What about them?” John said darkly. “There wasn’t a missing persons report put out for anyone matching my description, so either they don’t care I’m gone or there’s no one to miss me.”

 

Draco looked deeply disturbed at that notion, and John almost felt guilty for putting that expression there, even if it were true. He thought back to Draco’s revelation that Harry Potter’s parents were dead. Maybe I don’t have any family, either. Not sure if that makes it better or worse…

 

John shook his head of the melancholy thoughts, and carried on with the rapidly deteriorating conversation. “Anyway, I’m pretty happy with my life.” Draco snorted derisively at that, seeing right through John’s carefully practiced bullshit.

 

Still, he persisted, ignoring Draco. “It’s simple and easy to live here. People don’t ask much of me, which the nurse said was good for brain healing. He thinks I’ll remember eventually. ‘When I’m ready’ or some such nonsense.”

 

“So, how does Harry Potter fit in to all this?” Draco said at last, after brooding for a minute or so.

 

“You tell me.” John shrugged. “You’re the one who knows him.”

 

“What I meant was, how do you know about him? You know the name, but nothing else.”

 

“I already told you,” John explained impatiently, shifting his feet. Their conversation from earlier tried to resurface, but John squashed it down. Put it aside for later. “People come into Cosmic Latte and say ‘Harry Potter!’ with a gobsmacked expression, but when I tell them they’re mistaken, they accept that and go on their merry way.”

 

“Except for me,” Draco pointed out.

 

“Except for you,” John allowed.

 

Silence fell between them again, but it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as it had been. John had to wonder why he kept bringing up Harry Sodding Potter when this was the result every time.

 

“I’ve told you a bit about Potter,” Draco said at last. “Do you really want to know more? You don’t seem convinced you have anything to do with him, appearances aside.”

 

“Do you expect me to be pleased to hear I look like a terrorist?”

 

Draco stared blankly for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Is that what you think? He wasn’t really a terrorist. I told you: he’s a hero.”

 

“You told me the government tried to capture him once!”

 

“The government was corrupt,” Draco advised. “Of course they wanted to shut him up.”

 

John admittedly felt a little better, but there was still something fishy about all this.

 

Draco’s eyes tingled in inspiration, and he added, “Is that why you’re so against being Harry Potter? Because you think he's a terrorist?”

 

“No,” John said shortly. It wasn't even a lie, really.

 

“Then why are you? If you don’t know who you are, why not be him?”

 

“You can’t just be someone because you look like them,” John scoffed. “Besides, based on what you told me, it seems that if Harry Potter were missing, surely someone would’ve noticed and mentioned that when they thought he was me. Or I was him. Whatever.”

 

“So eloquent,” Draco teased.

 

John folded his arms crossly. “It just seems like people would say ‘we found Harry Potter! You’ve been missing!’ when they saw me, rather than, ‘what are you doing here in a cafe on the Bristol Channel?’.”

 

Draco quirked an eyebrow at that, eyes cautiously interested. “Maybe people don’t know he’s missing,” Draco reasoned.

 

"Maybe," John allowed, but he didn't really believe it.

 

“Do you want to be Harry Potter?”

 

He said it so quietly John wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it, but he had heard it, hadn’t he? It was a question he’d been asking himself for some time—or rather, avoided thinking about but still half wondered about in private moments.

 

“What kind of question is that?” John scoffed, deflecting. Draco stayed silent, patiently awaiting a response. “It’s just…well, he’s some sort of celebrity, isn’t he?”

 

“War hero,” Draco clarified, and that definitely was a detail he’d left out before. Apparently, the cider had affected him more than John thought.

 

“War hero?” he repeated, and Draco paled. He hadn’t meant to say that, then. “What war?” he uncrossed his arms and turned to face Draco head on. Draco was doing his best to avoid John’s gaze, however, shifting his feet uncomfortably.

 

He supposed it could only be the war in Afghanistan, but...somehow, that didn’t seem quite right. If Harry Potter were around Draco’s age, he would’ve been a child still at that time.

 

“I can’t talk about it,” Draco said quietly. “There’s a…gag order. From the government. And that’s about all I can say without getting both of us in a lot of trouble.”

 

Bloody hell. Had there been a secret war or…?

 

With startling clarity that didn’t usually come to him after drinking, John realized exactly why he couldn’t find anything about Harry Potter on the internet or in libraries, why Draco was so cagey about any specifics. “Bloody hell, are you and Potter…spies, or something? MI-6? Wait, no, don’t tell me. Then you’d have to kill me, right? Bloody hell.” John whistled, unsure of whether to be impressed or frightened. “Bloody hell,” he said again, for good measure.

 

Draco looked uncomfortable, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “I can neither confirm nor deny anything you just said. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

 

“Wow. Alright. So, Harry Potter’s a war hero.” He reflected on that for a minute, wishing he had more cider. “To answer your question, I don’t envy him. I…wouldn’t want that life. Going to war, then being famous for whatever you did there. I’d probably just want to forget it happened.”

 

“I do,” Draco admitted quietly, a haunted look on his face.

 

John wanted to ask now, more than ever, what exactly Harry Potter did that made him a war hero, but that would be bringing up the war, and Draco had just said he’d rather not think about it. If John only had a short period of time with Draco before he left for wherever he came from, he didn't want to spend that time talking about a war John couldn't know about and Draco wished he didn’t.

 

“I don’t think I’d care for it, anyway. Being famous for something like…war. Then again, if it’s only a small community that knows him, I don’t suppose I’d get mistaken for him any more often elsewhere than I do here.”

 

“I think you’d be surprised. If you went to, say, London, the reaction would be different.”

 

“Well, there are more people in London,” John reasoned. Draco gave an exasperated sigh like John was missing the point.

 

“Would you want to be Harry Potter?” John asked, turning the question around. A tried and true tactic, surelly.

 

Draco made a strange sound at the question, and John thought he wouldn’t answer, but at last, he did.

 

“I used to want to,” he said quietly. “I always thought I’d be better at being him than he was.” Draco paused, chuckling half-heartedly. “Now, I’m not so sure. Everyone always wants something from Harry Potter. Whether it’s his time, his opinion, or his fame, Harry Potter doesn’t get to relax, or make mistakes, or just be. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just wanted to…disappear for a while.”

 

“You think he’d do that?” John asked, hardly daring to breathe for reasons he couldn’t quite name. “Just…up and abandon his life?”

 

Draco shrugged. “No, he’s far too duty-bound to do something like that. There’s a number of unflattering things I could say about him, but selfish isn’t one of them. I think even if he tried to just abandon it all, he’d feel guilty and come back a week later.”

 

“That’s…kind of depressing.”

 

Draco nodded. “It is, isn't it? I used to think Potter and I had nothing in common. Fire and water. But now…I think it's high time Harry Potter got to decide something for himself. It’s rotten living a life others have planned for you.”

 

“Did you not get to plan your own life, then?”

 

Draco didn’t respond, staring into the fire as he often did, lost in his thoughts.

 

Inexplicably, John didn't want to leave Draco to his thoughts. He wanted to press, to find out. To understand or…something. “What do you think you'd do if you woke up one day and didn’t know who you were?”

 

Draco shifted uncomfortably, looking at John out of the corner of his eye. “Well…then I could be anyone, couldn’t I?”

 

“Sure, but you’d always wonder who you had been before…and then, what if someone showed up and recognized you? Would you want them to tell you who you are? Or, used to be?”

 

“I don’t know.” Draco shifted on his feet a few times as if measuring his words. “I don’t much like who I used to be. I guess it would depend on how happy I was with who I became instead. If I were happy, unburdened…I might prefer to remain blissfully unaware.”

 

John found himself oddly disappointed at the answer. “Our journey is what makes us who we are, though. The good, the bad, all of it.”

 

“That’s rich coming from an amnesiac,” Draco mumbled.

 

“That’s why I know it’s true.”

 

Draco laughed at that, but John didn’t really think it was funny. “Why did you stick with the name John Doe?” he asked at last.

 

“It’s the generic name for someone who’s name is unknown,” John said evasively.

 

“Exactly; it’s generic. So what you forgot your ‘real’ name? You can be anybody you want until you remember. Why not have fun with it? Most of us are stuck with the name our parents chose, or some form of it.”

 

“I thought it would come back more quickly than it did,” John admitted quietly. “My real name, that is. Even if nothing else did…many amnesiacs remember their name, at least. And when it didn’t come back…well, I guess picking a new name felt like giving up on the old one. And everyone was used to calling me John by that point, so I just didn’t see the point.”

 

“Hmm. Well, John is a painfully normal name.”

 

John shrugged. He couldn't exactly argue with that, could he?

 

“It’s not short for anything?”

 

“It’s short for ‘I can’t remember my real name’.”

 

“So your name isn’t Jonathan?” Draco pressed.

 

“Uhg, no. And even if it were, I’d still go by John.” He sighed, realizing Draco had gotten him off track. Not that there was a track to get off at this point. “Jonathan just sounds…pretentio…er…fancy.”

 

Draco regarded him coolly. “Do you think my name’s pretentious? Is that why you called me ‘Draco Something Pompous Malfoy’?”

 

John had all but forgotten about that incident. Had it really bothered him that much? “It’s not pretentious, just…I suppose it is a name you have to grow into…”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Draco said hotly. It seemed he was sensitive about his name.

 

“Nothing bad. Just…it’s a very mature name, don’t you think? Poetic.” That seemed to mollify him a bit, but Draco still looked a bit peeved about the comment.

 

Definitely sensitive, then. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Draco Malfoy is a nice name. It suits you.” Draco looked indignant still, so John continued, “The ‘pompous’ bit is just because of the way you said it. And you gave me your whole name. And you said it like I was in the wrong for not knowing already.”

 

"So my name's not pretentious, but I am? Charming." Draco opened his mouth to continue his tirade, but seemed to think better of it at the last moment. “You think my name is nice?”

 

That was what he chose to focus on? Fine. “It is,” John insisted. “Your parents must like astronomy. Or dragons.”

 

Draco looked surprised at that, though John couldn’t imagine why. “You know what ‘Draco’ means?”

 

John nodded; he’d studied astronomy himself, a bit. Without light pollution, the skies were dark enough in Gleyma to see all the constellations, and Mrs. Frond enjoyed stargazing, so he’d taken it up with her. He looked up to the sky now; it was cloudy, but he could just see the stars, especially since there was little moon to contend with. “It’s just there, see? A smidge below Polaris and Ursa Minor.”

 

“Mother always said I had a place among the stars,” Draco said quietly.

 

“It’s certainly a unique name. You don’t meet many Dracos.” John didn’t particularly like the story behind the constellation. It was a sad one, no matter which version you told. Ladon, slayed by a hero, just for doing his job.

 

“Have you met more than one Draco?” Draco asked, a doubtful eyebrow raised.

 

“Maybe.” John shrugged, not wanting to go into it. For all he knew, he could have met 50 Dracos in his life.

 

"Potter didn’t like my name,” Draco offered, unprompted. “It was one of the first things he ever told me, after rejecting a handshake.”

 

Draco frowned, like the memory alone still bothered him. Unlike his faked expressions earlier, this one seemed involuntary, so it must be a true story. John could only imagine a young Draco, and wondered if he’d always been such a prat, or if he’d had to grow into it. Surely a small body couldn't contain so much obnoxiousness?

 

"He made fun of your name?" John tried not to laugh at the fact that Draco was still holding a grudge over the whole thing, and regretful that he seemed to have developed a complex over the thoughtless words of a child.

 

“Well, he didn’t make fun of my name,” Draco admitted. “But his friend did, and he took the weasel's side in the affair.”

 

John suspected there was more to the story, but Draco didn’t seem likely to talk about it. Not at this point, at least.

 

“Can I tell you something?” John asked, leaning closer to Draco even though they were alone. Draco nodded, an earnest look in his eye. John had the strangest impression that ‘I've never seen Malfoy make a face like that before’, and then wondered where that thought came from. “I don’t like the name John.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Then get rid of it. Go by Stag instead.”

 

That pulled a laugh out of John. “I don’t really think it suits me, to be honest, no matter what Mrs. Frond says.” He settled down, but the warmth inside him wasn’t just from the fire. “I thought about other ‘J’ names, to make it easier. I quite like the name James, but that’s almost as common as John, isn’t it?”

 

A strange look crossed Draco’s face. “James, you say? Interesting choice. Could work. Why not?”

 

John shrugged. “People would probably get confused with another J name and end up calling me John anyway.”

 

“Why not Harry, then?” Draco asked, carefully looking at the fire instead of John.

 

“Not a very good tactic for convincing wayward Potter fans that I’m not Harry Potter, is it?”

 

Draco didn’t respond, and the silence settled heavily between them. The flame was dying, and the rain had kicked back up again, and in spite of the weariness that was setting in after their conversation, John felt almost disappointed. “Oh, bugger, it’s raining again.”

 

“Well spotted,” Draco drawled.

 

“Guess that’s our cue, then.” John sighed, kicking dirt onto the fire.

 

Draco smiled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, as if he were sad to only just now be realising something. “Memory or no, you’re quite a bit of alright, John.” John was glad there wasn’t enough light to see his flushed cheeks.

 

Hot date, indeed.

 

That night, he dreamt of crumbling buildings, explosions, and colorful flashes of light too beautiful to be bombs. He dreamt of forests, and beaches, and too many losses to count.

 

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who left comments on the last chapter! It always leaves me with the warm fuzzies to know you're enjoying the story ^w^

Who else is glad these two finally got out of the coffee shop? It only took three chapters.

find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 5: Letters and Lasagne

Summary:

We learn what Draco came to Gleyma for before all this "Potter" business. Important steps are taken.

Who would have thought Draco be in more danger on top of the cliff than over it?

Draco was utterly and completely screwed. He knew what he had to do now, and he sincerely didn’t want to do it. Was this how Gryffindor’s felt all the time? Bound to duty and honor, personal wishes be damned?

 

In point of fact, Draco was not a Gryffindor, but he was falling for one. He’d tried to deny it. But he couldn’t stop himself from getting in too deep if he couldn’t admit the state of affairs, which were: bad, and getting worse. Admitting Potter was fit was one thing; he wasn’t oblivious. Heroic deeds and untameable hair aside, those eyes alone were…enchanting.

 

But to think Draco could be charmed by Potter’s personality was unthinkable. He’d always thought him boorish, rude, uncultured…but charming? Never. Not until now, anyway, Salazar help him.

 

He’d mistakenly believed Potter was happier not knowing—better off, even. Potter had said he wouldn’t want to remember the war. Draco couldn’t blame him; no one wanted to remember the bloody war. When Potter said he’d rather not be Harry Potter, Draco had all but convinced himself to leave things be and keep it to himself.

 

But then Potter had admitted he’d stuck with a generic, ill-fitting name he didn’t even like because he hoped his old one would come back to him. He’d told Draco that ‘Our journey is what makes us who we are’. And the longing in his voice when he revealed his tattoo…

 

Potter didn’t want to be Harry Potter, but he clearly did want to remember who he was. Unfortunately, those two desires were conflicting. Maybe Potter had never wanted to be Harry Potter; Draco didn’t know. Couldn’t. He and Potter weren’t friends before Potter forgot they had too much between them to ever get along.

 

But there were people who knew him, and who could make that decision where Draco couldn’t. He could spend months trying to understand Potter, and guess his wishes, or he could tell someone who already knew him and wouldn't have to guess.

 

And he knew: he had to tell someone.

 

He didn’t really want to tell anyone; he wanted to keep “John” for himself. John was comfortable with Draco in a way he doubted Potter ever would be. He called him Draco, knew where Draco’s constellation was, and maybe even the story behind it. And Draco loved it; loved the attention he was getting. Loved the soft, easy atmosphere they had with each other. Sure, things had been rough to start, but it was amazing how differently things could turn out when one's first meeting wasn't as cocky eleven year olds.

 

Draco knew he’d changed since Hogwarts; he’d had to. But first impressions were hard to change, especially when backed up with seven years of bigotry. He wondered now if Potter had changed, too, and if so, how. He’d never thought about it or cared before, and generally rolled his eyes whenever Potter made an appearance in the paper…and then devoured each word. But now here he was, actually getting to know Potter. Or some version of him, at least.There was the question of how much of Potter was in John; of what would remain when Potter remembered who he was; of how much of this personality was Potter and how much was who Potter could have been had it not been for the tragedies in his life.

 

But seeing Potter’s tattoo, Draco decided Potter must have changed. The placement alone made Draco wonder what Potter had been thinking when he got it. It was in the exact same location as Draco’s dark mark, and the shape wasn’t dissimilar, either. What could it mean, him getting a tattoo there? When had he gotten it? And why? Draco desperately wanted to know. He wanted to ask Potter a thousand questions that ‘John’ couldn’t possibly answer. Wanted to tell Potter things that would be meaningless to ‘John’. Things like “I’m sorry” and “Can we start over?” and “Do you think my name is nice?”

 

Draco wasn't used to apologizing, but against all his instincts, he wanted to.

 

So even if he didn’t really want to tell anyone, didn’t want to lose this tenuous bond, he knew he had to. He’d already inadvertently lied enough, and even if this version of Potter could accept Draco because there was nothing to forgive, that wasn’t what Draco wanted. Strangely enough, he wanted forgiveness, even if he’d never asked for it in as many words before. He wanted to be seen by Harry Potter, not just 'John Doe'. And if 'John Doe' wanted to remember who he was, Draco was the only one who could help him.

 

He had barely stumbled back to his tent, cold and miserable, before he’d shucked off his coat and pulled out parchment and a quill. He knew if he waited, he’d lose his nerve. Or at least, his liquid courage.

 

He spared a moment of uncertainty towards his course of action, but it was symbolic only.

 

To whom it may concern at the Ministry of Magic:

It has recently come to my attention that you are missing one Boy Who Lived. Fortunately I have found him, but even having located him, “Harry Potter” is not himself. I do not know the particulars, but he appears to have no memory of who he is. I advise someone to send mind healers and Potter’s acquaintances to collect him. Please note he is living a muggle life in a muggle town, so unless you want to give obliviators a lot to do, be discreet.

Sincerely,

A Concerned Party

 

It wasn’t the most eloquent of missives, but it would have to do. Draco had the feeling time was of the essence, and the sooner he sent the note, the sooner Potter could be on his way back to his old life.

 

Heart heavy, he attached the letter to Atlas’ reluctantly outstretched leg and sent the daft bird out into the rainy night to the Ministry of Magic with a tracking spell on the parchment to get them to Gleyma. It was too small and obscure a town for anyone to know it by name, surely.

 

As soon as it was gone, he knew it was the right thing to do. He didn't feel better about it, per se, but he did feel…unburdened. He wondered if it were cowardly not to sign his real name, but he had half a mind to worry they would think Draco had done this to Potter. Draco didn’t think he was naive, but he certainly could be deluded when it came to accepting just how much everyone hated him. Five years of Auror rejection letters in spite of being otherwise qualified spoke volumes, even if he didn't want to hear it.

 

He hoped Potter wouldn’t hate him when he remembered everything, on the off chance that just because ‘John Doe’ wanted to remember his past, Harry Potter didn’t. And as long as Draco was being hopeful…he could hope that maybe Potter would put in a good word for Draco with the DMLE, perhaps. Draco wasn’t doing this to win favors, mind, but it would certainly be an encouraging sign from the universe that Doing Good was Worthwhile if he got some reward out of it.

 

He’d heard someone say once—probably a Hufflepuff—that ‘doing good was its own reward’, but so far Draco only felt miserable and pathetic. Why was it so hard for him to do the right thing? Was that how one knew it was the right thing? Because it was difficult?

 

He pulled out his Moral Puzzle book, aiming to prove to himself that he could still do it, but his heart wasn’t in it. He didn’t care about lost sacks of gold and babies on train tracks. He cared about…

 

Gods, he couldn’t even admit it to himself, could he?

 

“I care about choosing my own path this time,” he said to no one in particular. He didn’t even have Atlas to hoot derisively at him for talking to himself. Lying to himself.

 

Even if he couldn’t personally ensure that Potter got to safety and remembered himself, Draco fully intended to stay and see to it that someone came to get him. It was his duty, he was sure. He became responsible to see it through the moment he decided to act on it and not abandon an amnesiac Potter here like every other witch and wizard who had seen Potter and done nothing.

 

He went to sleep thinking about la douleur exquise, doing the right thing, and how oblivious he’d been.

 

Yes. He was screwed.

 

The next day, he felt a bit better. It wasn’t raining anymore, though it was still misty and mysterious. He’d expected Atlas to have returned by morning, but perhaps the dotty owl had decided to go on a hunt instead. Draco had long given up trying to understand the mercurial moods of the feathery fiend, and counted himself lucky when the bird came back at all. Which, so far, was always. But there was a first for everything, including avian abandonment.

 

He gathered up his notes and went to Cosmic Latte and, just because he could order a pumpkin spice latte now that it was Saturday, ordered a peppermint mocha one instead. Or at least, he ordered chocolate and peppermint together, since apparently that was something you could do. No longer would the yoke of believing he could only choose one syrup bind him.

 

Potter looked annoyed at the order, but in a fond way, and Draco could only hope once again that when his memory was restored, that fondness wouldn’t evaporate.

 

Draco sat in Cosmic Latte all morning, chatting with Potter off and on through the various rushes. But no ministry officials came. He sat there through lunch, observed Cyril’s disturbingly punctual routine visit (where he ordered nothing and pestered Potter). Still no Ministry. Draco sat there through the end of Potter’s shift, and even after Potter had left. He sat there until the notorious Murph (who had arrived late but kept the Shop open later to compensate) informed Draco it was time for him to go, as it was closing time.

 

No ministry officials came that day.

 

It was odd, truly. Potter was the ministry’s Golden Boy, was he not? Surely they were obligated to check any lead about their missing hero, whether that be an anonymous tip off or letter signed by the Queen of England herself.

 

Maybe they haven’t seen the note yet, Draco reasoned. He’d always doubted the efficiency of the Ministry. Some poor, overworked peon was likely going through message after message, deciding which ones were urgent and which were not. Perhaps Draco should have sent the letter to the Minister himself, but…well, that would have been overkill, surely? One does not simply send an owl to Kingsley Shacklebolt. There were procedures. Rules. And the man was terrifying, in Draco’s opinion.

 

And if Draco accepted the cogs of bureaucracy a little too easily because it meant he got to spend more time with John-who’d-prefer-to-be-James-but-was-actually-Harry, well. No one was the wiser, were they?

 

Sunday, Cosmic Latte was closed, and all the better: the weather was perfect. And since surely the Ministry would show up on Monday and get Potter sorted, the necessity of being in Gleyma was coming to an end, thank Merlin. But until then, Draco did have an actual reason beyond Potter for being here, for camping and roughing it and travelling up the coasts of the Bristol Channel. He’d been avoiding it on account of awful weather, but he no longer had that excuse; he was here to collect a rare lichen called ‘fog moss’.

 

He wanted to be an auror, yes, but since that was taking quite a bit longer to work out than he’d hoped, gathering potions and plants for Blaise and Longbottom was an acceptable substitute to pass the time. Fog Moss, as it so happened, was named for the little puffs of air it exhaled. This air carried the strong, refreshing scent of a sea breeze so potent even stinksap couldn’t compete. Air that could, in theory, be bottled up and used in any number of potions to mask poor tastes and odors.

 

Fog moss was also technically a Class C Controlled Substance—banned for public use, in other words, due to the fact that it could be used to hide poisons that would otherwise be detected. But Draco knew Blaise and Longbottom, of all the odd pairings one could imagine, were working on legislation to make it legal. Together, at that.

 

The main reason Blaise wanted it was to improve the taste of various potions, starting with Hangover Remedy. It was a truly vile concoction, effective though it was. Also on the list was improving the taste of medical brews, especially for children. Everyone who had the misfortune of needing it agreed Skele-Gro was foul enough that many considered going boneless or having broken limbs rather than take it.

 

Fog Moss would change all that, but it was impossible to breed the moss in captivity, at least for the moment. It was also incredibly rare, so if he wanted to make a go of creating tasteless brews, Blaise needed to secure a consistent supply of the lichen. That was where Longbottom came in; Longbottom wanted to experiment with growing rare magical plants in captivity. He was working on a way to replicate the conditions that allowed different plants to thrive, including Fog Moss. The overlap of their goals had brought Blaise and Longbottom together, in so far as both needed Fog Moss and had no means to get any. Creating a violent seaside cliff in Longbottom’s lab was little more than a pipe dream at this point, and Blaise had exhausted his contacts for the expensive and miniscule samples of Fog Moss he’d managed to source.

 

Which was where Draco got involved. It had been Blaise’s idea to include Draco in the two herbologists’ mad venture, since Draco was apparently a ‘shiftless layabout with skills that shan’t be wasted by the enterprising’. What really convinced Draco to help was the fringe benefits: whether it was to make poor drinking decisions bearable the next morning or to help sick children, Draco figured he was doing a good thing. A profitable and charitable good thing. Improving medicinal potions for the sake of children was surely a good mark for his ‘please reconsider my auror application’ file, and even if it didn’t help him win his appeals, it was a good thing to do regardless.

 

It also didn’t hurt that it was a fun, exciting job, because Blaise was right: until he was accepted into the auror program, Draco was little more than a ‘shiftless layabout’.

 

Collecting the lichens was a treacherous affair, considering that one misstep would lead to a violent end in the raging sea below. Or at least, it would be if Draco scaled the cliff walls like an adrenaline junky. Instead, he took the much more sensible route of flying to collect his wares. Flying had its own risks, of course; the winds were strong along the coast, and had nearly blew Draco off course more times than he was comfortable admitting during his travels. There was also the sea to consider. Waves crashed against the cliff wall with frightful force, and Draco had to fly closer than he cared to. The closer to sea level, the more potent the lichens, and both Blaise and Longbottom had made it clear that the weak, high-cliff lichens wouldn’t cut it.

 

Longbottom was self-admittingly pants at flying or he’d have offered to do it himself, or so he said. Blaise insisted with false regret that he only flew when there was someone to admire him, but Draco knew secretly the ocean made the man a bit queasy. So it was up to Draco to fetch the plants. And as Draco would be the one ultimately testing the fog moss in potions, anyway, he had a feeling that he was the one who was always going to fetch the blasted lichens from the outset of this mad experiment.

 

Draco had been working with Blaise and Longbottom as something of a potions consultant for nearly three years now. They’d offered to make him an official employee of their startup herb-and-potion lab too many times to count, but Draco always turned them down—he was going to be an Auror. His application had been rejected five times, but he wasn’t going to give up yet. This current trip was the first time they’d asked him to do anything more dangerous than brew experimental potions, however.

 

Searching for the moss had taken weeks. It grew only in very specific conditions that were only vaguely known, those conditions being: along the Bristol Channel. That was it. It didn’t grow anywhere else. The moss was difficult to track down, and even if you found some, it did not grow in high enough abundance or potency to consider listing it as a main ingredient in a potion.

 

But that was what Blaise and Longbottom wanted to do, and they’d sent Draco out to find it. And in spite of the impossible odds stacked against him, he’d only gone and done it. Here, in gloomy Gleyma, he’d found a healthy, robust colony of Fog Moss. The problem was that the weather had been too poor most days to risk harvesting the lichens, but when the weather was pleasant, it would be more than doable. And perhaps it would be better for the longevity of the plant if it couldn’t be overfarmed, anyway. At least, until Longbottom and Blaise found a way to create it artificially, which Draco had no doubt they would.

 

The business of fetching the lichens was all terribly bothersome, yes, but also thrilling, in a way. If you’d told him three weeks ago that he’d actually enjoy camping, he’d have told you that you’d gone round the twist, and that there was certainly space for you in the Janus Thickey Ward at St. Mungo’s. He’d never admit to enjoying it, because Purebloods shouldn’t enjoy things like ‘roughing it in the woods’. But call him Godric Gryffindor, he enjoyed it.

 

Thinking about Gryffindor was dangerous to do while flying, because Draco’s mind inevitably drifted to who he’d come to think of as his Gryffindor. He felt a bit better now than he had when he’d originally sent the message on Friday. It had been the right thing to do, he knew it was, even if Potter was upset with him for ruining his anonymity. Draco could always explain that “John” had made it clear that he wanted to remember. And it wasn't even a lie! He insisted to himself the pang of regret was due to the proximity of the crashing waves below. Not the thought that Potter wouldn’t appreciate his efforts.

 

A chorus of voices who knew better clucked reproachfully in his mind. They could all kindly sod off, Draco thought.

 

It was as Draco was nearing the best of the crop that he felt the tingle of the proximity wards he’d cast around his campsite go off. He panicked for a moment, wondering if he’d been so distracted he’d forgotten to use a muggle warding charm, but then he realized there was one person who wouldn’t be affected by the muggle repelling charm: Potter. Was it that Potter had a Saviour sense that alerted him whenever someone might be in need of rescuing, or was he merely summoned by thoughts of him? Not that Draco was in danger, of course. At least, not any more than he ever was on a broomstick.

 

As pleased as Draco was that Potter had sought him out, now was not the opportune moment for him to arrive. What would he say if he saw Draco flying on a broomstick? Would he pass-out? Yell? Demand answers? Yes, he’d definitely do that, and more, unpredictable wanker that he was.

 

Draco flew up to just under the ledge of the cliff. If Potter had set off the wards, he was likely close enough to see Draco on a broom if he looked over the cliff. Which he just might do if he peeked in to Draco’s tent and saw he was gone.

 

Cursing Potter’s poor timing and the absolute insanity of what he was about to do, Draco cast a semi-permanent sticking charm on his dragonhide gloves (hopefully it wouldn’t ruin them; they were nice gloves, after all) and attached himself to the cliff face, dismounting from his broom and tucking it awkwardly under his arm.

 

“Draco?” he heard Potter call out. “Hello?”

 

Draco clung to the cliff, willing himself not to look down. If I die from this, Potter, I swear I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. "Down here, Pot—John!”

 

Moments later, Potter’s messy black thatch and reproachful green eyes peered over the side of the cliff. “Draco, what the hell are you doing?” he asked coolly, as though inquiring the time.

 

“Research,” Draco said with a calm he certainly did not feel.

 

“Oh. Researching slow and painful ways to die, are you?”

 

“Top secret stuff, you understand.”

 

“I understand you’re barking, ” Potter tsked with disapproval. “Do you need help up?”

 

“No, that’s quite alright, just leave me hanging here.”

 

With an exasperated sigh and an eye roll, Potter offered his hand. “Hand me one end of the broom, and you hang on to the other end. I’ll pull you up.”

 

It was the logical, rational thing to do, Draco reasoned, were it not for the fact that the broom was Draco’s only insurance should he fall. Of course, Potter didn't know that, but Draco could be annoyed with the suggestion if he wanted to. This was all Potter's fault, somehow. “I’d rather not let go of the wall, if it’s all the same to you.”

 

Potter sighed (again). “My arms might be long, but I can’t reach you all the way down there. Why the hell do you have a broom with you anyway?”

 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Draco said with as much haughtiness as he could manage given the circumstances. Unfortunately, Potter was right; even if Draco were foolhardy enough to let go of the cliff face and reach for Potter’s outstretched hand, they’d never reach each other.

 

Praying to any and every god that might be listening, Draco maneuvered the broom until the handle was within Potter’s grasp. The way he was holding it, the bristles were in Draco's face, but he figured it was the best angle to hop on to it should he fall. “I’m putting my life in your hands, Mr. Stag. Don’t abuse the privilege.”

 

“Keep talking like that and I might forget to hold on,” Potter grumbled, giving the broom a hefty tug. “It’s a good thing you so regularly forget to eat, Draco, or I might not be able to do this.”

 

“Ha, ha,” Draco growled, consoling himself with the knowledge Potter wouldn’t joke about such a thing if there were any risk he couldn’t handle it.

 

In spite of this admonition, the fact that he hardly strained to pull Draco up belied his strength. It seemed the months of working as a barista had not dulled his auror muscles. Draco refused to think about how enticing the thought of Potter's muscles were—his last thoughts would not be something so salacious.  Draco spared a thought for the irony that he trusted the amnesiac, effectively magicless Potter more than he’d ever trusted his Saviour counterpart, but one didn't have the leisure to consider irony when one was dangling above one’s death.

 

Even so, Draco breathed a huge sigh of relief once Potter had hauled him over the cliffside to safety.

 

Potter also seemed relieved, placing a strong hand on Draco’s shoulder and steering him away from the cliff edge. When they were a good ten meters away—excessive, in Draco’s opinion—Potter relaxed, dropping his hand. Draco tried not to be disappointed at the loss of contact; it was probably better for his heart palpitations, anyway.

 

“Are you hurt anywhere?” he asked, eyes searching Draco for injury.

 

“I’m fine,” he assured. Physically, at least.

 

Potter exhaled loudly, which warmed Draco considerably until relief was replaced by anger. “What were you thinking, Draco? You could have died!”

 

Draco drew himself up to his full height, donning the proverbial mantle of the Lord of Malfoy Manor. Potter may be stronger than Draco, but Draco was still at least a little taller than him. An inch or so, if you were being generous. “I’m sure it looked that way, but I assure you I was alright. I'm far more competent than you think.”

 

Potter glared at him. “It's not a matter of competence! Anyone can make a mistake, and there you'd be, dashed against the rocks with no one the wiser."

 

"I assure you—" he tried, but Potter was plowing on ahead.

 

"You should have told someone what you were doing, had them spot you, or—what if you'd gotten stuck? What if I hadn’t come? What then?” That seemed to be the end of his tirade, far as Draco could tell. Potter ran a hand raggedly through his hair, which did nothing for its aesthetic appeal. Even if Draco was starting to be fond of its indomitable spirit, not that he’d admit that any time soon.

 

Was he really that worried? Draco swallowed. “I’d have managed somehow.”

 

Potter groaned and dropped to sit on the ground, heedless of dirtying his clothing. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands, glasses pushed up onto his forehead. It would have been a comical look were it not for how stressed he seemed. “Please never do that again.”

 

“If I got enough samples, I won’t,” Draco agreed, ignoring the warmth fluttering in his stomach like some kind of…butterfly or some other such nonsense.

 

Potter peered up at Draco, who planned to remain on his feet, thanks very much. “Samples? Samples of what?”

 

Draco bit his lip. As long as he didn’t explain exactly what he was going to do with the lichens… “I was collecting these.” He opened his sack and revealed the lichens, quickly closing it again once Potter got a good look. He didn’t think he could give a muggle-approved explanation for why they were exhaling fog.

 

“Why?” Potter said at last, most of his anger drained by exhaustion.

 

“It’s an ingredient for some experimental medication.” Draco was pretty sure that was the wording Blaise told him to use if any muggles got too curious. “Beyond that, I can’t say. It really is a secret.”

 

“It’s for medicine?” Potter repeated distractedly. “And here I thought you couldn’t possibly be a science researcher,” he mumbled.

 

Draco wasn’t sure whether he ought to be offended by that, but pressed on regardless. “I’m not a scientist. I’m a…botanic pharmacologist.”

 

“Sounds like science to me,” Potter said, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You should stick to coffee classifications,” Draco advised. “Why are you here, anyway?”

 

“I received an urgent message that you’d taken leave of your senses and that until your sanity returned to you, I needed to make sure you didn’t hurt yourself doing something stupid and ill-advised.”

 

Draco panicked a bit when Potter mentioned a message, but relaxed as soon as he realized Potter was merely taking the piss. “Ha, ha . Why are you really here?”

 

“Honestly? I was bored.”

 

Draco hadn’t expected such a candid answer so readily. “Really? Bored? In Gleyma, beacon of entertainment?”

 

Potter flipped him off, and never had Draco been more pleased by the affability of such an obscene gesture.

 

“How did you know where to find me?” Draco asked, genuinely curious.

 

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but there aren’t many places one could be in Gleyma. I saw you walk in this general direction after the bonfire pit, so I figured I’d run into you around here eventually.” Potter said this all with a distracted nonchalance, as though he hadn’t admitted to essentially stalking Draco here. Then again, Draco didn’t really mind all that much.

 

Potter sat there and hummed, cleaning his glasses on his shirt, revealing cut abs that Draco was decidedly not looking at. He wore all black today—black jeans with a black shirt and black boots as well. If Draco didn’t know better, he’d say they were dragonhide, auror issue. “Anyway, the weather is unusually nice today, and I couldn’t stand to stay inside. Not to mention I didn’t want Cyril to find me.” Potter shuddered and put his glasses back on. They weren’t so different from the ones he used to wear, but rather than the black clunky things he wore in school, these were gold and circular. They suited him in an odd way, a grown up version of his signature look.

 

“What are you staring at?” he asked, frowning.

 

“I wasn’t staring, ” Draco lied, turning away to hide his blush. “I was just wondering where you got those boots.”

 

“Oh,” Potter said darkly. “I was wearing them when I washed up on the beach, apparently. Everyone said it was strange the salt water didn’t destroy them.”

 

Definitely auror issue, then. As if salt water is any match for magic. “They must be desperate for gossip here if your shoes are interesting enough to warrant discussion.” Before Potter could get dispirited over his lack of memories, Draco added, “What did you want to do, then, in honour of such agreeable weather?”

 

“I dunno. Whatever you want.” Potter shrugged, leaning back on the ground. Typical, to come charging in without a plan. “You’re the tourist here.”

 

“I’m not a tourist, I’m a researcher.” He sighed and sat down next to Potter, finding the ground was surprisingly quite dry. “What do you normally do on a Sunday in Gleyma? Other than try not to die of boredom.”

 

“Normally I work on my correspondence coursework. But it’s still pretty boring.”

 

Draco vaguely remembered Potter mentioning a class assignment, but they’d gotten off topic before he explained what he was studying. “What class are you taking?”

 

“Finance.” Potter said the word like he was talking about a pestilence.

 

Draco laughed harder than he had in a while. “Good grief, why? That doesn’t seem like your cup of tea.”

 

“Because I need to know about money things if I intend to open my own cafe one day.”

 

And alright, there was some logic there, after all. “Do you intend to?”

 

Potter shrugged, averting his gaze. “If I don’t remember...whatever I used to know...well, working at a coffee shop is what I know now. It’s a living, and I’m good at it. I think I enjoy it, too.”

 

“You think?”

 

“It’s not exactly that exciting. I always wonder if I could do more. Should do more.”

 

The fact that even in his amnesiac state Potter felt compelled to do more saddened Draco. Even saviours needed a break. “What 'more' do you want to do?”

 

“I don’t know,” Potter replied, meeting Draco’s gaze a last. “For now, I’m just taking life one latte at a time.”

 

Draco nodded like he understood, but he was starting to wonder if he’d ever fully comprehend this complex man. He only hoped he’d have the opportunity. “Running a cafe shouldn’t require you understand everything about finance.”

 

“I’m more concerned I’ll need to prove I have some idea what I’m doing in order to get a bank loan to start my business.”

 

“You should just make friends with rich people who believe in you.”

 

Potter laughed freely, and dammit, it was a beautiful sound. “Yeah, 'cause there’s plenty of those waltzing around Gleyma.”

 

“You’re going to open your cafe here ?” Draco asked, deflecting from the fact that Potter had done just that. Then again, Potter wasn’t strapped for gold either, if sources were to be believed. “You’ll put Cosmic Latte out of business.”

 

“I was thinking I’d run an Inn with an attached cafe. There isn’t one here, you know. An inn, that is.”

 

“I noticed,” Draco said dryly.

 

“How’d you hear about Gleyma, anyway?" he asked, propping himself up on one elbow. "We’re not exactly a destination. More of a via point, if that. I don’t think we’re even on the map. I checked. Even Google couldn’t find Gleyma,” he said, shaking his head sadly.

 

Draco quietly congratulated himself on being correct that supplying the Ministry with the name of this backwater town wouldn’t have helped them, and wondered who ‘Google’ could be. A cartographer, perhaps? Something to research later.

 

“I didn’t hear about it from anyone, I just…happened upon it. I’ve been travelling in the area because of the geography. The lichen I’m gathering only grows on a very specific stretch of coast." Draco patted his bag fondly. "I picked my campsite close to a town so I could get  a decent cup of coffee and not be completely miserable roughing it on the cliffs alone.”

 

“Will you leave, now that you’ve got your samples?” Potter almost sounded disappointed at that. Draco wanted to grab Potter's shoulders and shake him, tell him that there was nothing binding Potter to this place. To tell Potter he could leave if he wanted—he'd quite literally only washed up on the shore here at random. But he’d already sent the owl with the note, so Potter wouldn’t have the chance to make that choice for himself. Rather, John wouldn’t get to make that choice. Potter would probably be thrilled to leave under and circumstance. Wouldn’t he?

 

Draco felt the guilt he thought he’d rid himself of creeping up again. “I still have some tests I need to run with what I’ve gathered, so I’ll be around for a little while longer.” In truth, there was no need to do that testing here. In fact, it would be preferable to do it in his much better equipped lab at the manor.

 

But he couldn’t leave; not yet. He meant to see this thing through to the end, taking responsibility when he didn’t have to for perhaps the first time in his life.

 

A quite fell between them, broken only by the sound of crashing waves. “Do you…like living here?” he asked, because apparently he was self-destructive and wanted to feel guilty if it turned out Potter liked living here, or something.

 

Potter shrugged. “It’s alright. It could be more, though, if the people here were open to change. It could be a destination. The location isn’t the problem, just the presentation.”

 

Draco thought that was a more charitable assessment than Gleyma deserved, but it was for all intents and purposes Potter’s home, for now.

 

Potter seemed cheered up, at least, that Draco was staying for the foreseeable future. But they both knew he was leaving eventually. Sooner rather than later, in fact. I’d take him with me if he asked me to, Draco thought.

 

But he knew Potter wouldn’t ask, just as he knew he was unequivocally screwed, in too deep and only sinking deeper.

 

 

---

 

I’d go with him if he asked me to. The thought came unbidden and quite unexpectedly to John as he stared out at the coast line, feeling a little bit pathetic. He’d never really wanted to leave before—there was no where else for him to go. It was always just a concept, a thing he could do, sure, one day, maybe. A small, irrational part of him worried that if he left the place he’d been found, he’d never get back to where he’d been before.

 

But now he was ready to leave. Wanted to. The sleepiness of the town used to comfort John; now it only felt restrictive to him. Maybe it was even a small part of his old identity—his true identity—seeping through. Draco was interesting, exciting, and full of secrets. Everything Gleyma wasn’t.

 

He’d saved up some money, but not enough to go anywhere important. He didn’t want to end up in another Gleyma, futher up the coast. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go to London, though, either.

 

But it was a thought, wasn’t it? “What’s London like?” he asked out of the blue. He’d probably been there before, but he didn’t remember.

 

The question seemed to catch Draco off guard. “Why? Thinking of visiting?”

 

“John Doe has never been. I bet Harry Potter has, though.”

 

“He most certainly has,” Draco agreed. “He works there.”

 

“Hmm. It’s strange to hear you talk about him like that.”

 

“You asked,” Draco pointed out mulishly.

 

" So I did."

 

Draco muttered something under his breath, then said, “London is loud, and busy, and crowded. Sometimes it smells funny, but all big cities do. There are buildings everywhere, some older than your family, some only there for a week. There’s always throngs of people who clearly aren’t from there, gawking at every which thing. It’s a sprawling metropolis filled with thousands of pockets to suit any interest, no matter how obscure. There’s Big Ben, of course, terribly useful muggle invention, that. Putting a huge clock where everyone can see it—”

 

“What’s a muggle?”

 

Draco tensed up, as though he’d revealed something he hadn’t meant to. “Bit of an in-joke, but not really a joke, per se…it’s just what people who went to my school call people who didn’t go there.”

 

John narrowed his eyes. He’d gotten better in the past few days at telling when Draco was keeping something from him, and this seemed to be one of those times. “That seems a bit exclusionary,” he sniffed.

 

Draco shrugged, carefully inspecting the bark on a nearby tree.

 

“Where did you go to school?”

 

“Up north. Very selective boarding school.”

 

“What school?” John pressed, though he didn’t really know the names of many boarding schools. He knew of Eton and…Eton.

 

“You wouldn’t have heard of it,” Draco said with a hand wave, but there was a nervous look to his eye. So, not Eton, then.

 

“Try me," John challenged, though he almost certainly did not know of it. But I can research the name later, he reasoned. That was the reason he needed to hear the name, surely.

 

“Hogwarts.”

 

“Hogwarts?” Was that a new way of saying ‘poppycock’? 'Hogwash'? 'Bullocks'? John scowled. “You don’t have to make things up if you don’t want to tell me.”

 

“Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction. Especially if I’m going to be interrogated after everything I say,” Draco replied, evasive as ever about his past. Perhaps it was related to the secret war he couldn't talk about. Military academies were a thing, weren't they?

 

John sighed. He hadn’t meant to be so demanding in information. He just…wanted to know. “What else is there in London?” he asked, returning to more neutral territory.

 

“Well, there’s the River Thames, of course, and a series of impressive bridges…” Draco paused, as if lost in thought. “There’s buildings ancient and full of history, and new monolithic constructions built faster than you can believe. London is always bustling with activity. The narrow, winding streets, the vast parks within a city so cosmopolitain it is the city, as far as I’m concerned. I prefer the peace of the countryside, for the most part. But London…London will always be a temptation.” He hummed, equal parts fond and frustrated. “Words don’t do it justice, really. You should just go see it yourself.”

 

John suspected Draco had the words, probably, if he tried. The thought of visiting London filled him with conflicting senses of wonder and fear. He hoped it didn’t show on his face. “Maybe one day,” he said, dismissing the topic he’d so brilliantly brought up. “I haven’t even thoroughly explored Exmoor, let alone West Somerset, and I live here.”

 

“Seven months and you haven’t explored?” Draco asked, sounding almost scandalized. “Where have you been, then?”

 

“I’ve seen Gleyma…”

 

“And?” Draco pressed. “Surely you’ve left town at least once?”

 

John cringed internally and debated lying. He’d never been very good at concealing the truth, though. “Well…I almost went to Lynmouth once,” he said sheepishly. “We get our cafe shipments there…”

 

Draco went quiet, and John was nervous to look up and see the expression on his face. But he figured Draco couldn’t be thinking anything worse about it than John felt, so he stole a glance. Draco looked troubled and uneasy, which wasn’t what John had been expecting; he’d expected pity, or disapproval.

 

If anything, Draco looked anxious, and not a small bit regretful. “Why haven’t you left?”

 

John wasn’t prepared to answer that; he’d been asking himself the same question for months. “I just…haven’t made time for it, I suppose.”

 

Draco didn’t seemed satisfied by that, but didn’t press for more answers in that vein, fortunately. “Well, is there anything you'd like to see in Exmoor, then?”

 

This, John could answer. “I’d like to see the Tarr Steps, at least. Maybe go on a hunt for the Beast.”

 

“The Beast?” Draco laughed. “The one you mentioned on Friday? I thought you made that up!”

 

“I didn’t need to. 'Truth is stranger than fiction', as they say.”

 

Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, hopefully your beast will stick to Exmoor.”

 

“Worried?” Harry joked, elbowing Draco good-naturedly.

 

“I’m not, but my mother would be. We have peacocks, you know.”

 

“Peacocks ?” John half-scoffed, half-laughed. “Not native ones, surely?” He thoughtfully shook his head, wondering at the oddity that was Draco. “Do your mother and her peacocks live close to Exmoor?”

 

“Wiltshire,” Draco explained. “And they’re my father’s peacocks.”

 

“Isn’t your father the one who should worry about The Beast, then?”

 

“Malfoys never worry,” he said with a negligent handwave, though John suspected that was true only in theory.

 

Somehow, they’d gotten off-track talking about London, but that seemed nearly as perilous a topic as Harry Potter, and John didn’t want to spoil the rare good weather with unpleasant discussions.

 

"Do you want to collect sea shells?"

 

If Draco were taken aback by the non sequitur, he did an impressive job of hiding it. "I don't think we'll be able to get any from up here."

 

"Which is why we'd have to go to the beach." At that, Draco tensed up, but John ignored it. "It's a nice day, and I haven't been to the beach in…a while." In truth, John hadn't been to the beach since washing up there, and as he couldn't remember that particularly pivotal life event, one could say he'd never been to the beach.

 

"Are you sure that's what you want to do?" Draco said quietly, perhaps picking up on John's mood.

 

"I suggested it, didn't I?" John hopped up and brushed the dirt from his jeans. "I don't want to go alone. What if I encounter the same problem that led to my amnesia again? Who will defend me if not you?"

 

"I'm no hero," said Draco, rolling his eyes, "but if you insist."

 

"I do," John said with a rakish grin.

 

 

"I'm not much of one for nature," Draco admitted as they made their way down the somewhat treacherous—and steep—hill to the beach. "And yet I find myself getting dragged out into the elements. By you. Yet again ."

 

"The sun will do you some good," John said, clambering down the last terrace and landing on the beach. He pulled off his shoes and relished the feeling of sand between his toes.

 

"Easy for you to say," Draco grumbled, gracefully sliding down beside John. "You probably don't get sunburnt. You were made for sunny climates."

 

"I wouldn't know," John admitted. "There's not enough sun here to burn even the most delicate of flowers like yourself, and I can't remember…what it's like to be in someplace sunny."

 

Draco made a noncommittal noise and bent over to take off his shoes. He was the type to fuss over untying the laces, apparently, and painstakingly rolled up his trousers so they wouldn't get wet. His feet were more delicate than John would have thought. Not that he thought about Draco's feet. He turned away, casting his gaze to the sun glinting on the waves.

 

"Would you like to go someplace sunny?" Draco asked, folding his socks and sticking them inside his shoes. It was unbearably charming.

 

"I guess," John said, hoping to avoid another awkward discussion of why he'd never left Gleyma. "Maybe Spain sometime, for an important life achievement."

 

"Like marriage?"

 

"There'd have to be someone worth marrying first," John said darkly, then immediately wished he hadn't. Something about Draco made him far too lax about revealing his inner thoughts. It wasn't that he was embarrassed, just…well, he was a private person, and doing a very poor job of acting like one.

 

Ignorant to John's inner turmoil, Draco replied, "Well, I hope you're right about the sun here, because I do burn. Or worse—freckle." He shuddered at some mental image, and John couldn't help but to laugh.

 

"I dunno, I bet you'd be pretty cute with freckles." John was instantly mortified again—what possessed him to say that?  But it was out there now. Besides, he noted, Draco's cute enough even without freckles. "Oh look, a sand dollar," he said, changing the subject with the finesse of a stampeding rhino.

 

Draco graciously let the comment slide, though a surreptitious glance revealed he was a little pinker than normal. But perhaps it was just due to the sun.

 

They walked along the beach and talked for what felt like both a very long time and not nearly long enough, discussing everything from poetry—does it have to rhyme to be worthwhile?—to sharks—are waters shark-infested, or do they merely live there? At one point, they got into an undignified splash war that ended with the both of them soaked and laughing, calling it quits only because the sun was setting and it was getting cold.

 

John didn’t really want to say goodbye, though. He found he was enjoying Draco’s company far more than he had any right to. And wasn’t that a strange thought?

 

“Would you like to come over for dinner?” he asked impulsively.

 

Draco didn’t look disgusted, so that was good. But he didn’t look pleased, either; he looked confused. “You can cook?”

 

“Of course I can, can't you? I make a mean lasagne.”

 

“I’ve always wanted to try lasagne…” Draco mumbled mostly to himself. John wasn’t sure he was meant to hear it.

 

“You’ve never had lasagne?”

 

“…my parents prefer French cuisine to Italian," Draco said with a delicate shrug.

 

John wasn't exactly sure how to interpret that, but chalked it up to the many enigmas surrounding Draco. There turned out to be quite a lot. It was strange, though. Draco was obviously intelligent, well read, and educated. And yet he didn’t know who Queen was. Or the Rolling Stones. Or the name of the current Prime Minister.

 

And he’d never had lasagne. “Well, tonight we’re going to change that. Never again will you be able to say ‘I’ve never had lasagne’, but I warn you, after you eat my rendition, you’ll be ruined for all other lasagne.”

 

“Well alright then, John. Ruin me.”

 

John stood up quickly, doing his best not to think of Draco saying that in a very different context and failing utterly. “Right then. Follow me.”

 

When he led the way in the opposite direction they'd come, Draco faltered, however. "Ah, can we swing by mine so I can change?"

 

John frowned. He thought Draco said he had a caravan, but unless it was hiding elsewhere in the woods, the blonde only had a tent. Which meant he probably didn't have a dryer…or a place to bathe. "You can borrow some dry clothes, if you like. A shower too, perhaps. You smell like the ocean."

 

Draco scowled at that. "You don't smell any better."

 

"I happen to know for a fact that I always smell like coffee. A hazard of the job, you see."

 

Draco sniffed primly, but his sparkling eyes belied his amusement. "Whoever told you that has a defective nose."

 

"You're just jealous. Besides, I happen to like how the ocean smells."

 

 Draco wrinkled his nose. "Like fish?"

 

"Like…freedom." This set off a debate about why Draco had anything to be jealous of regarding John and what, specifically, 'freedom' smelled like. It lasted all the way back to town.

.

 

.

 

.

 

“You know, I really don’t think it’s fair,” Draco said, pushing away his completely clean plate after a second helping of lasagne.

 

“What’s not fair?” John asked innocently.

 

“For the rest of my life, no lasagne will ever stack up to the one I’ve just gorged myself on. I’ll always be chasing that bliss. Why have you done this to me? To the rest of the lasagne chefs in the world?”

 

“That’s the price you have to pay to enjoy the best," John said smugly.

 

“Malfoys never settle for less than the best,” Draco agreed, patting his stomach. “Where did you learn to cook that? I’ll have to send my house el—er, staff to learn.”

 

John stabbed the last of his lasagne with more force than necessary, taken off guard by the question. “I wish I could tell you.”

 

Draco blinked, eyes darting around as though quickly processing John's words. “You didn’t learn it after you woke up from your coma?”

 

“Nope,” John said, popping the p. “But I must’ve made it a lot, you know. Before. Seems like the recipe is burned into my muscle memory.”

 

“Well then," Draco said cheerfully. "In that case it’s a far more special dish than I realized.” Draco's eyes were full of something soft, and John had to look away. “If it’s the only thing you can remember for now, it’s a grand thing to have not forgotten.”

 

“Grand? Who says grand?” John scoffed, though he was feeling anything but annoyed. The fact that Draco fully expected John to remember everything about his former life was, well—Grand.

 

“I do,” Draco said, sipping wine like some kind of Lord. In fact, he did mention something odd…

 

“So. You have house staff, “ John stated, careful to to inflect neither humor nor hostility.

 

Draco’s eyes flickered, trying to read the mood. “…my family does.”

 

“Hmm. Interesting.”

 

“Is it?” Draco said, sounding bored.

 

“You are interesting,” John clarified. “And yet, you’ve told me more about Harry Potter than you have about yourself.”

 

“You haven’t asked about Draco Malfoy,” he pointed out. There was a kind of hollow loneliness in his eyes, and John could kick himself for not having asked Draco more about himself instead of John's erstwhile doppelganger.

 

“Can I? Ask, that is.”

 

Draco tapped his fingers on his wine glass pensively. “That depends. Do you have dessert?”

 

John stood up and started rummaging through his cabinets, trying to hide his blush. He felt incredibly awkward for reasons he wasn't prepared to examine at the moment. But maybe that was the wine talking. “I probably have some chocolate lying around somewhere…”

 

"Chocolate?" Draco repeated, tone indecipherable.

 

Thinking about what little he did know about Draco, John began to feel inadequate. "I suppose it’s terribly common for someone who has house staff, and peacocks, and 'Malfoys who never settle' and 'Malfoys who never worry' and—"

 

“If you like it, Harry, it must be good.”

 

John paused his rummaging. Surely he'd misheard? "What did you say?”

 

“I…said if you like dairy,” Draco said with just a bit too much force to sound natural.

 

John thought about that.“You can call me Harry, if you like,” he said quietly. “I don’t mind.”

 

“Don’t you?” Draco mumbled.

 

John continued his rummaging, though he’d already realized he’d eaten the last of the Cadbury’s he thought he had. But now that he’d mentioned chocolate, he was desperate to find something. Or perhaps it was just that he wasn’t quite ready to face Draco, worried his eyes would betray him. “Well, it's not like John is my name, either, so you can call me whatever you—ah ha ! This will do nicely, I think.”

 

He pulled out a tin of powdered chocolate, still facing away from Draco. In the time it took to whip up a batch of hot chocolate—with his own twist—the awkward moment had passed. “Try this,” he said, pushing a mug towards Draco and suppressing a devilish smile.

 

Draco, unsuspecting, took a deep sip. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “It’s…spicy.”

 

"Not what you were expecting?" Like you, John wanted to say. But he didn’t. He was already uncomfortable with the sensations swirling around his solar plexus region. “I put cayenne and cinnamon in it. Nice, right?”

 

“It certainly packs a punch." Draco’s eyes were a bit watery, and his face flushed.  "Why did you put pepper in it?”

 

“Why not?” John sidestepped. The truth was he wasn't sure why he did it, except to be contrary. “Queenie won’t let me make anything with cinnamon at Cosmic Latte. Definitely not cayenne. She says it’s not ‘marketable’.”

 

Something flashed in Draco's eyes, but it was gone before John could analyze the emotion there. “What does she know,” he said, gamely taking another bold sip.

 

John smiled and sipped his own concoction, passing the cream to Draco. He'd always suspected it might be too spicy for those unused to the pepper, but had never had a willing person drink it to tell him. He couldn't deny how pleased he was that Draco drank it anyway. “That's exactly what I said.”

 

"Is she always so controlling?" Draco asked, discreetly adding more cream to his cup.

 

"She doesn't like change," John said, avoiding the question. "Or cayenne."

 

"But she tolerates you," Draco pointed out. "Isn't that what friends are for? Drinking unmarketable drinks because your friend likes them?"

 

John blushed and tried to hide it with his mug. "I guess I wouldn't know."

 

John didn’t ask Draco Malfoy anything about himself, and Draco didn't call John 'Harry' again for the rest of the evening—or anything else.

 

But John suspected neither of them ended the day feeling sorry about it. He did wonder if this was what friendship felt like, or if this was something different.

 

He wasn't sure what to hope for, but he knew the answer, probably, if he cared to name the feeling.

Notes:

Thank you to everyone who left lovely comments! Here's an early update for all you dears <3 It's significantly longer than previous chapters, too! Did you know the Beast of Exmoor is a real urban legend? The Tarr steps are real, too.

I'm on tumblr at http://noir-renard.tumblr.com/ if you want to chat! bises xoxo

Chapter 6: Blue, Green, and What's Inbetween

Summary:

It's not all lasagne and bonfire pits. But what's commitment without a little adversity?

John did not consider himself a morning person. He liked mornings well enough—calm, quiet, brimming with possibility. What he did not appreciate was actually having to do anything in the morning. But as he didn’t wake up early without having a reason to be awake (like work) or getting woken (by a nightmare, usually), it was hard to sever the negative association he’d developed for the Ante Meridiam. He’d gotten used to waking up early, but being awake didn’t mean being alert, in his experience. And yet he’d gotten saddled with working the morning shift six days a week. At the very least, after a few run-ins with his morning face, no one expected him to be chipper at half-six in the morning. Not to mention that working in a shop specializing in caffeinated beverages had its perks, literally and figuratively.

 

His morning routine wasn’t long or elaborate, but it did take him a long time to get through it. He wasn’t absent minded, really. Just…pensive. Yes, that was the word, probably. He worked slowly after waking, easily distracted and losing his train of thought in the middle of tasks. Make the bed, wonder why he bothered, eat his toast, think about animal rights, brush his teeth, despair of global climate change, consider his hair (no point combing it), wonder what his parents looked like, put on clean clothes, consider how much he really needed this job, look for his keys (half-hearted), decide he really did need his job, gaze longingly at the bed one last time (but he’d already made the bed, he couldn't get back in), then go to work. It ought to have taken him maybe ten minutes tops to get through the practical elements of his routine, perhaps fifteen if one factored in the average amount of vocational waffling. Usually it took him half an hour.

 

From what he gathered, no one really liked their job, but he thought he probably had a fair bit more of reluctance than most people. At least they chose their jobs and could understand the path that had led them to the place they were in life. He didn’t mind making coffee too terribly, but that didn’t mean he wanted to do it every day. He did it because there was nothing else to do.

 

In any case, mornings were a delicate balance between bargaining how long he could lay in bed feigning sleep and playing devil’s advocate for convincing himself to get out of bed. The trouble with arguing with oneself was: you always lost.

 

This morning was a particularly difficult battle for the will to work, since it was Monday. Having Sunday off always made it that much more challenging to get back to the grind, but he was sure he would've gone mad by now if he didn’t have any days off. It was particularly trying on this particular Monday because it was the Monday after a Sunday he’d spent rather more pleasantly than most, in the company of one Draco Malfoy. Draco who could have died looking for lichens over the cliff (maybe). Draco who’d never eaten lasagne (before yesterday). Draco who asked John about his plans outside Gleyma, after Gleyma, like such a thing could be conceptualized (perhaps it could, if John tried).

 

If he could have, John would have spent the morning in bed with tea, looking out the window at the rain and thinking about London. Or York. Or Glasgow. Or even Lynmouth, not half an hour away by car. Any dirty, busy, bustling, historic city someplace where no one knew him, or Harry Potter, or cared about his business. But if a certain blonde did want to accompany him on his trip to some city somewhere, well, he could be convinced.

 

It was tempting to blow off work to fantasize. But if he did that, he wouldn’t get to see Draco, who would undoubtedly be very put off if he didn’t get his morning coffee. He was nearly always there within the first half hour of the shop opening, though Draco himself didn’t seem to be much of a morning person, either. He was grumpy and curt until at least half ten, in John’s (admittedly limited) experience. Then again, Draco was always a bit grumpy, but he certainly talked more as the hours in the day accumulated. So even if he would be cross and short with John, John had at least some motivation to get to work on time. He suspected Draco would be even more ornery if deprived or delayed from his morning caffeine.

 

Having spent longer than usual on his morning contemplations, John was considering skipping the toast because he wasn’t sure what philosophical questions might upset his schedule if he opened the breadbox (questions like: did he even like toast, or did he just eat it because it was quick and easy?). Theoretically, it only took 3 minutes to make toast. Somehow, though, it always seemed to rack up to five to ten, depending on how long he stared at the breadbox and dwelled on what he’d been doing before getting sidetracked by existential apathy. He’d all but settled on eating a pastry at Cosmic Latte when a rapping on the door threw a spanner in his already derailed routine.

 

Grumbling under his breath, he crossed his small basement flat to open the door, finding—quite unexpectedly and not altogether pleasantly—The Old Man. His real name was Mr. Baas; his given name was something unsuitably fanciful, like Bertram or Claudius or Aloysius—but everyone called him The Old Man. He didn’t seem to care what people called him, but John always insisted on calling him Mr.Baas to his face, at least. John usually saw him across the square on his way to work; the Old Man walked around town once every morning and once every evening. Usually, John’s interactions with him were fleeting and unremarkable. He kept to himself for the most part, but when someone lived above you, you tended to see them frequently, if only in passing.

 

Still, exchanging polite greetings with someone does not a friendship make. He’d hardly exchanged ten words outside of ‘good morning’ and ‘good evening’ with John, which made his appearance on John’s doorstep unprecedented, to put it mildly. Eerie, to put it bluntly. Inconvenient, to put it realistically. John didn’t have the time or energy for a drawn out conversation, and he didn’t know what to expect from this visit out of the blue.

 

“Mr.Baas, what a…surprise.” John paused to take in The Old Man’s appearance, looking for any hints to what the hell he was doing here. A brown wrinkled trench that might have been grey once, a wool hunters cap, green wellingtons. The Old Man’s Uniform, as it were, and it revealed nothing. Finding no other obvious clues, he asked, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Mr.Doe,” The Old Man said calmly, bowing his head, “I’m here to deliver your post.”

 

“…my post?” Usually his post came to Cosmic Latte, not that he got much. Just an odd Missing Person’s Report the Lynmouth Police forwarded through the Library. Or occasionally his correspondence coursework.

 

The Old Man reached inside his coat and pulled out a small bundle of letters, handing it to John. “Queenie asked me to give it to you, she’s not feeling well this morning.”

 

“Oh,” John replied smartly. “Is she ill?”

 

The Old Man said nothing for a moment. You wouldn’t think it from his neutral attitude, but Queenie was his daughter or his niece or something. Sometimes even John forgot they were supposed to be family. “She’ll live,” he said at last. “Said she was going to give it to you yesterday, but you weren’t around, she said.”

 

John frowned. “There’s no post on Sundays.” It was the most neutral thing he could say, because his mind was itching with some massive revelation just beyond his grasp. There was something…odd about all this, that was certain. He didn’t think he had any hope of figuring it out before coffee, though.

 

“The Post arrived on Saturday, she picked it up with the coffee, she said.” 

 

“In Lynmouth?" John said absently, as he glanced through the post. It dawned on him then that if Queenie had tried to give John his post, and noticed he wasn't home, then she must have come by. Perhaps even let herself in, since she did, technically, have a key. This was too much for a Monday morning. “Why did she want to give it to me yesterday? Or today, for that matter. There’s nothing pressing here…”

 

“Ask her yourself,” came the response. It wasn’t rude, per se, but it was certainly not friendly either. John was beginning to get the impression that the source of Queenie’s “illness” was nothing short of having a temper tantrum. If John knew anything about her, she was no doubt displeased that John hadn’t been home, and was thus pouting now.

 

And she'd sent The Old Man to deliver John’s mail just so he’d know she was upset. Charming.

 

“Did that outsider go home yet?” Mr.Baas asked, inexplicably prolonging this unwelcome interaction. He didn’t seem altogether comfortable with the topic, but there was something in his eyes…suspicion, perhaps. And a little bit of resentment.

 

John didn’t particularly want to be having this conversation either, especially at this juncture. He was beginning to wish he could go back to the time before he’d had a proper conversation with the man; it wasn’t doing much for John’s opinion of him.

 

“Er...why?”

 

“He’s been here a long time,” The Old Man said, dodging the question.

 

John squinted a bit, trying to make sense of the situation. It was too early to parse all the things being said between the lines, and John had a feeling he’d be annoyed by the insinuations, anyway. “Lovely as it is to chat with you, sir, I really don’t have the time at the moment.”

 

The Old Man nodded sensibly. “Everyone leaves eventually, Mr.Doe. No matter what…dalliances they may find here, there’s nothing here to keep them.”

 

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” John said, feeling petulant.

 

“You have a place here. He does not, nor does he want one.”

 

I don’t want a place here, either, John thought bitterly. “He’s welcome here as long as he wants to be.”

 

The look on Mr. Baas’ face said he did not agree, but he didn’t press the issue. “Queenie said to tell you to pick up the shipments at the warehouse and the pastries from the Jones, too.”

 

John had only a moment to process that before the panic kicked in. “That’s halfway across town!” John didn’t have a car, or know how to drive one; he’d have to walk to the factory and to the Jones’ to get the pastries. She could be a right bitch when she was upset, and John wasn’t certain he’d entirely deserved this.

 

“She won’t be coming in today,” The Old Man informed him, with just a hint of smugness coloring his tone. “Said you’d understand.”

 

Understand you’re a moody bint, he groused, mentally tallying all the additional tasks dumped on his plate. “Well, thanks for coming in a timely manner,” he growled. “I really must be going if I have any hope of opening the shop before nine.”

 

“I’ll leave you to it. You’re a capable lad.”

 

John shut the door with a forceful thunk, not caring to be polite. He hoped the old codger tripped on his daily constitutional.

 

A more thorough scan of the post revealed it was the same as usual—missing person reports. A glance at his watch confirmed he didn’t have time to read through them now. Not that they'll have anything useful in them.

 

Sighing, John set his mail aside to read later, throwing on jeans, a jumper, and boots he’d probably worn too recently to wear again without washing. Not that anyone noticed or cared. Draco would notice, he thought. Draco cared about things like fashion and presentation.

 

John shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts (rather unsuccessfully). He’d been in a decent mood for a Monday before The Old Man showed up, but any optimism he’d managed to wrangle was thoroughly soured. Of course Draco was leaving, and of course John knew that. And knowing that, he wouldn’t be hurt when it happened.

 

Still, the Old Man’s words disturbed John on multiple levels; Mr. Baas himself never went in to Cosmic Latte, even though he technically owned it or something. That meant someone else had told him about Draco, and based on his admonitions, it hadn’t been nice things—about Draco or John. Dalliance, my arse, he scoffed to himself.

 

But John didn’t have time to think about that right now; he didn't have time for toast, either. He was late.

 

---

 

Although he hadn’t even been there for a full week yet, Draco had already settled into a pattern at Cosmic Latte. Since his slip-up on Sunday calling Potter ‘Harry’ after an unforgettable meal, Draco couldn’t go back to calling him Potter or John or even Mr. Stag, funny as that was. In his mind, at least, Potter was Harry now.

 

Still, pattern or no, Draco was ready to leave Cosmic Latte and Gleyma behind, and such a time was imminent. He was sure that having had the weekend to sort out their messages, the Ministry was sure to pop in today and help the Chosen One reclaim his life.

 

When Draco arrived at Cosmic Latte, however, he was dismayed to see it wasn’t open. Frowning, he peered through the windows. It was dark inside, the dim morning light barely illuminating the vague shapes of the empty shop. Even the fire was extinguished, implying no one had been in yet. Draco felt a pang of worry shiver down his spine, but tried to ignore it. There was nothing to worry about in this sleepy town, surely.

 

Perhaps the Ministry had already arrived, found Harry, and whisked him back to the Wizarding world? Draco rejected that notion as soon as he thought it. Harry wouldn’t just disappear without saying something to the people of Gleyma. Do you think he’d say something to you, though?

 

Refusing to let himself get worked up over nothing, Draco resolved himself to waiting patiently until Harry showed up. Or, well, waiting.

 

It was nearly an hour past opening when Harry finally came around the corner, head bowed down against the wind and trailing a wagon behind him, walking like a man resigned to his fate. The wagon contained several burlap sacks.

 

“Good morning,” Draco said as cheerfully as he could manage, given the early hour.

 

Harry looked up, surprise coloring his features before resuming his resignation. “Morning,” he mumbled.

 

Draco was as startled as he was concerned. “You’re late, you know,” he said, trying for lighthearted.

 

It didn’t work; Harry scowled and dug furiously in his pockets before fishing out a set of keys. “I know.” He unlocked the door noisily and without elaborating.

 

Something was amiss here, Draco was sure. “Are you alright?”

 

Harry didn’t respond. He tried to shut the door and lock Draco out—a fitting metaphor, really. Without stopping to think better of it, Draco flicked a silent slowing charm at the door, leaving just enough space to stick his foot in and stopping it from shutting. “You don’t have to tell me, but obviously something’s the matter.”

 

"I’m fine,”  Harry insisted, glancing down at Draco’s foot. He nudged it with his toe to dislodge it, but it was clearly a half-hearted attempt. “You can’t come in yet. We’re not open.”

 

“But you should be,” Draco reminded him. Harry sent him a quelling glare, so he added, “Let me help you set up. I can…start the fire?”

 

Harry looked thoughtful at that. “It’s against the rules…” Draco could tell Harry wasn’t that committed to said rules; memory or not, Harry had always seemed to have little respect for arbitrary regulations.

 

Draco offered his most charming smile, one he saved for special occasions. “I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

 

Rolling his eyes, Harry shoved the door open just enough to let Draco in. It stuck a little, as if it didn’t want to allow Draco ingress, but that was a ridiculous notion. Muggle doors weren’t sentient, that Draco knew for a fact. “You better not set anything on fire but the fireplace,” Harry warned, “even if the bint deserves it.” He punctuated the sentiment with a sneer not meant for Draco. Something had definitely happened.

 

Draco—wisely—chose not to comment on that for the moment, dying with curiosity though he was. Harry would talk about it when he wanted to. Probably. “I’ll do my best,” Draco mumbled, “unless you're hoping for an…unfortunate accident?”

 

Harry smiled darkly, but said nothing, disappearing into a back room with the wagon in tow. Draco rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was cold enough inside that his breath fogged in front of his face; he was more eager than ever to get the fire started. He had half a mind to cast a warming charm, but he’d never been very good at doing them wordlessly. Maybe after the fire is going…

 

He probably should have been offended at Harry’s foul mood; it would have bothered him in the past. But now he was too confused to truly be upset. They’d parted on good terms the night before—excellent terms, really. What could have happened in the brief time since then to put him in such a state?

 

Draco went to the fireplace, casting about for wood. It would be easy enough to create a fire, but he needed something to burn if he didn’t want to break the statute.

 

His struggles were apparently evident, as Harry called out, “It’s in the armoire,” emerging from the back room, sans wagon. Indeed, inside the armoire was everything needed to start a muggle fire, including matches and kindling. Not that he needed it, but going through the motions was prudent.

 

Harry flipped the chairs off the tables, and loudly ground coffee beans and the like. Not ten minutes later, there was a sharp rap on the door. Harry jumped, looking wary, but rushed to open up. A brief conversation, and he had an armful of pastry boxes. “Thanks for bringing these by, I don’t know where I’d be if I had to fetch them.”

 

A warm voice laughed and Draco saw a pale hand emerge to pinch Harry’s cheek. Harry blushed and waved them off. Draco hoped that time had soothed Harry’s temper, but the way he shut the door sharply and marched back behind the counter with eyes stormy revealed those hopes to be misplaced.

 

Draco went back to “starting the fire”, which mainly involved stacking the wood, when Harry exclaimed, “Of fucking course he didn’t mop or take out the trash. That’d be too much to ask, truly.”

 

Glancing nervously over his shoulder, Draco saw Harry pulling out trash sacs and dragging them to the mysterious back room, grumbling all the while. The floors did seem a bit…dingier than normal, but Harry spent all his down time at Cosmic Latte sweeping and mopping, so perhaps this was merely the normal state when Harry wasn’t around to stress clean.

 

While Harry was gone (he could hear the angry ranting through the walls), Draco used a basic scourgify to make the floors a little…better. Draco wasn’t good at cleaning charms; he’d been raised to believe that was what House Elves were for. He couldn’t very well call Slanket here to do it for him, though, so that would have to do.

 

After fifteen more minutes of vengeful coffee brewing, rearranging pastries, and other tasks Draco couldn’t hope to understand (during which he successfully lit the fire), finally Harry plopped down on the sofa with a heavy sigh. He handed Draco a pastry bag—another croissant this time—and tossed his glasses on the table and rubbed his eyes, looking much older than twenty four. The sign was still flipped closed, but Draco didn’t mind.

 

“Thanks for your help,” Harry said, sounding wearier than was normal, surely. He pulled another pastry bag out of his pocket and ate his own croissant.

 

“All I did was light the fire,” Draco said with a shrug, sitting down on the sofa next to Harry. And clean the floor, but Harry didn’t know that. “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

“No,” Harry mumbled bitterly,“my boss is just a selfish cow and my co-worker is useless.” He took another resentful bite of his croissant and added, “plus I hate Mondays.”

 

“Don’t we all,” Draco said neutrally.

 

“Sorry for being in a snit,” Harry sniffed, downing the rest of his pastry quickly and rushing to the door, flipping the sign to mark it ‘open’. “What would you like to drink?”

 

“I’ll get something later,” Draco said, turning to his notes. He didn’t want to obligate Harry to do a job he was clearly unhappy with at the moment. He heard Harry sigh, and things were quiet for a while.

 

Harry made him a pumpkin spice latte anyway, and said he could pay for it later.

 

If there were ever a good time for the Ministry to arrive and sweep Harry away from Gleyma, it would be now. He’d surely have little qualms with leaving at this point. But as another afternoon rolled around, there was still no sign of them.

 

It had been a quiet day at Cosmic Latte, the rain and general dreariness keeping people at home for once. Perhaps Mondays just had that effect on people. Harry had kept to himself for the most part, rarely talking to Draco or even passing through the part of the shop where Draco was sitting. He wouldn't have minded too much were it not for the fact that he had the distinct impression that Harry was ignoring him. Draco considered himself an expert on the topic; Harry had ignored him far more often than he cared to admit during their youth.

 

But close to the end of Harry's shift, when they were once again alone, Harry finally spoke up.

 

“You know, you never ended up telling me about yourself," Harry called from behind the counter. There was a dangerous undertone to his voice that made Draco nervous. Especially given Harry's mood this morning.

 

“You never ended up asking,” Draco replied, pretending to study a document that was actually one of Blaise’s shopping lists he’d somehow ended up with. What does he need with pickled cabbage?

 

“Tell me, then.”

 

Draco sighed, putting down the shopping list with more attitude than was warranted. In times like this—when he was demanding, expecting everyone to bend to his will—that Draco remembered why 'Harry' had always been 'Potter' in the past. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Whatever you want to share.” Harry smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about it.

 

Harry's attitude certainly didn't put Draco in a sharing mood, but he hoped that perhaps he'd be able to pull an explanation out of the specky git if he relaxed his own walls a bit. "Let's see…I was born in June, I'm an only child, and my favorite color is blue."

 

Harry hmph-ed, dissatisfied. "I thought your favorite color was green."

 

Draco raised an eyebrow, feigning nonchalance. In point of fact, green was his favorite color, but he always said it was blue. He didn't like to be predictable, and a Slytherin whose favorite color was green was…well. Predictable. That Harry had noticed Draco's preference made his stomach flop in not entirely unpleasant ways, in spite of the tension in the air. "What gave you that impression?"

 

Harry fixed him with an unimpressed stare. "You always demand the green mug, your tent is green, your quill is green, you use green ink—forgive me if I'm mistaken, but you're doing a bang-up impression of someone who prefers green."

 

Draco's first impulse was to bristle and deny, as was the Malfoy way. But, well…it was not as though it really mattered that much did it? "I don't really care. Having a favorite color is childish, anyway."

 

Harry laughed once humorlessly and shook his head, but didn't comment.

 

"What's your favorite color, then?" Draco asked, hoping to at last dispel the foul mood.

 

Harry worked his jaw. "I don't have one," he said after a long moment. "Besides, we're talking about you. Isn't that what you want?"

 

Draco sniffed, patience running thin. "Why would I want that?" 

 

"Well, I guess we could talk about Harry Potter instead. Would you prefer that?"

 

Draco was doing his best to be understanding, but if he didn't know better, he'd say Harry was trying to pick a fight. "Not really," he said truthfully.

 

Harry swept his hand broadly through the air sardonically. "What shall we talk about then? You don't want to talk about yourself, your research is secret, your past is secret, I have nothing left to say about me. What else is there?"

 

Draco sincerely doubted there was nothing left to say about Harry's life in Gleyma, but he recognized a dismissal when he heard one.

 

"I’m not used to talking about myself. Most of the people I know have known me a long time.” That much was true; even Longbottom had known him since they were children, wrapped up in Pureblood gatherings as they both were. Draco hadn’t tried to make a new friend since…well. Harry, on the Hogwarts Express. And after that spectacular failure of a first attempt, it had rather put him off making new friends altogether.

 

"Most people like talking about themselves," Harry said, and that dangerous tone was back. "Ask a few of the right questions, and they’ll tell you everything.”

 

Draco was uncomfortably reminded of himself in his younger days, bragging about things he hadn't won for himself, items his father had given for him, titles that were paid for in promises and gallons.

 

"What is with you today?" Draco said at last, feeling defensive. He'd had quite enough of this strange game Harry was playing.

 

“Just trying to understand. We come from such different worlds, you see. If anything, it’ll be something to think about when you leave.”

 

Harry then turned away and left Draco to his own devices, ostensibly because someone came in to the shop, but Draco had the distinct feeling he would’ve done so, anyway. He should have blamed it on whatever happened to Harry this morning, if Harry would only tell him what had happened. But the petty part of Draco he could never quite expunge chafed at Harry's poor treatment of him.

 

The customer, as it turned out, was Cyril, because of course it was. “Hullo, John,” he said in a simpering voice Draco was starting to hate. No, in fact, he already hated it.

 

“Cyril,” Harry said, civil but just barely. He was certainly holding back the iciness he'd blessed Draco with. Draco was only a little bitter.

 

“Queenie said Murph isn’t coming in today,” Cyril explained while leaning on the counter in a way that he probably thought was alluring.

 

“Of course he isn’t,” Harry sighed.

 

“With his wife the way she is, you understand.” Cyril paused, perhaps aware that the next thing he said wouldn’t be well received. “She wants you to keep the shop open this afternoon. Since morning sales were low…”

 

Draco didn’t have to look to know that Harry’s eyes were blazing in righteous fury. “Oh, is that what she wants? Well then, she can make me a full time employee, or work here herself for once.”

 

Cyril shifted nervously from foot to foot. “Well, that’s…you’ll have to talk to her." This interaction was clearly not going how he hoped, much to Draco's satisfaction. That's right, squirm, he thought, finding he didn't mind Harry's foul mood so much when it wasn't directed at him.

 

“I’d be happy to, but unfortunately she’s ‘ill’ today and can’t be bothered.” Harry took a deep breath, an action Draco had come to understand was his calming mechanism. “I am sympathetic to Murph’s situation, but I can’t do it today.”

 

“Why not?” Cyril asked, the first hint of challenge Draco had ever heard from him lining his voice. “Got other plans?”

 

“Maybe I do,” Harry gritted out.

 

“You’ve never had a problem covering for Murph before. Only recently have you had other…priorities.”

 

Draco had a fairly good idea what those ‘other priorities’ might be, but he didn’t want to make assumptions. Especially after the way Harry had acted toward him today. Even so, he was tempted to make eye contact and remind Cyril that he could hear their entire conversation.

 

“Cyril, I’ve had a very long day, so unless you want to don an apron and help for once, you can tell Queenie if she’s got a problem, she knows where I live. Not that I'll be there for her convenience. Make sure she gets the message, won't you?”

 

Draco didn’t hear the next thing Cyril said, but he beat a hasty retreat shortly thereafter, so it couldn’t have been anything helpful.

 

Draco thought he and Harry could tentatively be called friends at this point, though Draco had never been friends with someone like Harry. If it were Blaise, he’d tell him to buy up all the shares and bankrupt the place. If it were Pansy, he’d tell her to give the offender some cursed object or ruin their reputation. But Harry was a Gryffindor, and he didn’t know how to comfort him. He was also not feeling as charitable as normal, but well…he ought to make the effort, hadn't he?

 

He approached the counter, still not sure what he wanted to say, but feeling like he had to say something. “Are you alright?”

 

Harry’s back was to him, as he was currently fussing with something along the back counter. He turned toward Draco, face carefully blank. “You’re still here?”

 

“Well, yes—”

 

“Of course you are," Harry mumbled darkly. "You heard all that?”

 

Draco swallowed, thinking the answer was already rather obvious. “I did.”

 

Harry snorted. “Maybe you can be my witness to HSE about my rights being infringed upon.” He sighed, then asked, “Why are you still here?”

 

Draco felt slightly taken aback; he hadn’t expected wariness. More anger, perhaps, but not this…“You did say I could pay for the latte later…”

 

Harry went back to messing with whatever he'd been working on along the back counter. Sorting tea, as it turned out. “Did you want another latte?”

 

“Er…no?” Malfoys didn’t stutter, but here he was.

 

“Then the latte is on the house.” Harry kept his back to Draco, but it was clear he wasn't really focused on his task.

 

“Um, that’s—”

 

Harry slammed the tin on the counter with a sharp twang, ending whatever Draco had been about to say. “A bad business practice, I know, but frankly I can’t be arsed to care.”

 

Draco sat there in silence a moment longer. He wasn’t sure this attitude was a positive development. Or maybe you’re just upset he’s taking it out on you. “Did I upset you somehow?” he asked, doing his best not to sound accusatory.

 

“Why are you still here, Draco?” Harry asked, voice hard, ignoring Draco's question. “Why are you still in Gleyma? And don’t say to do research. Your tent is tiny. There’s no way you can do anything other than sleep in there.”

 

Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again. What was he supposed to say? He had a hunch he knew what this was really about, but if he were wrong, he'd make an arse of himself. I have to say something, though, don't I? “If you think a bad temper is enough to scare me off, you’re mistaken.”

 

Harry scoffed. “What would scare you off, then? Enlighten me.”

 

Draco froze, stung by Harry's words. Did he really want Draco gone? He'd thought it was a test, but…

 

Too upset to respond, Draco turned away, quietly gathered his things, and left. It wasn’t the bravest thing he’d ever done, really. But he thought it better to leave before he lost his temper and had a row with Harry. I’m his only ally in this, why doesn’t he get it? Why is he taking this out on me? What is he taking out on me?

 

He didn’t get much done that evening, unless sulking and wishing (for the first time ever) the damn ministry would just show up already counted. He hated it here, and wasn’t sure how much longer he could take it.

 

---

 

As John watched Draco’s retreating back, he knew he’d messed up. It wasn’t Draco’s fault Queenie and Cyril and Mr. Baas were a bunch of tits. It wasn’t Draco’s fault Murph was a terrible coworker, or that his wife was sick (which was perhaps the reason he was a terrible barista). It wasn't even Draco's fault that he would be leaving one day soon, and there was nothing John could do to stop him. Nothing really was Draco’s fault here; he was just conveniently in place to unload some of John's anger.

 

He cleaned up Cosmic Latte alone, mopping, taking out the trash, and extinguishing the fire. The fire Draco started. John was exhausted, mentally and physically and maybe a little emotionally. So much for not getting attached. And now he'd probably convinced Draco he was a right wanker. Selfish. Surly. Unworthy of…anything, really. All he wanted was Draco's time. Well, alright, he wanted more, but he'd settle for time. Now he wouldn't get even that.

 

He was feeling rather sorry for himself, and in times like that there was only one place to go: Mrs.Frond. He hadn’t seen her since Draco arrived, and maybe she’d have an idea of how to apologize for making a cock of himself to his only friend outside Gleyma.

 

After a pot of tea and an episode of a sci-fi show neither of them were really watching, Mrs.Frond asked him what was the matter. He told her everything—well, almost everything. He didn’t mention his feelings toward Draco beyond friendship, because he himself didn’t acknowledge as anything but a stupid, fleeting crush. He only fancied Draco a little bit, anyway.

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what’s wrong, dear,” Mrs.Frond said at the end of it all. “You got a bit short with him, and?”

 

“I made him angry enough to leave,” John said miserably. “And I might have made him think I wanted him to leave.” To leave me here, too.

 

“But you didn’t want him to?” She asked in that tone she used where John wasn’t sure if she was being genuine or sarcastic.

 

“I…I don’t know,” he admitted. “He’s going to leave anyway, no matter what I want.”

 

She sniffed, sipping her tea primly like she’d grown up in some posh household. For all John knew, she had. “Seems simple enough to me. It’s not as much of a problem as you think it is.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “Please, enlighten me, all knowing one.”

 

“Please, the only all knowing one among us is Cassandra. If you want this lad's forgiveness, simply apologize. If he’s your friend, as you say, he’ll understand.”

 

“That’s it?” John was doubtful that would be enough; Draco was a proud sort, and he’d been offended enough to storm out in spite of having nowhere better to be.

 

“We all have bad days that bring out our inner manticore,” she advised. Her odd use of vocabulary was one of the things that put others off her, but John found it charming.

 

“I suppose I should bring him a gift, too.”

 

“If you think that’s necessary, dear. I suppose it can’t hurt. But don’t bring roses, they’re too cliche to be heartfelt. Oh, I know just the thing!” She bustled over to her windowsill where sat an assortment of flowers that John was sure she never watered, yet they somehow managed to stay not only alive but thriving. "Is he more of a poet, or an adventurer?" she asked.

 

John smiled. "More of a poet."

 

She nodded as if to say 'too right' and picked out a single plant, handing it over to John. “This should do nicely for an apology.”

 

“Are you sure?” It looked exotic, and John knew she must have had it special ordered. It certainly wasn't native to England.

 

“Of course I’m sure, I’m as sure as Helga herself. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll need help getting ready for the ball tomorrow, so if you could swing by before tea…"

 

She chattered on for a bit until she wore herself out. It had been a good day for her, coherency wise, even if she thought there were a ball to go to tomorrow—and that she was invited.

 

And if there had been a ball, she certainly deserved an invitation.

 

---

 

Draco had all but convinced himself to go back to Cosmic Latte and find Harry when he realized it was closed. In hindsight, running away hadn’t been the best reaction, but he’d been too frustrated at the time to admit it. Harry obviously hadn’t meant what he'd said. Probably. Draco hoped. Something else was going on, of that he was certain, and Draco was going to get to the bottom of it. Assuming the Ministry didn’t swoop in before he found Harry to do it.

 

He even thought about going to Harry’s place and speaking with him, but lost his nerve at the last minute. He didn’t want to deal with Harry if he was still angry, which he might be; Draco recalled he could be in a snit for days. Weeks, even, if he were really upset.

 

Pondering what he could do was distracting him from trying to get work done, which was a lost cause anyway. It was cold and dim and too quiet in the tent; Atlas still had yet to return, and Draco was trying not to worry about that when a soft voice called, “Knock, knock,” at the flap to his tent. He only had a moment to erect a half-arsed glamour over the interior before messy black hair was peeking through the entrance to the tent, dripping with water.

 

Draco busied himself with looking at his text which he’d all but abandoned, Terrible Tinctures and Taste of Troll: Worth it, or worthless? The text itself was useless, but it had excellent references Draco wanted to follow up on.

 

“Can I come in?” Harry asked. He didn’t sound angry. Rather meek, in fact.

 

It was then that Draco discovered his irritation at the whole affair hadn’t subsided quite as much as he'd thought. “I don’t know, can you?”

 

Muggles couldn't come in; Draco had warded against them. Maybe he should have warded against Gryffindors too, especially after what happened on Sunday.

 

Harry sighed, then amended, “May I come in?” He didn’t wait for an answer, thrusting an item through the flap and quickly retracting his hands. “If the answer is no, this might change your mind.” He paused, then stuck something else through the flap. “That, too.”

 

Upon investigation, it was a blue orchid and a bar of chocolate. “I’m very sorry,” Harry said, and he did sound genuinely apologetic.

 

Draco reached over and picked up the chocolate and the plant, admiring its beauty. Blue orchids were incredibly rare. He wondered if Harry had picked it for the significance, or simply the color, then decided it didn’t really matter. “You can come in,” he said at last.

 

Harry pulled back the flap to reveal his sheepish face, somewhat damp from the drizzle outside. “I don’t want to get your things wet.”

 

“You worry about that more than is healthy,” Draco advised, putting the flower on his desk. He wondered idly where Harry got such a plant this time of year, seeing as there wasn’t a florist in town, as far as he knew. He pulled out an extra chair and indicated for Harry to sit.

 

“I really am sorry,” he said again, not sitting.

 

“So you’ve said,” Draco replied, trying to keep a neutral tone. “Sit down. You’re making me nervous.”

 

He did sit down with more care than was warranted, all the while frowning as he surveyed the tent. “It’s roomier in here than I thought.”

 

Draco had done the best he could with the glamour, but he didn’t have enough time to hide the desk. He only hoped Harry didn’t think too much about it. “I told you: it’s a magic tent.”

 

Harry gave a wan smile at that, staring at the floor. “I didn’t mean to scare you off this morning.”

 

“I wasn’t scared,” Draco said coolly. “I was annoyed, and I didn’t want to say anything... regrettable .”

 

"You mean you didn't want to stick your foot in it like me? Wise."

 

Draco said nothing in response, waiting to see what else Harry had to say for his behaviour. “Whatever you would have said, I deserve it.” Harry took a deep breath and continued, “I didn’t mean it. It’s not like I’m suspicious of you or want you to leave or…be upset because I acted like a pillock—”

 

“More like a wanker, or a twat,” Draco interjected.

 

“All that and more,” Harry agreed, eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.”

 

Draco crossed his arms, still annoyed at the state of affairs. “Will you tell me what sent you round the twist then?”

 

Harry looked deeply uncomfortable, but with a resigned nod began to explain. “I had something of an unexpected and unwelcome visitor this morning, bearing an unpleasant message.”

 

Draco's first thought went to the Ministry. Had they tracked Harry down to his flat and tried to tell him to come with them? "A message? From who?"

 

Harry gripped his hand into a fist. "Queenie."

 

Draco didn't know if he should be relieved or not. “Your boss? What did she tell you?”

 

"She didn't say anything to me. She sent the Old Man to do her dirty work. Typical, really." Harry took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm himself down. "Normally she opens Cosmic Latte on her own. Insists on fetching the pastries, stocking the beans, getting the fire set, everything. She won’t work in the shop, but she’s a bit…controlling. She likes things in a certain way, and as it’s her coffee shop, she’s the right to be.”

 

Draco didn’t agree, but this was Harry’s story.

 

“Anyway, today she had me do all that on my own. Fetching the pastries, setting everything up. If she’d given me warning I wouldn’t have minded, but she sent The Old Man to tell me only fifteen minutes before I normally start opening, and there’s already so much to do without the added tasks. It was a stupid thing to get upset about, but it was so…petty of her. The reason she's upset is ridiculous, too. And then the Old Man made some snide comment about dalliances and how everyone leaves and…well. It was stupid, but I was upset, and there you were, and it just reminded me, and then Cyril came in with another message from her, and I just…well. You know. You were there.”

 

“I was,” Draco said, throat tight. "I'm still here, too."

 

"For now," Harry said, so quietly that Draco had to strain to hear it over the sound of the rain. “I know you’re leaving,” he continued. “No use getting upset.”

 

"But you were," Draco pointed out. And probably still are.

 

Harry didn't say anything, but his hands clutched at his jeans.

 

Draco didn’t know how to comfort Harry. On one hand, he was touched to see the depth of Harry's emotion for him, even if his chosen means of expressing said emotion was…destructive. On the other hand, he didn't want to lie; of course he was leaving. They both were, even if Harry didn’t know that. Finally, he settled on, “I’m not leaving yet.”

 

“But you will. ‘Everyone leaves Gleyma eventually’. There’s nothing to keep you here.”

 

“There’s my research,” Draco said with a rueful smile.

 

Harry rolled his eyes. “You can hardly research in here. I don’t know how you get any work done.”

 

“There is a reason I’ve been spending time at Cosmic Latte, drinks and pleasant company aside.”

 

Harry blushed, but still didn’t let his eyes meet Draco’s. “It’s closed today, unfortunately.”

 

“There’s always tomorrow,” Draco said.

 

They fell into a silence that wasn't quite comfortable, but the friction had subsided enough that it was almost restful.

 

“Why an orchid?” he asked, curiosity finally making its way to the fore now that anger and relief had run their course.

 

“I’ve been advised that roses are too cliche to be heartfelt.”

 

"Why is it blue?"

 

"So you can better pretend your favorite color is blue," Harry said, eyes soft as he glanced at the orchid.

 

Draco's chest was doing things he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge. “And the chocolate?”

 

“Always a safe bet, as far as apologies go.” He was picking at some invisible lent in his jeans as he said this, hair dripping on the floor. He must have felt rather guilty, to be acting this way.

 

“I know you don’t like talking about it,” Draco said carefully, “but let me just say this now, and then I won't mention it until you want to talk about it again." Draco paused, making sure he had Harry's attention and eyes on him. "I don’t know what others have told you, or what you may have come to believe, but you don’t have to stay here. You’re not a prisoner, nor do you lack the agency to decide for yourself." Draco swallowed, stealing his courage to say the rest. "You can even come with me, if you like. There’s no rent to pay on a tent.” That won him a chuckle from Harry, which made the stress of making himself so vulnerable worthwhile. Draco took a deep breath to steady himself, smiling as he recognized the habit from Harry. “I can take you to London, if you want access to their significantly better resources in locating missing persons and helping those recovering from memory loss.”

 

“I wouldn’t want to burden you,” Harry said softly.

 

“It’s not a burden; I’m offering it freely. We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends help each other.”

 

“You haven’t even known me a week.” It was a weak defense, in Draco’s opinion, but he was beginning to suspect these ideas weren’t all Harry’s. Whoever they did belong to, whoever had planted them in Harry’s mind…well, he would have words with them if he found them. When he found them.

 

“Has it only been a week? Feels like longer.”

 

"People say times passes strangely in Gleyma." Harry’s face split in a wide grin then, as if some wonderful idea were just occurring to him, and he looked up at Draco for the first time since entering the tent. “You can come back to mine to study, if you like.” It wasn’t exactly an acceptance of Draco’s words, but it was a positive step nonetheless.

 

“Are you sure?” he asked, quietly pleased.

 

“As sure as Helga herself. This tent, though roomy, is no place for botanic pharmaceutical research. Your notes are just one weak tent pole away from destruction by rainfall, and that would be terrible, wouldn’t it?”

 

“Terrible,” Draco agreed, knowing he could throw all his notes in the ocean and they still wouldn’t be destroyed. He was grateful not for the first time that Harry had forgotten all about magic, then felt horribly guilty for thinking that way for even a second. In any case, the less time they spent in the tent, the better.

 

“Well then, it’s settled. I have tea and a fireplace, all you need for studying,” Harry said with an amused smile. “Plus it’s just around the corner.”

 

He stuck out his hand to Draco, firmly meeting his gaze. "Am I forgiven?"

 

If anyone had bothered to ask him, Draco couldn't have said what possessed him to do it, except perhaps that this particular Gryffindor, hero, Boy Who Lived, had always driven him a little mad.

 

Ignoring the proffered handshake—what was once so coveted—he gently grasped Harry's hand and kissed it, looking into those dangerously green eyes full of surprise and hope and things unspoken, but undeniably alive.

 

"Forgiven."

 

Notes:

Things have been pretty fluffy up til now, and soft is good. But there's something to be said about sand and oysters and pearls, too. I'd love to hear your thoughts!

find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 7: Little Voices, Little Snakes, Little Owls, Little Lies

Summary:

small voices can tell big lies.

Draco hadn’t thought much about it the first time he’d been there (last night, his brain helpfully supplied) because it’d been dark, but now he saw that Harry lived in the basement of a farmhouse.

 

It was easily the nicest (and largest) house in Gleyma, and Draco wondered why he’d never noticed it before. The farmhouse bordered the woods on the South Western side of town, almost blending in with the gloom of the trees, but there was a boldness about it that demanded attention and respect as well. The ancient stone facade was a mosaic of deep slate, barely visible through the thick climbing ivy framing three stories of tall leaded windows that gazed out on the town. The stern and imposing estate was capped with a steep sloped roof with three chimneys piping grey smoke into the cloudy sky. The garden leading to the black front door was well-kept, but appeared to be nothing but waxy thorn bushes. The hostile wrought iron gate swinging menacingly in the wind did nothing for the curb appeal of the place.

 

 

It had a humble regalness to it, but inviting it was not.

 

 

He was relieved when Harry took them around the inhospitable front gate to a gravel side-path leading to the basement level. There wasn't enough soil to have a proper garden, but Harry had put out several potted plants. It amused Draco that Harry had chosen several potion ingredients for the planters—holywort, sedum, Calibrachoa, lamb's ear. Although they were undemanding, low maintenance plants, it warmed him to know that Harry did have some hobbies outside of coffee and finance. Well, one hobby, at least. The door was painted a bright crimson, which Draco had noticed yesterday. What he hadn't noticed was the contrast to the dour aura of the rest of the house. Harry's door was the most cheerful part of the whole building, and Draco wondered if Harry had been the one to paint the door; it seemed likely, given the Gryffindor theme of red paint with gold hardware. He smiled internally at the mental image of Harry with red paint smudges on his nose.

  

 

"Who lives upstairs?" he asked, leaning against the wall next to the door. He'd meant to ask yesterday, but the opportunity hadn't come up.

  

 

Harry's expression soured, and Draco realized that perhaps he shouldn't have brought it up. No one whose house looked like a slightly fancier Shrieking Shack could be pleasant. “Queenie and her family,” he said in clipped tones. “They rent it to me for practically nothing.”

 

 

 

The sardonic note to Harry's voice put Draco on edge. He had a feeling the simmering negativity was related to Harry's tetchy mood since this morning. “Practically?” 

  

 

 

“Oh yes. I don't have to pay for it, as such. All I have to do is work the morning shift 6 days a week.” Harry gave a negligent hand wave while digging in his pocket for his keys, as though to dismiss the topic. But Draco wasn't ready to let it go just yet.

 

 

“Not all payments are monetary," he said, watching Harry's face; that Harry didn't meet Draco's gaze was telling.  He knew from observing the past almost-week that Harry often stayed through the afternoon shift as well, if only partially. Any mention of leaving Gleyma put Harry in a panic, and while Draco didn't want to intentionally upset Harry, cagey as he was, he did hope Harry realized working nearly full time six days a week and filling his down time with a finance class he hated was no way to live. "Do you get time off, at least?” 

  

 

“I get Sundays off,” Harry said with a noncommittal shrug.

 

 

Draco rolled his eyes. “That doesn't count. Cosmic Latte isn’t open on Sundays." Harry's only response was another shrug that attempted nonchalance but fell short. Draco sat patiently in silence, wanting to see if Harry would try to defend his schedule. He realized that perhaps Harry had always been a workaholic, that it wasn't just a Gleyma-specific trait. He'd always thought Harry was lazy back at Hogwarts, but…what did he really know?

 

 

“If I cared to ask for it, I might get more time off,” Harry conceded at last, silently admitting that he didn't ask for time off. He pulled the keys out of his pocket with a flourish, having located them at last. “But it's not like I have anywhere else to be or anything better to do.”

 

 

“Nothing better to do except search for the Beast of Exmoor and visit the Tarr Steps,” Draco mumbled under his breath. Apparently not quietly enough if Harry’s indignant huff was any indication.

 

 

Draco was getting a clear and unsympathetic picture of Harry's boss; he had no doubt she would ask Harry to work Sundays if Cosmic Latte were open. “So this ‘Queenie’…she’s your boss and your landlord? Isn’t that a little…much?”

 

 

“She’s the only one with a separate living space, and she's the only one with a job to offer.” He was going through key after key, struggling to find the right one. Draco wondered absently what on earth Harry could possibly need so many keys for and set himself a mental reminder to ask later. “I don’t fancy doing farm work or sharing all my meals with an aging couple who've nothing better to do than fuss over me.”

 

 

“And Queenie doesn’t fuss over you?” 

 

 

“She respects my privacy, I suppose.”

 

 

Draco strongly suspected there was more to that story, if the lingering doubt in Harry’s voice were any indication. At last Harry found the right key and got the door open, ushering Draco inside.

 

 

Harry continued, “Now that she’s realized I have no memories of my past, she’s stopped asking questions about it.”

 

 

“Got bored, did she?” Draco was somewhat relieved for reasons he couldn't quite define, but was still dubious nonetheless about Queenie's intentions. He had no real reason to suspect her of anything but being a demanding busybody, but he was a Slytherin, wasn't he? Suspicion was in his nature. He hoped he never had to meet her, since he doubted he'd have anything nice to say. He didn't think Harry would appreciate Draco dressing down his boss. Even if she deserved it.

 

  

Unsurprisingly, the interior of Harry’s flat hadn’t changed at all in the past twenty-four hours. The old taupe sofa still sat in front of the cast-iron stove, an odd contraption that was somehow both menacing and delightful with its severe design and whimsical pipe rising out of the top like a conical hat disappearing into the wall. The small table that wobbled whenever the door shut stood dutifully to the right of the entrance and left of the coat rack, overflowing with pants, socks, and other clothing that had no business being on a coat rack. The small kitchen with its whitewashed cabinets still housed the round wooden table with three rickety wooden chairs, and next to the kitchen the doors to the bedroom and bathroom, respectively, hadn’t migrated elsewhere. The walls were still a sad, dingy white where the plaster hadn't crumbled to reveal the same stone mosaic as the house, bleeding the meagre heat from the flat into the ungrateful dirt it sat in. Scattered throw rugs that were still brown were still tossed haphazardly around to provide a semblance of comfort, and the ceiling was still too low to be comfortable for someone of Draco's height. Or Harry's, for that matter. Yesterday, Draco'd had to duck beneath the beams in order not to smack his head, as Harry seemed to do without thinking (no doubt from seven months of unfortunate meetings between his forehead and said ceiling beams).

 

 

Draco was almost disappointed, but not surprised, as though he had subconsciously expected whatever unhappy encounter had plagued Harry this morning to have changed the interior of Harry’s home as much as it had changed his attitude.

 

 

“Ah! Beatrix! Don’t you look smart?” Harry exclaimed, apropos of nothing.

 

 

Draco's eyes darted around the room, as the statement was clearly not meant for him. He found himself confronted with the image of Harry cuddling up with a black snake, making hissy sounds that could only be Parseltongue. Or some crude approximation thereof. Draco wouldn't know the difference between fake and real Parseltongue.

 

 

“You…have a snake?” He remembered now that Harry was a Parselmouth, of course, but he never imagined a Gryffindor would choose to associate with snakes. Then again, this Harry didn't have a reason to dislike them, did he?

 

 

Harry turned his gaze on Draco, eyes alight with happiness. It only made Draco’s heart hurt a little. "Yeah. Why? Scared, Malfoy?" He grinned brilliantly, full of mischief and mirth. Gods, Draco had it bad, didn't he?

 

 

Draco swallowed and suppressed the memory from too long ago, coincidental phrasing too much to bear. "I've never seen anyone talk to a snake like that." This was, of course, a lie, but it seemed the thing to say. Better than, 'yes, actually, I am afraid of snakes."

 

 

Oblivious, Harry said, “Anyone can talk to snakes if they try. Say hello.” He shut the door behind Draco, who was only vaguely aware of the cool autumn breeze at his back. His attention was firmly locked on the snake.

 

 

Draco regretted that he still had an aversion to snakes, but after watching Nagini eat people alive anyone would be a bit hesitant, really. But the expectant look on Harry’s face made him nearly forget it. Nearly. He pressed himself against the door as much as he could without being rude. “H-hello, Beatrix.” It helped that she was only a little more than half a meter in length. But how much bigger would she grow to be? Two meters? Three meters?

 

 

The ebony snake flicked her tongue out into the air, cocking her head slightly. Draco sat very still and tried to make himself appear as non-threatening as possible, doing his best not to think of her tasting the air for his scent and failing miserably.

 

 

“I think she likes you,” Harry said coyly, stroking the serpent affectionately. Draco wasn't sure what parameters snakes used to decide whether they liked someone or not, and concluded he'd rather not know. He forced down the panic when Harry draped the snake around his neck and started sorting through the discarded post on the coffee table. She didn't look like a python…she probably wouldn't squeeze him to death, right?

 

 

Draco had just enough presence of mind to note he was concerned just as much for Harry's well-being as his own, and dully thought it was a curious sensation. Something to think about later when he didn't have a snake to watch.

  

 

Harry is a Parselmouth, he can tell the snake to stop. The thought was calming, but not as much a comfort as it ought to have been. It seemed Harry didn’t realize he was actually capable of understanding the snake, and she him. And why would he? Muggles didn’t talk to snakes. Then again, neither did wizards, normally.

  

 

Harry paused his sorting and glanced over at Draco, who still hadn't managed to peel himself away from the door. He gave Draco a considering gaze, brow wrinkling slightly. “You don’t care for snakes, do you?”

 

 

Deciding a bit of honesty was better than hoping for a spontaneous recovery from his seven-year phobia, he said, “I don’t mind them…as long as they don’t come too close.” Harry looked a little disappointed about that, so Draco hurried to explain, “Only, I had a very bad experience with a snake in my youth.” Bad experience was putting it lightly, really, but he could hardly explain, could he?

 

 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Harry said with a reasonable tone, but his shoulders drooped despondently. Looking at Harry's shoulders meant looking at the snake, which really didn't help Draco maintain the illusion of control. He stared determinedly at the ceiling, only vaguely aware of what Harry was saying. “Sorry that one snake ruined the whole lot for you. Was it a wild snake or someone’s pet?”

 

 

Mentally wishing he didn't have to talk about this, Draco forced himself to look Harry in the eye, if only for a moment. He swallowed thickly. “I suppose pet would be the word…” It was as close to the truth as he could get, really. He couldn’t very well say she was an executioner, after all.

 

 

Draco saw Harry pale out of the corner of his eye, looking upset on Draco’s behalf. If he didn't focus, he could pretend the black snake was just a bit of Harry's hair. A ponytail, perhaps, coiled around Harry's neck.

 

 

“That’s even worse! Pet snakes aren’t usually aggressive unless they’re trained to be.”

 

 

“He certainly did encourage her violent side.” He brought out everyone's violent side, for that matter.

 

 

Harry nodded, a disturbed look on his face. “Well, Beatrix is very calm, but I’ll put her in her tank.” Harry trundled off, hissing to Beatrix, probably explaining why she had to go away. Draco felt a rush of gratitude, then guilty that his stupid phobia caused him to make a scene. Well, he'd managed to not have a panic attack this time, which was an improvement, but he wouldn’t be able to focus on studying with a snake loose in the room. Just knowing there was one in the house was bad enough. Maybe you should leave, then, a small voice whispered in the back of Draco’s mind.

 

 

It didn’t sound like his normal internal voice, nor did it sound like something his internal voice would normally say. Normally, it sounded like Snape or his mother or occasionally Dumbledore, and normally the little voice didn't tell him explicitly what to do; normally, it said things like, 'are you sure that's a good idea?' or 'I know you're a better person than that, Draco', or 'better double-check that thing one more time'. He generally wished it gave clearer instructions, like it had just now, but that wasn't what consciences were for, was it?

 

 

There was also the fact that he didn't exactly want to leave; often he didn't want to do what his conscience told him, but this was different. When his conscience told him to do something he didn't want to, it was because it sounded difficult, unrewarding, or dangerous. In this case, the profferred advice just sounded contrary for contrariness' sake. After all, he'd walked all the way here already with the full intention of getting some much-needed research done. Not to mention that by being here he could keep an eye on Harry in case the Ministry showed up. Studying here was decisively better than in his small, drafty tent that had 100% less Harry in it. But at the same time…the snake was a major set-back. He'd limited his exposure to them, and in doing so had believed himself to be braver when facing them than his current experience demonstrated. He'd done alright with Blaise's ball python, but it had stayed in the tank and—

 

 

The small voice spoke again, sounding more sure this time, more convincing. You're being a burden, Draco.

 

 

He nodded, taking a short breath to steady himself. He was being a burden, wasn't he? Better to leave and not bother Harry and his snake. This was their home, after all. He was the intruder here.

 

 

He nodded again. The little voice hadn’t led him astray thus far, regardless of who it sounded like or what it said. So decided, he opened the door, hesitating only a moment to wonder if he should say something before just disappearing, but then Harry might try to convince him to stay—

 

 

“Where are you going?" Harry inconveniently returned, sounding disappointed and hurt.

 

 

Draco tensed as a pang of guilt rushed through him. It was bad form to just leave like that, he knew better, but…but what? Something in the back of his mind cried for him to pay attention, but he was too distracted by shame and disappointment in himself. Draco had abided Harry's disappointment before, as well as his own, but it had gotten more difficult since meeting Harry again. Against all odds he wanted to—Merlin help him—impress Harry. Show him he'd changed, even if Harry didn't remember how Draco used to be. "Look, if it's about the snake…"

 

 

"It's not!" Draco insisted, turning around sharply, voice a bit too loud. "I was just …looking for the loo." It sounded like a poor excuse even to him. But perhaps the excuse wasn't for himself, but to himself. You want to stay here, Draco, he insisted to himself. Screw what the little voice said. Who needed a conscience, anyway?

 

 

Harry lifted an eyebrow. "Outside?" He didn't sound convinced but pointed the way. Draco gave Harry a tight smile and dropped his bag on the sofa, disappearing into the lavatory he didn't really need to use. But perhaps it would be wise to centre himself, he decided, when he saw his pallid face in the mirror.

 

 

Pull yourself together, Draco, he mentally chided, splashing water on his face. The little voice was silent now, and he was grateful for it. A small part of his mind spared a thought for bewildered worry at what had just happened. Had a tiny snake just nearly scared him out of Harry's home? Surely not.

 

 

But that was exactly what had happened, wasn't it? His grey eyes stared back at him, full of disappointment and fading panic. He looked tired, even through the glamours he habitually used to look fresh no matter how little sleep he got. But there it was, written in the very fibre of his being. Fatigue, weariness, malaise. Existential exhaustion was the term, perhaps. And why shouldn't he be? Yet another day without a word from the Ministry had all but slipped away, and Draco was tired of waiting. He didn't like Gleyma; there was nothing likeable about it, aside from Harry and his lattes. And that was an accidental attribute more than an essential one, no matter how conflicted Harry was about leaving. How had Harry tolerated living here for seven months? Draco hadn't even been here a week, and something deep inside him was begging him desperately to leave, while also demanding he look closer; something is terribly wrong here. This sad flat would give anyone a mood disorder, dank and depressing as it was. It wasn't fit for a wine cellar, let alone a residence for someone with memory problems.

 

 

Draco shook his head, clearing the dark thoughts. He'd already decided he wasn't going to abandon Harry here like everyone else. Even if his visceral reaction were to get the hell out of here, he was too stubborn to give up that easily. Harry had always been his rival, hadn't he? If Harry could stand to stay here for more than half a year, Draco could stomach a week. Two weeks, even. Circe, he'd stay here through Christmas if that was what it took (he hoped it would not take until Christmas).

 

 

After faffing about for a bit in a poor show of stalling, Draco rejoined Harry in the living room, only to find him gone. A clicking noise and the smell of burning gas directed his attention toward the kitchen. Draco hesitated on the threshold, observing a moment and drumming up what little courage he possessed. He ought to be embarrassed, having nearly broken down over a snake, but somehow he knew Harry wouldn't mock him for it. Draco entered the kitchen tentatively to see Harry leaned up casually against the counter, staring out the tiny window over the sink, for all appearances lost in thought. The kettle sat on the stove, slowly heating up. Things took so much longer the muggle way, but perhaps there was a certain appeal in the ceremony of the task.

 

 

Harry proved not to be as lost as he appeared when he said, "Don’t worry about Beatrix, I won't take her out again. I'm sorry if she scared you."

 

 

Draco shook his head, even though Harry wasn't looking at him. "I was just …surprised. I wasn't thinking and…I hoped I'd calm down if I stepped outside." Liar, he thought, disgusted with himself. The little voice told you to. He didn't think he'd come across as sane if he tried to explain that, though. His skin prickled at the thought that unlike the last time he'd been here, he felt like he was intruding and should get out post haste. Had that really come from his own mind, or…something else?

 

 

No use dwelling on it now, he decided.

 

 

"Are you calm now?" Harry asked softly.

  

 

"I think so." He wanted to say he'd be fine now that he knew Beatrix was there, but he couldn't quite bring himself to believe it enough to say it.

 

 

Harry smiled a small, private smile, both incredibly lonely and unbearably understanding. Draco, inexplicably, wanted to rush over to Harry's side and kiss the sadness from Harry's face. It wasn't an unwelcome thought, just shocking. 

 

 

Oblivious to Draco's unnerving tender desires, Harry continued, "She's just a bit dramatic, Beatrix that is. She wanted to show off her new skin. She finally finished shedding, and we don’t get much company…”

 

 

Now that he had himself firmly back in control of the situation, Draco found he was curious how, exactly a snake could be dramatic. If he focused on the curiosity rather than the fear…well, he could do that, couldn't he? All fear was fear of the unknown, or so Dumbledore had said once. Draco wasn't sure whether he believed that, but he could pretend he believed it until he really did. One day, he'd have to ask for a proper introduction to Beatrix after Harry got all his memories back, and Draco could explain about Nagini—assuming Harry would still want to speak to him after everything. The thought that he wouldn't was terribly depressing, but no use borrowing trouble. Malfoys never worried, after all.

 

 

And he could start trying to understand now, couldn't he? “How can a snake be dramatic?”

 

 

“Oh, she just had a hissy fit.” Harry chuckled, winning him an eye roll from Draco. “‘You don’t appreciate my beauty’, ‘ashamed of me’, ‘never let me meet new people.’ That sort of thing.”

 

 

He wondered how Harry could remain unaware that he could understand snakes when it sounded like she really did talk to him. No need to be afraid of a dramatic snake, is there, Draco? he said to himself, feeling better by the minute. “Chatty, is she?”  

 

 

“Sociable,” Harry agreed. He got a thoughtful look on his face, then explained, “I'm sorry I didn't tell you I had a snake. I didn't think about it. Everyone here knows about her already." He still was looking calmly out the window, but the way his hands were tightly gripping the counter belied his nerves. Draco felt a pang of guilt; this was a big deal for Harry, how people felt about Beatrix.

 

 

"So…your landlord knows about Beatrix?" Draco pressed.

 

 

Harry nodded. "She doesn't mind, but most people hate snakes. I guess it keeps certain people away who otherwise might be here all the time…" he trailed off, and Draco suspected Harry was referring to Cyril. His opinion of the snake increased as much as his opinion of Cyril went down; she was a guardian of Harry, in a sense. "I wish she didn't keep everyone away though," he explained, as though answering Draco's thoughts.

 

 

Draco realized that to some extent, he wasn't that different. He'd tried to run away because of Harry's snake. His pet, and only friend here, maybe.  He hadn't been aware it was possible to feel any worse about the matter than he already did, but Harry always pushed him to new extremes. Not that this was in any way Harry's fault, of course.

 

 

"Most folks just don’t give snakes a chance to make a good impression," Harry continued. "They’ve already made up their minds that snakes are evil or something, and judge everything they do in that light. Ah, not that I blame you for disliking them,” he added apologetically. “You have a legitimate reason.”

 

 

“I used to like snakes,” Draco admitted. “Still do, in theory.” He could certainly relate to being maligned just because of other’s assumptions. And Ex-Death Eater or not, he was still a Slytherin; he'd been hated for being a snake since he was eleven.

 

 

“Snakes can smell fear, you know,” Harry explained, busying himself with checking the kettle. “Animals tend to strike out when they’re frightened, so a snake might strike first to protect themselves if they sense discomfort. Not the best plan when it comes to humans, mind, but you can’t blame them for wanting to survive.”

 

 

"You certainly can't." Draco, unable to hold himself back any longer, walked around the kitchen table to lean against the counter next to Harry. He couldn't bring himself to do the other things he wanted to (not yet), but he wanted to be closer, nonetheless.

 

 

Harry flushed and shook his head fondly, though whether it was because of Draco or Beatrix, Draco couldn't be sure. “Beatrix is a grass snake. Not much of a danger to anyone. She doesn't even bite. Her best defence is playing dead, bless her. That, or she pretends to be a cobra.”

 

 

“Lots of pretending,” Draco noted, not sure what else to say.

 

 

“She was meant for the stage, that one.”

 

 

Draco nudged him with his elbow. “How did you end up with Beatrix, then? I didn't see a pet shop in town.” Beatrix was important to Harry, and he wasn't going to let his stupid phobia make Harry feel bad about her.

 

 

“I found her out in the woods," Harry said, eyes focused on his clasped hands. "Close to the bonfire pit, actually. Bunch of kids were running away from her, probably scared her half to death.”

 

 

Draco was intrigued, in spite of himself. “Why would she be scared?”

 

 

Harry looked up at Draco, eyes full of cautious hope. It struck Draco that perhaps no one had ever bothered to ask him about Beatrix before. “Snakes interpret sound differently than humans, mostly through vibrations. All that pounding on the ground was disorienting, I imagine.”

 

 

“So you charged in to rescue a terrified snake?” Draco didn't know whether he ought to be impressed with Harry’s chivalry or disappointed in his lack of survival skills.

 

 

“One of the kids had stepped on her. I think it was an accident, but…well, you never know with kids mixed with alcohol." Draco remembered Harry claiming he liked the bonfire pit better now that the kids were gone, and wondered if this story had anything to do with it. "After they went yelling through town about a snake, I went to check on her to make sure she wasn’t injured.”

 

 

When Harry didn't continue, Draco prompted, "Was she injured?" He was surprised to find he was genuinely concerned, though she'd appeared to be fine now.

 

 

Harry didn't respond for a moment, but finally said, "I'm not sure. I think her spine might be injured. She can't move as quickly as she ought to be able to. She can't catch prey on her own, either. So I kept her. She seems happy enough, though it's hard to tell with snakes."

 

 

“Maybe she's stayed with you to show her gratitude for saving her.”

 

 

That seemed to please him, but the whistling of the kettle and subsequent shuffling for mugs and tea ended the conversation. Draco quietly mused that even without his memory, Harry was still very much the same saviour he’d ever been, and his heart warmed at the thought. No one would believe him if he said Harry Potter was a defender of snakes. Then again, no one would believe anything about the absurdity of this situation. That he, Draco Malfoy, was having a friendly cup of tea in Harry Potter's flat. For the second time.

 

 

The rain continued to pour outside, and though Draco would’ve preferred to chat, he really did need to study, and since that was the pretext for his being here, he thought it best to get started.

 

 

“I’ll just be in the bedroom, then, if you need anything."

 

 

Draco forcibly suppressed any thoughts that resulted from the words "bedroom" and "need" in the same sentence. “Off to master finance?” he asked, mouth dry.

 

 

Harry made a face and disappeared into the same room he’d taken Beatrix, and Draco was privately glad.

 

 

Once he was sure Harry was out of sight, he flicked his wand and lit the fire, notes spread out on the old walnut coffee table.  He settled in to study Snape’s notes on the benefits and downsides of masking potion flavours, how other attempts to change the flavour of potions had resulted in failure, some more horrifying than others. Adding Cinnamon to any brew that does not call for it will render it completely ineffective. Any member of the Capsicum Annuum family—commonly known as peppers—has been shown to reverse the intended effect of the potion or conversely amplify it by unpredictable quantities. Sage and thyme create a delayed effect and shorten the positive influence of the potion. Chocolate has been demonstrated to neither harm nor help the potion, but the taste is rarely strong enough to overcome the vilest of tastes. Sugar will change the viscosity and is to be avoided at all costs. A muddled mint leaf may mute some unsavoury tastes, but if the brew contains any ingredients related to members of the citrus family, the results will be most regrettable. As for adding citrus to spruce up the flavour of a potion: don't. It will blow up in your face quite literally.

  

 

Draco had to wonder how Snape had accumulated all his knowledge on modifying tastes. It was strange to think of the potions master as a young man, brewing experimental concoctions that more often than not didn't turn out, if his notes were to be believed. Snape had never seemed bothered by the noisome qualities of most potions, but perhaps he had become embittered by his failures to produce better alternatives. Draco was beginning to feel the magnitude of the dauntless task before him. If Snape couldn't do it, how could he?

 

 

Because you have fog moss. It'll work. He wasn't quite sure when he'd become personally invested in Blaise and Longbottom's project, but he suspected it was somewhere between nearly dying on the cliff and deciding he wanted to make Snape proud by doing something the old master couldn't. And perhaps refusing to let a snake scare him away. If he could overcome his phobia—even if only temporarily—he could confront the impossibility of improving a vile brew where Snape could not.

  

———

 

 

It would have been comfortable here, were it not for the underlying sense of something dangerous lurking at the edge of his perception. Draco was certain this time it wasn't a fear of Beatrix; that was a threat he was aware of (and she wasn't really a threat, either). This was something else, something unknown. Draco didn’t normally let himself relax in unfamiliar locations. Relaxing was akin to carelessness. And while a part of him wanted to believe he wasn't in danger here, another part of him wasn’t so sure and continued to distract him from his attempts to study. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about Harry's flat had changed imperceptibly since the last time he'd been there. The longer he stayed here the more he felt it. It was as though a boggart had moved in and was rattling between the walls, or a subtle warding curse had been erected. Both thoughts were ridiculous, of course, but it didn't change the fact that something was itching in the back of his mind. A subtle foreboding.

  

 

His thoughts drifted again to his strange near-panic attack in the entryway, his attempted flight. It had been as though he was of two minds, wanting to leave and wanting to stay, and he wondered if Harry experienced the same thing on a daily basis. Harry spoke of wanting to leave Gleyma, yet something held him back from even seeing the rest of Somerset. He adamantly denied he was Harry Potter, and yet was morbidly curious about who Harry Potter was. He spent his spare time preparing to run a business in this godforsaken town, yet it didn't seem he particularly wanted to open an inn at all, much less in Gleyma. It was as though he was constantly being pulled in opposite directions: one his true desires, and the other…well, Draco didn't want to think about who or what was influencing Harry to believe he wanted something he didn't. Most troubling of all was that all Harry's reluctance and future plans cantered around staying in Gleyma permanently. All because he happened to wash up on the shore here—or so the story went; Draco had serious misgivings. The more he thought about that story, the stranger it seemed, and the more determined he was to get to the bottom of things.

 

 

Of course, he wouldn't have to get to the bottom of things if the damn Ministry would just do their jobs and respond to Draco's tip-off. The sun was setting on day three since he'd told them where to find Harry, and there still was no word from them. Inefficient bureaucracy was one thing; blatant incompetence was another. Why hadn’t someone been sent to check? He’d given them a means to contact him, even if he hadn’t left his name.

 

 

And perhaps that was the problem; maybe they got anonymous Potter-related-tipoffs too often to chase after every one. If he wanted action, he’d have to make himself known. Originally, he thought the Malfoy name was likely to be less serviceable in getting the Ministry to act; but perhaps if he identified himself as the one responsible for Harry's wellbeing until they sent someone along to get the situation sorted, they'd be properly motivated to investigate.

 

 

He resolved himself to send another owl in the morning with his magical signature attached to ensure authenticity. Assuming Atlas had returned by morning, that is. He still hadn't seen his owl since he'd sent the daft bird off to the Ministry on Friday. By this point, Draco wondered if he ought to assume the poor thing got lost on his way back to Gleyma and returned to the manor instead. That was the problem with eagle owls: they were fast, but not always accurate.

 

 

Draco absolutely was not going to worry about the batty thing, no sir. He had concoctions to concoct, saviours to save, and riddles to riddle. Atlas often took the scenic route upon returning and was surely enjoying the wilds of Exmoor. Surely.

 

 

 

---

 

 

 John leaned against the wall and watched Draco stare into the flames, lost in thought, notes abandoned. He would’ve found it amusing if not endearing, were it not for the deep concern etched on Draco's face. He hoped Draco wasn't still stressing over Beatrix, though John couldn't blame him; after all, John was still worrying about it three hours later. He'd already worked through all the finance he could stomach for the day, and it had only been made worse by Beatrix's complaining and John's internal fretting.

 

 

He should have warned Draco about Beatrix, he knew. Honestly, it had just slipped his mind. He hadn't been making excuses when he said he rarely had company. Other than Draco, the only visitors John received were unwelcome ones, like The Old Man. Most people knew about Beatrix and stayed away. Perhaps that was even why Queenie had sent Mr. Baas to deliver his mail, rather than come herself. She didn't hate snakes like most everyone else, but she did call them "slimy worms". It annoyed John every time, if not for the ignorance of the statement than the insensitivity. Surely it wasn't the done thing to insult someone's pet?

 

 

Even after accepting that he should have thought to tell Draco about Beatrix, a small part of him was undeniably disappointed by the whole affair. It wasn't that he'd thought to test Draco or anything, but he'd hoped Draco would be different from Gleyma's residents, that he'd perhaps like snakes, too. Or at least not be afraid of them. Then again, he had made an effort to ask about Beatrix, so maybe there was hope yet…maybe he just needed more positive exposure to calm snakes. 

 

 

Snake phobias aside, John could no longer deny the fondness he felt for Draco. It hadn’t even been a week and already John had gone from resenting Draco’s annoying insistence on insinuating himself into every part of John’s life to regretting the fact that Draco would leave, sooner rather than later. It was pointless to get attached, but if John were being honest with himself, he was far and away past attachment. He had the strangest feeling that Draco was important, and that if he let him leave there would be no second chances for John.

 

 

Second chances for what, John wasn't sure. It terrified him as much as it intrigued him, and he was torn between embracing the fear to plunge into whatever this was with Draco and shoving it as far away as he could—and Draco along with it.

 

 

For now, however, he watched and waited, but not for too long.

 

 

“Shall I call you Lord of the Flame now?” he joked, making his presence known.

 

 

Draco startled out of his trance and turned a quizzical eye on John.

 

 

“Most people can’t figure out how to work that blasted stove, but I see you’ve managed. And lighting those saturated logs at the pit like a natural. Not to mention the fireplace at the shop," John counted off on his fingers. "I can never get it going. What is your secret?”

 

 

“It won’t be a secret if I tell you, will it?” he drawled with a disarming smile. He draped his long arms over the back of the sofa and rolled his neck, working out the kinks.

 

 

John's mouth felt dry, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was witchcraft.”

 

 

Draco make an indignant noise, probably upset at being accused of something so gauche. John simply laughed and retreated into the kitchen, marvelling at the carefree, easy demeanour between them. Was this what it was like for other people? This…domesticity?

 

 

He shook his head; he'd only suffer later for thoughts like that. “Are you hungry? I haven’t got anything but leftover lasagne…and cereal.”

 

 

“I can’t impose on you more than I already have…” Draco began stacking his notes as if to leave (again), but John wasn’t having it.

 

 

“Nonsense. I invited you here. I’m just sorry I can’t offer you better food.”

 

 

Draco wandered into the kitchen, apparently never having been that intent on leaving. “I already told you it’s the best lasagne I’ve ever had.”

 

 

“It’s the only lasagne you’ve ever had,” John reminded him, propping his arm on the refrigerator door separating him from Draco. “Which means that it’s also the worst lasagne you’ve ever had.”

 

 

Draco’s lips curved into a smile. “Well, if it’s the worst I’ve ever had, I consider myself lucky.” His eyes caught on John’s arm then, and he followed Draco’s gaze to his tattoo. He’d forgotten he'd pushed his sleeves up while studying, revealing it.

 

 

He smiled, feeling a bit melancholy. He quite liked his tattoo, but he usually kept it covered. Even though it made him feel connected to his past…the lack of knowledge about it almost made the feelings worse. “Did I tell you that the doctor informed me this was a new tattoo?”

 

 

Draco raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “How do you mean?”

 

 

“He said it had just barely healed, maybe a couple months or so prior to them finding me on the beach. It’s strange to think that it was perhaps one of the last things I did as ‘me’.”

 

 

“You’re still you,” Draco insisted.

 

 

"You know what I mean,” John countered, pulling the lasagne out and shutting the fridge. They sat in companionable silence as John dished out two servings and stuck them in the microwave. Draco eyed the process curiously; John was struck with the impression that Draco had, perhaps, never seen a microwave before. He didn't know why, but John was certain he was right. “Muggle invention,” he explained. “Terribly useful. Just push some buttons, wait a minute, and presto! Hot dinner.”

 

 

Draco scowled when he realized he was being teased, but it lacked real ire. “Think you’re funny, do you?”

 

 

"I know I am,” he said glibly as the microwave beeped. Draco jumped, clearly not expecting it, and John’s suspicions were confirmed.  He said nothing about it as he placed the plates on the table and tossed Draco a fork. John was mildly impressed when he caught it with one hand. “Nice reflexes.”

 

 

But Draco wasn’t listening, instead focused on the steaming lasagne with unconcealed wonder. “Incredible,” he whispered, digging in.

 

 

Yes, it was certain. John was completely smitten with this strange, enigmatic man.

 

 

Draco tried to wash the dishes after the meal, but it quickly became apparent he’d never done it before. “Don’t worry about that, I can take care of it,” John tried.

 

 

Draco gave a reproachful glare and insisted on finishing the task. It took longer than it ought to, he used too much soap, and his hands were pruney from leaving the water running, but he looked so proud of himself that John didn’t have the heart to tell him.

 

 

“Nicely done, Draco,” he said with a smile, not wanting the evening to end. He watched Draco go to finish packing his notes, and casted about for a reason to prolong the visit. Do I really need one? he mused, reflecting that he was an adult. Still, he didn’t want Draco to get the wrong idea, but…it couldn’t hurt to ask, right?

 

 

"You don't have to go yet," John said carefully, leaning against the wall in a poor semblance of nonchalance. Feeling unusually bold, he added, “You could even stay the night.”

 

 

Draco froze, and John was filled with regret wondering if he’d asked the wrong thing. Fortunately, a distant roll of thunder provided the perfect diversion. “It’s still raining buckets out there. That there’s a pull-out couch,” he explained, pointing to the futon in front of the fire. Boldness returning, he continued, “I wouldn’t send a dog out on a night like this.”

  

 

“…you don't mind?”

 

 

“Stay,” John pressed, no longer sure whether he meant the night or forever. “Please.”

 

 

Draco seemed to waffle briefly before sighing in defeat. “Well, if you insist.”

 

 

 “I do.” Feeling inordinately pleased with the situation, John fetched his book from the bedroom while Draco unpacked his notes. He plopped down on the sofa next to him and opened his book.

 

 

"What are you doing?" Draco asked, voice oddly strangled.

 

 

"I'm reading a book," John explained carefully as he folded his glasses up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

 

"Don't you need those?" Draco pressed, shuffling papers, "to see."

 

 

"I can see close up well enough, but as soon as anything's more than an arm's length away, it's all fuzzy. It's easier to focus on the words if I can't see anything else."

 

 

Draco made a noncommittal sound and settled down to read himself. But after a minute, he asked another question. "What's your book about?"

 

 

John glanced away from Being and Nothingness, wondering if Draco planned on talking all evening. Not that John particularly minded… "I'm not sure. I'll tell you when I'm finished with it."

 

 

They finally reached a peaceful equilibrium, Draco reading and muttering to himself under his breath while John tried to understand how nothing could be something. It was harder to read philosophy than he anticipated when not an arm's length away was someone much more interesting than Sartre.

 

 

But I can't get attached, he reminded himself. And he wouldn't; he was just enjoying this while it lasted. Whatever this was.

 

 

———

 

 

When Draco had yawned three times in less than a minute, John took that as his cue that it was time to let the poor man sleep. He got Draco pyjamas and helped him set up the futon. “Sorry, I don’t have a second toothbrush. I have some mouthwash, though…”

 

 

This amused Draco, for some reason. “I’d be worried if you had more than one.”

 

 

“Ah, well, no worries. It’s just me here,” John replied with a rueful smile.

 

 

He regretted bringing up his singledome when he saw the look of confusion on Draco’s face which soon gave way for comprehension. “Ah. you mean there’s no one you’re…involved with?”

 

 

John wished the earth would open up and swallow him, and he wondered if he’d given Draco the wrong impression again. Of course you have. Congratulations on making it awkward, genius. “There’s no one,” John confirmed, face hot. He sighed and pressed on, since things were already awkward. “It would ruin my whole number one most eligible bachelor thing.”

 

 

Draco smiled, an amused glint in his eye. “Can’t mess with that, can you?”

 

 

“Oh, people have tried,” he said and then resisted the urge to smack himself in the face. Then again, for all he knew he'd never tried to have a conversation like this before. And really, he never had in the only seven months that mattered.

 

 

“Cyril?” Draco offered sympathetically.

  

 

John grimaced. “I might be pathetic, but I haven’t fallen into desperation.” Not yet, anyway.

 

 

Draco frowned a little at that, but graciously let it pass without comment. “Don’t worry, I brought my own. Toothbrush, I mean,” he clarified, blushing a little. John very much doubted Draco would ever be desperate, fit as he was, but he decided they’d both blundered their way through this conversation enough for one night, thanks very much.

 

 

“Do you just carry one around in your pocket, then? A toothbrush, that is,” he asked, latching onto the safely mundane topic.

 

 

Draco considered this. “Dental hygiene is very important, John.”

 

 

John could tell Draco was still uncomfortable using the name 'John'. It was endearing, really. John wanted to say, 'you can call me whatever you want'. But he didn't say that. Instead, he said, “Well, can’t argue with that.” Which was a rather lame way to finish, admittedly, but his wits had left him, apparently.

 

 

John helped Draco set up the pull-out sofa (something else he’d never seen one before, apparently) and wished him goodnight, filled with a warm fuzzy feeling he wasn’t quite ready to name just yet. But soon, maybe he could. If it lasted that long.

 

 

He slept better than he had in seven months that night.

 

 

---

 

 

 

Draco awoke the next morning to the scent of cooking bacon with almost no recollection where he was. He sat up abruptly clutching his wand as the previous night’s events came back to him. He relaxed and hid the wand, hoping Harry hadn’t seen it. Rather hard to explain why I sleep with a polished wooden stick, isn’t it?

 

 

He still couldn’t believe Harry had asked him to stay the night. Not in the way he’d hoped, of course, but the continued desire for Draco’s company was encouraging. While he conceded that perhaps Harry was just being polite, not wanting Draco to get drenched in the admittedly torrential downpour, it had seemed like an excuse.  A mere afterthought, even. Especially given the endearingly awkward conversation that had followed about toothbrushes, of all things. Draco hadn’t minded it, awkward though it had been, since he discovered Harry was single, but perhaps didn’t want to be.

 

 

Not enough to be desperate, though, he chuckled to himself. He'd suspected, of course, but he preferred to have confirmation. The conversation had moved on—rather forcefully—before Draco had the chance to explain that he, too, was single. Harry’s face had been so red that Draco was worried Harry was going to spontaneously combust. He’d heard of accidental magic from embarrassment happening before, and he didn’t think it was the best way to remind Harry that he had magic powers.

 

 

And in spite of the ham-fisted explanation of being single and ambiguity of why he’d invited Draco to stay the night, Harry hadn’t so much as kissed him let alone made it clear whether he wanted Draco in any sense. It was still unclear whether Harry was even attracted to men. Draco was inclined to think that Harry certainly wasn’t not interested, self-serving though that was. And while the hopeful part of Draco recognized that inviting him to stay on such uncertain terms was just the kind of impulsive thing Harry would do rather than explain why, he’d only be disappointed later if he read too much into it.

 

 

Sighing, he stood up and stretched, folding the sofa back in on itself like Harry’d shown him. Even muggles had discovered the joys of transfiguration, it seemed. Bully for them, really.

 

 

“Good morning,” Harry called from the kitchen, voice tired but cheerful. His hair looked more mussed than usual, which Draco hadn’t been aware was possible. It was oddly charming.

 

 

Wandering sleepily into the kitchen, Draco cast about for coffee, and found none. It was strange that a barista didn’t seem to have a coffee-making apparatus of his own, but then Draco remembered Harry’s depressing schedule and realized there was no need to own a coffee machine; he spent most of his time at Cosmic Latte and ostensibly could just drink coffee there. For free.

 

 

Ah, well. He’d just have to make do without it for now. “I thought you said last night you only had cereal and lasagne to eat,” Draco noted, eyeing the bacon hungrily.

  

 

“I popped upstairs and borrowed some bacon from Queenie,” Harry said with a too-innocent tone.

  

 

“…borrowed?”

 

 

“She won’t miss it,” said Harry, tossing Draco a conspiratorial grin. “Plus, I don’t have any milk to go with the cereal…” he shrugged, but Draco didn’t particularly care for cereal anyway. There was absolutely no dignified way to go about eating it.

 

 

“So, you borrowed bacon.”

 

 

“And eggs and some bread to toast. And butter. And jam…”

 

 

It sounded like he’d borrowed an entire breakfast, but Draco wasn’t complaining. “I don’t suppose you borrowed coffee?” Draco asked hopefully, in spite of having reasoned just moments ago why there wasn’t any obviously available.

 

 

Harry laughed, a devastatingly delightful sound. “I’ll make you a latte when I open Cosmic.”

 

 

Sometimes Draco hated being right. “Actually…I need to get back to my tent. I have to check on the samples.” The rain was gone—for now—and Draco really couldn’t put it off. Not to mention he had that owl to send, he reminded himself dutifully. He wouldn’t let this newfound domesticity distract him from his determination to get Harry out of here.

  

 

“We do have take-away cups, you know,” Harry said blithely, popping bread into a toaster Draco was sure hadn’t been there last night. He must’ve borrowed that, too. 

  

 

“I remember,” Draco said with a wry smile. “I also remember you charge extra for those.”

  

 

“Not so!” Harry protested. “We merely give a discount to encourage making the environmentally sustainable choice.”

  

 

“You didn’t care about the environment when you forced a paper cup on me those first two times.”

  

 

Harry flushed a bit, though he turned his face away before Draco got the chance to admire ruffling his feathers. “Well, you had been very rude, so I was trying to protect the ambience of the other customers. A different kind of environmental protection, if you will.”

  

 

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Draco advised. “I still think it’s a bit underhanded to charge extra for paper cups.”

 

 

“Well, someone has to pay for them,” Harry relented. “As they say in my finance class: there is no free lunch.”

 

 

It certainly sounded like something a financier would say. Even if you aren’t paying, somebody has to. Draco's father had wanted Draco to be a financier, but Draco thought nothing sounded more mind-numbing than that. He’d rather sit through Professor Binns’ class again than work with grumpy goblins all day. “How is that going, by the way?”

  

 

“It’s awful, I hate it,” he admitted. “But I’m nearly finished with it, thank Merlin.”

  

 

Draco’s heart nearly skipped a beat. “Merlin?”

  

 

“Something I heard one of your alumni say, once,” Harry explained with a negligent hand-wave. “The thought of it tickled me, so I've adopted it. And Queenie hates it, so naturally I say it around her as much as I can.”

  

 

“Why does she hate it?” Draco asked, eyes narrowing.

  

 

“Says it’s…odd. Unusual. Deviant.” Harry shrugged. "Plus, she says it's cliché, seeing as we're in Somerset and all. Really, Glastonbury isn't that close, honestly."

  

 

Draco was liking this person less and less, and any guilt he had about effectively stealing her food evaporated. “She sounds a bit unpleasant.”

  

 

“She is a bit unpleasant. But she’s also helped me a lot for no real reason.”

  

 

Draco knew for a fact that most people didn’t do something for ‘no real reason’, other than Harry, who couldn’t seem to help himself with his saviour complex. Hadn’t Harry himself just said ‘there’s no free lunch’?

 

 

He supposed it was possible that she was just a helpful person (like Harry was), but based on what Harry had told him about Queenie, he very much doubted it. If she didn’t want something from Harry, Draco would eat his hat. Though he shuddered to think what she could possibly want from an amnesiac. “Is she trying to be your surrogate mother or something?”

 

 

Harry extinguished the stove with a click of the hob. “More like a sister.”

 

 

So she was young, then. Great. Fantastic. “Well, you are the employee of the month at Cosmic Latte. If she owns the place, I suppose that's reason enough. You’re making her a lot of money, I imagine.”

 

 

Harry laughed, placing a plate full of eggs, bacon, and toast in front of Draco. “Doubtful. How much money can you make off 90 or so customers who only come to Cosmic Latte because it gets them out of the house?”

 

 

“I doubt that’s the only reason they come,” Draco mumbled, staring into mirthful green eyes.

 

 

“You’re right." Harry nodded sagely. "No one else has an espresso machine or the wits to use one in Gleyma. And once you get a taste for the good stuff…well, instant coffee just won’t cut it anymore.”

 

 

“That’s not very nice, John,” Draco scolded playfully as he took a bite of toast—perfectly buttered, he noted with satisfaction. He very much disliked calling him John more each time he said it. Harry just wasn’t a John. He was Harry.

 

 

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to call me John if you don’t want to,” Harry explained patiently, slathering his toast with more jam than was healthy. “It’s all the same to me.”

 

 

Apparently, Draco’s thoughts hadn’t been as private as he’d thought. “Could have sworn I didn’t say that out loud.”

 

 

“Swearing isn’t very nice, Draco,” Harry teased. “And you didn’t have to say it out loud. Your face said it for you.”

 

 

Draco had half a mind to wonder if Harry were subconsciously legilimens-ing him, but he didn’t think even The Chosen One could do that wordlessly, wandlessly, and without intending to.

 

 

Then again, all bets were off when it came to Harry Potter.

 

 

“Thank you again for letting me stay,” Draco said, without quite meaning to. He was doing that a lot lately, he noted.

 

 

Harry flushed, clearly pleased. “It was my pleasure.”

 

 

“I’m glad there were no other toothbrush holders to contend with,” he added, feeling his own face heat up slightly. “And for what it’s worth,” he continued, wondering why he was saying this, but pressing on nonetheless, “there’s only one toothbrush at my place as well.”

  

 

In fact, Draco did have a toothbrush, not that he needed one; a mouth cleansing charm was more than sufficient for dental hygiene, but Draco liked the way brushing his teeth felt. It was…cathartic, or something.

  

 

Harry blushed deeper and chuckled, but didn’t comment on Draco’s toothbrush status. But his eyes did sparkle with a certain delight that Draco hope he didn’t imagine.

  

 

In the end, Draco followed Harry to Cosmic Latte and got the seasonal special (in a paper cup). “Maybe I’ll come by later, if the lichens are alright…” Considering that he had to brew several small batches of potions, Draco wasn’t so sure he’d be able to come back before Harry’s shift ended. But hope springs eternal, and all that rot.

  

 

“Well, if not, you know where I live,” Harry said with a wink then promptly ignored him as he served the next customer.

  

 

“Cheeky prat,” he mumbled fondly under his breath. He spared a longing glance for the fire and his sofa, but he’d already put off his business in Gleyma longer than he should. And with any luck, the Ministry would show up when he sent his next owl.

 

 

— — —

 

 

When he made it back to his campsite, Draco knew immediately that something was amiss. Someone had been there, he realized. There were tracks all around his tent, but whoever had come hadn’t been able to break through his wards. That, or they’d decided it wasn’t worth it.  

 

 

Draco felt a rush of gratitude for the level of paranoia he employed when protecting his quarters, temporary though they may be. Whoever it’d been hadn’t bothered to hide their track marks, which could mean a persistent muggle had been investigating, or a lazy wizard or witch.

 

 

He cast several revealing spells to make sure they weren’t lying in wait, but the interloper was to all appearances long gone. Draco wondered if it had been a Ministry Employee, sent to contact him about the Harry Potter sighting, and wouldn’t that just be his luck? But the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed. He’d set the tracking coordinates for Cosmic Latte, not his tent. Perhaps they’d sensed his wards and come to investigate, but…well, it just didn't add up.

 

 

Filled with a distinct sense of unease, Draco amplified his wards and kept a wary eye on the entrance to his tent as he set to work. He even put-up Wizard repelling wards, sending out a silent apology to Harry. The orchid Harry had given him seemed to glow in the ambient light of the tent, silent encouragement that Harry probably wouldn't mind Draco doing whatever he felt he needed to do to protect himself. Protect the both of them, really. You can't blame a snake for wanting to survive.

 

 

He felt the urgency of matters to attend to more strongly than ever: first off, an owl to the Minister. He'd set it with a two-way tracking charm this time; he’d know exactly when it arrived and was opened. If it arrives at all, he noted glumly. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but the longer he stayed here the more sure he was that this wasn’t just any pass-through muggle coastal town.

 

 

Pulling out a sheaf of parchment and his favourite quill, Draco quickly wrote a letter, feeling time was shorter than he'd like.

 

Dear Minister Shacklebolt,

I apologize for writing you like this and skipping pleasantries; time is of the essence. I'm aware we don't have much in the way of good faith between us. However, an issue of utmost importance has been brought to my attention, one which I am hoping you were heretofore ignorant of. I've found Harry Potter in a remote muggle town in Exmoor National Park. He has a severe case of amnesia, which until recently I believed to have unfortunate but benign causes. I fear now that is not the case, and someone has done this to him. My first letter was ineffective, so I find myself in the position to ask you directly to send help.  I am sure it is very strange for you to receive this information and request from me, but I assure you I mean Harry no harm; I merely do not know the full situation, and fear leaving Harry here a moment longer.

Hoping to see you soon.

Yours sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

 

 

 

Just for good measure, he put extra strength protection spells on the parchment to ensure the message was not damaged or altered in any way. The Malfoy name didn’t mean much to the Ministry these days—except trouble. But surely they would realize he wouldn’t sign his own name on a paper claiming he’d found Harry Potter if he were anything less than genuine about it. They might assume he’d want a reward—which he didn’t—but he wouldn’t outright lie about something so easily disproved.

 

 

Much to his mounting concern, and in spite of his decision not to worry, Atlas had yet to return. Draco wanted to believe the daft bird had simply returned to the Manor, but in light of the strange tracks around his tent, Draco was worried. What if something had happened to him? Draco had a budding sense of dread but tried to suppress it. No use panicking if you don't know something's wrong.

 

 

Problem was, Draco didn't know that nothing was wrong, and had a nagging suspicion that he had every reason to worry, Malfoy pretensions be damned. All he could do was choose to believe in his silly bird who had a stronger sense of self-preservation than your average Slytherin.

 

 

But whatever the status of Atlas may have been, he wasn't with Draco, which put Draco in a bit of a bind when it came to sending a letter. All hope was not lost, however; using a spell he’d never imagined he'd ever need when he learned it, Draco sent an owl summoning beacon. The closest owl would surely come, and hopefully soon. Gleyma was a muggle town, but the wizard-saturated Devon was close enough that Draco was confident an owl would be along shortly. Depending on the strength of the spell, it was possible to cover an area of up to 100 kilometres.

 

 

Sure enough, within half an hour a small, ruffled, rather pathetic looking owl arrived, grey feathers sticking out every which way but eyes determined nonetheless. There was something familiar about the scruffy thing, but he couldn't place where he might've seen it before.

 

 

“Thank you for answering my call,” Draco said, schooling his features so as not to let any of his apprehension show. He gave the owl some treats and attached his letter. “This message you're carrying is of the utmost importance, poppet. Deliver it to the Minister of Magic and no one else. Understand?”

 

 

The owl hooted enthusiastically and flew around the tent in three circles before shooting out of the tent in a wobbly line. It looked like a stiff wind would knock it out of the air, but the spell wouldn't’ve reached the owl if the poor thing weren't capable of delivering. The charm was considered a “use only in case of emergency” last resort, and Draco had only studied it because it was considered basic protocol for Aurors. They might've rejected his application, but that hadn’t stopped him from studying up on the spells they used. Longbottom had proven useful in that endeavour and was only too willing to help. Given the brief period he'd been an Auror himself, that help was invaluable. Draco wouldn’t say he and Longbottom were friends, as such, but they were definitely closer than mere business associates. For whatever reason, Longbottom was happy to put the past behind them and move forward. Perhaps because he didn’t like brewing potions himself. But, no matter. Draco hadn’t given up on being an Auror, and it served him well out here in Gleyma. Malfoys always get what they want in the end.

 

 

He only hoped sending the letter to Kingsley Shacklebolt would ensure the matter of rescuing Harry Potter was seen to quickly. Now that it was sent, all Draco could do was wait.

 

 

— — —

 

 

As it so happened, sitting around and waiting was not something Draco was as good at as he'd always touted. Being patient was easy when the outcome of success was certain. There was nothing certain about this situation, except perhaps that Draco didn’t know what he would do if this didn’t work—if the charm he’d set to go off signalling the arrival of his letter never chimed. Or if they ignored this letter like his first.

 

 

He waited two excruciating hours, knee bouncing, eyes darting to the opening of his tent. At one point during the first hour he thought he sensed the charm, but it was a false alarm.

 

 

Finally, finally, as two hours nearly stretched into three, the charm activated. It's arrived. Breathing a sigh of relief, Draco was finally able to get to work on his potions. One of the downsides of the reception charm was that it was difficult to maintain focus on other tasks until the receiver activated the completion of the spell. It wasn't very practical in most settings for this reason—how could one get on with one's life if obsessing over whether the message had been read or merely received?—but Draco wasn't taking any chances.

 

 

Draco didn't expect a return-owl, mostly because he expected the Ministry themselves to show up, but as lunch rolled around, the same ruffled owl he’d sent off flew into his tent, crashing into his bed with a squawk. It popped up quickly to fly circles around a stunned Draco. “Calm down, poppet!” he said when he came to his senses.

 

 

When it went into the owl-equivalent of hysterics, he grabbed the wretched thing out of the air like a fluffy snitch. It nipped him affectionately, but squirmed in his hands.

 

 

The strange thing was, it had no letter. “That's odd…” he mumbled. Surely the daft bird didn't think it was obligated to return to Draco? “You did a good job, the message was received.” He hoped that would be enough to release the pygmy owl from its self-imposed duty, but it only hooted impatiently and struggled free of Draco’s hands to continue its frenzied flight around the tent.

 

 

Sighing, Draco let it be. If it wanted to work itself to exhaustion instead of returning to its master, there wasn't very much he could do about it.

 

 

It was already past noon, and he had work to do.

 

 

He spent the annoyingly beautiful afternoon eating boring instant meals and drinking swill known as instant coffee, experimenting on the lichens with abysmal results (as Snape’s notes had indicated would happen). It had just gone four and the tiny, winged terror had finally fallen asleep on Draco’s desk (having over-exerted itself) when Draco was interrupted by the arrival of Blaise’s ermine Patronus.

 

 

“Draco, been trying to owl you, but they keep coming back with my messages still attached. A peeved ministry official showed up at the office with a message for you, something about how the Minister does not approve of blank messages being sent under the guise of being important. Doesn’t sound like something you’d do. Questions were asked about your choice of owl as well. Be safe, old bean.”

 

 

If Draco had been concerned before, he was highly alarmed now. It had surely taken huge concentration on Blaise’s part to send such a lengthy message by Patronus. Blaise didn’t go to extreme measures unless the situation itself were extreme.

  

 

He didn't know whether his first message had arrived, but the fact that the second had delivered a blank message in spite of all the protection charms Draco had applied was due cause for anxiety. That paired with the fact that someone was snooping around his campsite…

 

 

There was no other explanation: A witch or wizard was behind this. Maybe all of it. And now they knew he was there, too.

  

— — —

 

Draco had long given up the pretence of working on potions for pacing the length of his tent, back and forth, carrying the dozing owl with him and stroking it to keep him calm. He'd lost track of how long he'd been trying to think of a solution, but he wasn’t anywhere close to coming up with an action plan. There were two thoughts Draco kept coming back to, two theories, but he didn’t have enough proof of either to lend one of them more credence over the other.

  

 

The first thought—what he hoped were the case, if only because it was less nefarious—was that there were leftover protection wards that prevented magical messages from being sent out, and possibly made it impossible to locate the village magically. Draco had seen the runes at the bonfire pit himself; there had obviously been wizards settled here at some point. Perhaps there were more runes elsewhere, warded against discovery by Muggles. It was a plausible hypothesis, and preferable since it meant whoever set the wards was, in all likelihood, no longer around.

  

 

The counterpoint to this theory was that Blaise’s Patronus had come through. While it stood to reason that ancient wizards wouldn't have known about Patronus messages and thus couldn’t ward against them, there was also very little that was capable of halting a fully corporeal Patronus even if they had thought to try it. However, if he were dealing with the kind of ancient warding curse Draco hoped Gleyma was protected by, it would have made it impossible for the Patronus to find Draco within its confines. Since it had found him—the owl had as well, and wasn't that odd, given Blaise's message?—it seemed unlikely that Gleyma was completely undetectable. And he'd managed to get here without suffering mental anguish, so it was probably not unplottable, either.

  

 

The second theory was that there was someone in town screening messages, and possibly responsible for obliviating Harry. If that were the case, there ought to be more evidence of magical interference to be found if one knew to look for it. Harry had mentioned offhandedly that he felt compelled to deny being Harry Potter, and when he did so people—Wizards and Witches—simply believed him. That, added to the fact that Harry didn’t seem capable of imagining leaving Gleyma gave heavy preference to this notion, disgusting as it was. Draco'd had inklings of suspicions that something like that could be at play, but he’d dismissed them. There was no reason before to think there was anything other than unfortunate circumstance behind Harry being in Gleyma.

 

 

But now he had something that was not quite evidence, but on the way to being something like that. And whether that was a mental barrier to Harry or a physical one, Draco would only know if he used Legilimency on Harry while he was thinking about leaving Gleyma—or any goals of his that were separate to his existence here.

 

 

The only evidence against this theory was both the complexity of maintaining such spellwork as well as the fact that Draco had no problem recognizing Harry and ignoring his claims that he wasn’t exactly who Draco knew him to be. He supposed it was possible that the charm against recognition didn’t work on people who personally knew the object of the spell, but from what he knew of such charms, they weren’t precise enough to specify who could or could not be affected by it. As well, Draco himself did not feel any compulsion to stay in Gleyma, nor did any of the other witches and wizards who’d recognized Harry, it seemed.  In fact, Draco wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of Gleyma, and didn’t doubt that everyone but Harry—and perhaps the other inhabitants of the village—felt the same.

  

 

There was still, he supposed, the chance that Shacklebolt was lying about receiving a blank message, that he had something to do with all this, but Draco summarily dismissed the notion. He'd delegated the task of reprimanding Draco for his "blank message" to a nameless Ministry employee. There was no reason to try and tarnish the Malfoy name with slander—the Malfoys themselves had that handled by their own actions. And if the Minister had been behind Harry's obliviation and banishment to Gleyma, Draco would think that he'd have tried harder to hide it. No, Draco was all but certain; the Minister had nothing to do with this.

  

 

Draco would have to cast some detection spells to find out more, but he’d already lost the element of surprise, and detection really wasn’t his forte. Putting up charms he could manage. Taking them down he could do reasonably as well, when he had some idea what he was dealing with. But carefully reviewing existing charms to determine their effect and origin required a kind of specified knowledge he didn’t possess. And now, he couldn’t even ask for help with it externally.

  

 

And to think, just this morning he'd been convinced his biggest problem was being attracted to Harry Potter. Why was nothing ever simple when it came to the bloody Boy Who Lived?

 

 

Well, he reasoned, nothing worthwhile was ever easy, was it? He wasn't used to this whole 'saving people' thing, but somehow he knew: Harry was worth it.

 

 

 And Slytherins used any means to achieve their ends.

Notes:

Well, that there's some plot, I say. Hope you like it! Thank you to everyone for your lovely comments and awesome theories! I love hearing everything you have to say about what the heck is going on with our boys.

Come find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 8: Beasts of Exmoor

Summary:

a cautionary tail of why trailblazing might not be the best idea anyone has ever had.

Notes:

(content warning: mild sexual harassment, intrusive thoughts, small panic attack)

Here it is, folks. Enjoy ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

John heaved a heavy sigh, not bothering to hide his poor mood as he made (yet another) Pumpkin Spice Latte. It was 10:30a.m. on Wednesday, September the 22nd, and John had seen neither hide nor hair of Draco since his departure from Cosmic Latte only 27 hours ago. Not that John was counting. Well, not that he’d admit to counting, anyway.

 

It would be an understatement to say John had been disappointed that he hadn’t seen Draco at all the previous day after they'd parted ways. It would be generous to not assume that John had worried that perhaps he’d come on too strong. It would not be far off the mark to inquire if John had spent all evening wondering whether inviting Draco to spend the night had scared him off. In short: he was, he had, and he did.

 

John had spent every spare moment in the past 27 hours (that he wasn’t counting) picking apart his every interaction with Draco, from tracking down where his tent was and all but forcing him to come back to John’s flat, to his arrogant implication that Draco could come to John’s flat whenever he wanted to. As if he'd want to. He’d run the whole thing past Murph the previous day, asked him if his actions were pushy and aggressive. Murph was unhelpful, claiming he couldn’t know as he hadn't been there, but assuring John that Draco was a grown man, could make his own choices, and likely wouldn’t do anything he didn’t want to if he were truly as stubborn as John claimed he was.

 

He’d kicked John out with a bag old croissants when John asked him for a fourth time for more advice on the matter. “Go home and wait for him or go bug Batty old Frond. I’ve got a shop to run.” Hardly anyone ever came after three o’clock and they both knew it, but on the days Murph felt up to it John left the shop under Murph’s care. Tuesday was chemo day for Loretta—Murph’s wife—and Murph gave her the privacy she asked for during treatment. He never wanted to talk about it with John, and John never pressed him more than to let him know he was there to listen if Murph needed it. “You don’t need to hear my old man problems,” was his response every time. John rather thought he owed Murph the favour, considering how often he bore John’s worries.

 

So when he asked John to leave, John listened, hoping that was better than badgering him to open up.

 

He considered swinging by Mrs.Frond’s to check on her…and maybe for some tea and sympathy, but decided against it in the end. He was being selfish, worrying about something that wasn’t even a fling, let alone a relationship, and getting everyone involved. There were people whose wives had cancer, and others who were perpetually confused about what year it was and who called him Nigel because she didn't remember that her Nigel is gone.

 

So John had returned to his flat, not wanting to miss Draco if he did decide to come over for tea, or hot chocolate, or dinner, or...Well. Draco had said he might come over, had he not? Just because he hadn't come back to Cosmic Latte didn't mean he’d lost all interest in John, right?

 

John didn’t think he'd misread anything, really. He might not know Draco as well as he’d like to, but one thing he’d gleaned from their brief acquaintance was that Draco did not give information unprompted, certainly not about himself. Getting Draco to talk about himself was like pulling teeth. But then he’d gone and said he only had one toothbrush, and John didn’t think he was being presumptuous in assuming that meant something. Draco had no reason to tell John, after all, and he’d offered that tidbit of information of his own volition, in spite of his reticence.

 

John had felt bolstered and cautiously hopeful the first two hours after returning home, thinking that perhaps Draco had simply gotten absorbed in his research and would come by once he was hungry. John even had a nice risotto recipe ready, just in case.

 

When two hours turned into three, he was tempted to go check Cosmic Latte, to see if Draco had come by…but the very thought made him feel pathetic, so he vetoed the idea. He couls still come by, he knows where I live, he said quietly to no one in particular. No one in particular was particularly convinced.

 

By the time hour three turned to hour four, John thought about going by Draco's tent, just to check. He got as far as the edge of the forest when he turned around. Draco had meant it when he said he needed to do research, and John couldn’t deny that he’d been a persistent distraction for Draco. Draco hadn’t seemed to mind, though, unless John were just pants at reading people. Or maybe he thinks you’re clingy and he’s avoiding you, a small voice that sounded uncomfortably like his boss whispered in his mind.

 

Up until this point, he’d have said he thought he understood Draco. It had only been a week, but it felt like much longer.

 

He went home apprehensive and miserable, “working on finance” in theory but in practice was complaining to Beatrix and drinking tea laced with whiskey (though it was perhaps more accurate to say it was whiskey laced with tea as the night went on and he added more whiskey to his cup and nothing else). He hoped and waited for Draco to come over, but when it became clear by 9 o’clock he wouldn’t, John ate a slice of dry toast and went to bed, wondering if he’d misunderstood everything after all. He dreamt of flying that night, as he often did, but somehow it lacked its usual splendor.

 

He’d hoped to see Draco again first thing Wednesday as per Draco's normal morning coffee routine; had been looking forward to it, in fact, in spite of the contemptible state he'd worked himself into the previous night. But instead the first face he saw after opening was not Draco but Queenie. She’d gone back to preparing the shop and getting the pastries, but she’d made herself scarce since her inappropriate exercise of power on Monday. She hadn’t shown her face so much as apologized, though John didn’t particularly mind; he had no interest in speaking to her until she stopped playing childish games, but he hadn’t much hope of that.

 

Even so, she descended the stairs from her reclusive office and stood behind the counter. She looked the same as she always did. Long black hair unnaturally straight. Pale as she was, John was certain her hair must be dyed, especially since her brother was blonde. Her eyes were dark brown, and perhaps the color would have been warm on someone else, but there was nothing warm about her. She was on the somewhat shorter than average side (the top of her head didn’t even clear John’s shoulder), but she carried herself with the air of a tall woman, so it was easy to forget how petite she was. It helped that she nearly always wore heeled boots, always black. Her whole outfit was usually black, allegedly to prevent “coffee stains”, but she never made coffee—couldn’t, in John's experience. She only liked to make herself look busy and important behind the counter before retreating upstairs to do God knows what.

 

As always, she looked around the shop with laser-sharp focus, inspecting the myriad invisible flaws that were obvious only to her. Today, she seemed satisfied by whatever she looked for, but there was a strange emotion lingering in her eyes. If John didn’t know better, he’d call it suspicion.

 

“Morning, Stag,” she greeted, sauntering up to the register with a coy smile and leaning against the counter next to John. He resisted the urge to flinch.

 

He sniffed and turned away instead, making a show of tallying up the pastries that had thankfully been sitting on the counter when he arrived that morning. He knew he was being immature, but he hadn’t quite forgiven her for her stupid stunt on Monday.

 

“No morning greeting for your illustrious leader?” she pouted.

 

He shot her a quelling glare. Unfortunately, the one to pay for his cheek would be him. “Morning, Boss,” he grit out. He knew she hated being called that as much as he knew that she was aware he didn’t like it when she called him Stag. But turnabout is fair play.

 

“Boss?”  Her tone was threatening. If he didn't depend on her for home and livelihood…

 

But he did.

 

John beat his head once against the pastry hut. “Morning, Queenie.”

 

“That’s better,” she purred, flipping her long black hair over her shoulder. Only then did she seem to recognize that John wasn’t in the mood for her usual antics, where she flirted shamelessly and he pretended not to notice. Not that he ever enjoyed them, but today he was particularly short on patience. “Why the long face? Got stood up for a date?” She sounded a bit too happy about it, in John's opinion.

 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” he said sullenly. It hit too close to home, even if it weren’t technically true. Leaving an open ended invitation wasn’t the same as a date, no matter what John had thought he'd understood about the situation.

 

“Well, it’s probably for the best. No one sticks around Gleyma longer than they have to.”

 

John scowled, mostly because he knew she was right. But that didn’t mean everyone needed to keep bringing it up. He’d gotten in too deep already, and he was aware it would be better to put the breaks on his emotions while he could. Still, it irritated him as much as ever that his business wasn’t as private as he’d like.

 

His non-response was an answer in itself, no doubt. Queenie had the audacity to look amused and pleased at that, like a cat who'd caught the canary. "Chin up, John. You only knew him a week."

 

"It's not like he's left yet," John said, more out of obligation than truth. For all he knew, Draco had already left town. Somehow, though, he couldn't imagine Draco would leave without saying goodbye. They were, at the very least, friends. When Draco did inevitably leave, maybe he'd give John his email address, or phone number…

 

Queen made a skeptical noise that could politiely be classified as a cough. "Not yet. But soon."

 

John gripped the edge of the counter and said nothing.

 

She tucked a piece of hair behind John's ear and he jerked away, glaring at her. She smiled sweetly and ignored his discomfort. “Well, dear, it’s the first of Autumn today, you know what that means.”

 

He turned to stare at her, incredulous, and took a half step away. “Excuse me?”

 

She blinked innocently. "My drink for the season," she clarified, though her eyes glinted with something predatory.

 

John sighed, resisting the overwhelming urge to groan. Instead, he pinched the bridge of his nose, a reaction he vaguely recognized as one he’d picked up from Draco. It sent a painful throb through his heart, but he ignored it.

 

“John? Did you hear me?”

 

“Yeah, yeah," he snapped, turning away from Queenie, "I’m on it.”

 

The bell rang as someone entered the shop, and John was glad for a distraction. Queenie was grating on the best of days, and John wasn’t his best today. He certainly wasn't up for dealing with Queenie’s wiles. The pleased coo of Queenie’s greeting informed John it was not Draco who entered the shop, but Mrs.Jones. He was quietly relieved; although the fact that Draco still wasn’t here yet was a sore point for John, he didn’t think it wise for Draco and Queenie to meet. He didn't want to see the fallout of a clash between his boss and his…whatever Draco was to him.

 

He’s your friend, he reminded himself, then set to work. Nothing more.

 

Queenie chatted away with Mrs.Jones about their weekly bridge night, and though she did try to loop John in to the conversation a few times, eventually she gave up and let John make her coffee in peace.

 

“One Pumpkin Spice Latte, extra hot, no foam," he droned. He hated when people ordered extra hot drinks. Somehow, he always got burned. Not to mention the smell and taste of scalded milk was…not great. But Queenie liked it that way, for some godforsaken reason.

 

She preened, clearly thrilled that John knew her order without her having to tell him, as though she hadn’t informed him the moment the Pumpkin Spice syrup arrived that she expected him to make her a latte with it every single day. She took the drink—always in a takeaway paper cup, the wasteful bint—and retreated back to her mysterious upstairs office that no one else was allowed inside. John didn’t understand why she went on about Cosmic Latte being a sustainable coffee shop when she, the owner and proprietor, didn’t seem to care about wasting resources herself.

 

And she still hadn't apologized for Monday, John noted bitterly.

 

No use dwelling on it, a small voice whispered. You're pathetic enough as it is without holding petty grudges for something you brought on yourself.

 

———

 

It was just past noon and John almost had managed to get through his shift without another Baas interaction where he had to manage not to strangle anyone—namely himself—when Cyril walked in. So, another grating Cyril-interaction was on the menu, after all. This time, he invited John to plant pumpkin seeds with him later that afternoon. On the first day of autumn.  John barely found the patience to explain that now was the season for harvesting crops, not planting them, but Cyril didn't listen. As usual.

 

"So I'll see you later then?" he asked, bright-eyed and over-eager as ever.

 

"No, you won't."

 

Cyril laughed and departed, as though John hadn't said a word. John didn't feel guilty, per se; the onus was on Cyril for willfully misunderstanding if he thought John wanted to spend any more time with the obtuse idiot than he had to. His only regret stemmed from the fact that he just knew, somehow, that he'd be getting a lecture from Queenie regardless.

 

Overall, it had been a slow day. John hadn't realized how much of his time was spent talking to Draco during the long stretches of nothingness that plagued working at Cosmic Latte. How had things changed so much in John's world in just a week, just because of one man?

 

Surely this wasn't healthy. He couldn't be so dependent, it simply wouldn't do. He'd nearly convinced himself that he wasn’t bothered Draco had been absent yesterday, and that it didn’t make any difference to him at all whatsoever whether the prat showed up today or not when the bell above the door jangled again and all John’s convictions and carefully constructed arguments for indifference flew right out the open door.

 

Draco waltzed in, skin flushed from the cold air, raindrops dripping from his nose. He was breathtaking, and John felt his heart cheer in approval. I am so screwed, he mused.

 

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,” John said, instead of what he wanted to say, which was embarrassing. Things like ‘where have you been?’ and ‘why didn't you stop by yesterday’ and ‘I missed you’.

 

“At least the Beast of Exmoor didn’t drag me in,” Draco said, lips quirked up in a smile that sent a pleasant tingle down John’s spine.

 

The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, however, and John wondered what he was hiding with such carefully practiced cheer. Yesterday, John would’ve asked what was troubling him. Today, he hesitated; he was over the moon for this daft man, but how did Draco feel? What if revealing his toothbrush status meant less than John wanted it to?

 

John felt terribly vulnerable, and all his pining and mooning from yesterday came rushing back to him in a mortifying swell of misery. Regardless of whether something were bothering Draco, what right did John have to ask? They'd only known each other a week, after all, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be overstepping the invisible line in the sand between himself and everyone else. The line he’d almost forgotten about since Draco had showed up in Gleyma. Almost.

 

“Small mercies,” John agreed, keeping his tone light. “You’ve missed meeting Queenie this morning. Shame, really.”

 

Draco didn’t look like he thought it was a shame at all. John was inclined to agree. “Next time, perhaps.”

 

“Perhaps,” John echoed, though he wanted nothing more than to protect Draco from her. Not that I have any right.  “So? What’ll it be today?”

 

“Caramel Vanilla,” Draco smirked, seeming brighter already at the thought. Perhaps he just needs caffeine, then, and there was nothing wrong, after all. John was just projecting his own desire to be helped onto Draco, who was absolutely fine. Just tired from lack of caffeine. This, at least, was a problem he could help with. “I think it’s becoming my new ‘usual’ order.”

 

John’s traitorous heart warmed at the thought that he had been the one to introduce that drink to Draco.

 

“But this is only the first time you’ve ordered it,” John objected without conviction. Pleased as he was that Draco liked it so much, the man really needed to learn what the word ‘usual’ meant.

 

“And it’s only the second time I’ve had it, yes, I know. But I’m thinking about the future, you understand, and imagining all the times I will order it, which will certainly outnumber my former usual order. So yes, it is my new usual.”

 

John laughed, and his heart ached at what this man was doing to him. With a simple, rather daft conversation he’d all but cleared away John’s gloomy thoughts like sun washing away the rain. “It’s a good thing you carry your toothbrush around with you, at the rate you ingest sugar,” John chided, punching in the order. Draco passed his payment over, eyes flickering strangely over John's face. John frowned, having the oddest feeling he was being scanned, but Draco's seraphic smile banished any and all misgivings.

 

“The Dentists hate me,” he confided, eyes twinkling. “And their daughter, too.”

 

John shook his head with a chuckle. Must be an in-joke. “Maybe you've been seeing the wrong dentists, then. I rather think they'd be pleased at how serious you are about oral care.”

 

Draco made a strange noise at that, but handed his payment over. “I drink too much coffee for them to feel anything but disappointment, I think.”

 

John shrugged and counted the coins (still in as small of currencies as he could get away with, the bastard). “You’re short a few ticks,” John noted. “Don’t think you’ll get special treatment for being friendly with the barista.” The banter was light, and easy, and comfortable. He could manage this.

 

“I didn't pay for a takeaway cup. I intend to stay,” Draco said quietly. When John didn’t respond, he added, “if that’s alright?”

 

“You’re more than welcome. Stay as long as you like,” John blurted out, and he wished they weren’t talking about coffee shops.

 

So much for light and easy.

 

“Good. I will." Draco’s shoulders sagged minutely, as though relieved. But that couldn't be right, what did he have to be relieved about?  "I missed you yesterday.”

 

John’s heart constricted, painfully, pleasurably. He didn't think anyone had ever said that to him. He’d never been absent for anyone to miss in Gleyma.

 

He wanted to say ‘I missed you, too’, but he couldn't quite bring himself to that brink of emotional honesty. Instead, he smiled. “It wasn’t the same without you here.” It wasn't quite enough, and didn't encompass the depth of his feelings, but it was the best he could do while protecting his heart. He didn't look at Draco's eyes, unwilling to see whatever emotion might be contained within their depths.

 

He pulled out the green and gold mug Draco prefered and set it on the counter. “Your new usual in your old mug, then?”

 

Draco smiled brilliantly and said, “Ta, you know where I’ll be.” It was only tinged with a hint of sadness that John could have imagined, but probably didn't.

 

Rolling his eyes, John replied, “We don’t do table service here!”

 

Draco glided over to the sofa and settled into his spot, pulling out his strange papers and his quill, but when John brought his drink over he shuffled them away. “What happened to no table service or special treatment?”

 

“Oh, hush, you,” John said, gently nudging Draco’s shoulder and blushing in spite of himself. He turned to leave, not willing to risk what a conversation might do to his heart palpitations, but Draco grabbed his wrist and stopped him.

 

“Wait!” Draco called out softly, and there wasn't anything casual about this, was there? Well, fuck. Of course he'd wait. He'd probably do anything Draco asked of him.

 

Breath caught in his throat, John turned back, locking eyes with Draco in spite of his earlier determination not to do such an ill-advised thing. There was that scanning again, but John was almost too enthralled with the stormy depths he gazed in to to notice.

 

Almost.

 

John cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow at Draco’s hand, still clutching John’s wrist just below his tattoo, mentally begging him to let go before John misunderstood. Coming back to himself, Draco let go, as if he'd been shocked. “Sorry, I just, well. I wanted to ask you if you’re free this after your shift?”

 

John wished he could exclaim “For you? Yes!”, but he couldn't. Instead, he schooled his features into something more neutral, wondering at the newfound desire to conceal how pleased he was. And why shouldn’t he show that he enjoyed spending time with Draco, he asked himself. If John didn’t know better, he’d say this anxiety belonged to someone else. “All I’ve got on is that blasted finance course.”

 

Draco sent him another beatific smile. Ah, that was why. This joy, incandescent thought it was, was only a borrowed joy. “Would you be willing to guide me through the woods?”

 

John squinted his eyes at the unexpected request. “What?”

 

Draco fluttered his hands, looking flustered. It was far too charming. “I mean, well, I was just thinking, you remember those runes at the bonfire pit, yes? Well, I was thinking about them, and wondering if there are other runes like them anywhere else around Gleyma?”

 

“I honestly don’t know,” John said, mystified. He wondered what brought this on, but if Draco wanted to spend more time with John, well. He was in full support. Why was it always in the cold, damp woods, though?

 

“Will you help me look?” Draco’s eyes were so earnestly desperate it hurt to look at them, and John was struck with a frisson of worry. For whatever reason, this was important to Draco, and he’d asked John to help him. Not that he has anyone else to ask, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind. John ignored it.

 

Heart so full it felt like bursting, John replied, “I’d be delighted to.” He didn’t care what brought this on. If it allowed him to spend more time with Draco, he’d go traipsing through the woods and beyond.

 

He shivered at that last thought, fraught with that foreign anxiety over leaving, but he put it aside. He’d think about it later.

 

———

 

“You know,” John began, pulling twigs out of his hair, “When you said you wanted to look for runes in the woods, I didn’t think you actually meant, you know, looking for runes in the woods.”

 

“And what, pray tell, did you think I meant?” Draco’s voice carried a hint of amusement, and John ought to have been annoyed.

 

He wasn’t.

 

“Perhaps a leisurely stroll through the lovely footpaths in one of England’s premier National Parks?” He grunted as he wrestled a particularly disagreeable bush for control over his scarf, which had become caught in it somehow. “I certainly didn’t think you wanted to go trailblazing.” It might actually be illegal, now that John thought about it, but he liked the thrill of doing something a little bit forbidden.

 

“You did dub me the Lord of the Flame. I’m entitled to blazing a few things here and there, am I not, trails included?”

 

Finally wresting the scarf free, they continued on. It was a good job, too; the nubby, crimson thing was a gift from Mrs. Frond, who told him he looked good in "brave colors", and that it complimented his "ambitious eyes". It hadn't made much sense to him—much of what she said didn't—but he appreciated the gift for it's warmth and thoughtfulness. Nothing said "I care" like a hand-knitted garment.

 

In spite of the overbearingly damp fog that’d set in after lunch, Draco’s hair still looked perfectly coiffed. It certainly wasn’t full of twigs and nettles, nor were his shoes muddy, nor his coat damp. Unlike John, who was all of those things. It was as infuriating as it was mysterious.

 

Still, as perfect an appearance as Draco maintained, there was an oppressive air about him. The niggling suspicion from this morning that something was very wrong made itself known in the pit of John’s stomach, in spite of his attempts to write it off as 'nothing to worry about'. He was worried now, but every time he opened his mouth to ask, he held back. When he thought John wasn’t looking, Draco glanced about anxiously. He jumped at the smallest noise, and periodically patted various pockets as though to ensure its contents had not disappeared. Draco was undeniably tense, but he was clearly trying to project an aura of nonchalance.

 

John realized after they'd been traipsing about for a while that Draco didn't want John to know he was stressed, and for some reason that made it all the more worrisome.

 

He had asked, of course, if Draco was alright when he’d noticed the first genuine signs of distress greatly amplified since they'd left Cosmic Latte. What had been slight concern earlier had blossomed into barely concealed panic in only a short while. Regardless, Draco had assured him that yes, everything was perfectly in order, no problems to be found here, then promptly changed the topic.

 

Clearly, something was very, very wrong, and Draco was trying very, very hard to keep it to himself. And now John had to decide whether he would let Draco pretend he was fooling him, or demand an explanation about what was the matter.

 

But what right did he have to ask Draco what was upsetting him when he couldn’t even seem to decide whether spending time with the man was worth it when he knew he was only falling deeper and deeper into potential heartbreak?

 

So he played along with Draco's illusion of casual unconcern while privately keeping an eye out for any clues as to what was going through his brain.

 

And if John made a bigger fool of himself than was strictly necessary foraging through the underbrush to make Draco laugh, well. No one was the wiser.

 

“I thought you were a botanic pharmacologist,” John said, returning to a line of questioning that Draco might be willing to answer. “Why are you looking for runes?”

 

“Intellectual curiosity,” Draco said, smirking. It only seemed a bit forced.

 

“Well, honored as I am to help quench your thirst both literal and figurative,” John said with a saucy eyebrow waggle that earned him a chuckle, “I haven’t the faintest idea where to even begin looking.”

 

Draco elegantly sidestepped the low hanging branch that had just thwacked John in the face. “Clearly. Good thing I do.”

 

“Then what the hell do you need me for?” John groused, rubbing his sore nose.

 

“To keep me company, watch out for The Beast, serve as a bad example. You know. That sort of thing.”

 

“I’m sure the Beast is miles away from here already, on the prowl for those peacocks of yours.”

 

Draco sighed with fond exasperation. “I just figured if the runes were someplace obvious, everyone in Gleyma would know about them already. Since no one does, they must be off the beaten path.”

 

"Did you ask anyone but me about them?"

 

"No," Draco admitted. "But I did go to the library."

 

John shook his head in disbelief. At least that explained where Draco had been that morning, in part. "And what did you find there?"

 

"Certainly not anyone willing to talk about the history of this illustrious town." Draco sniffed. "You'd think they don't want outsiders knowing about their fascinating hidden runes."

 

“Maybe they aren't hidden. Maybe they, god forbid…don’t exist .”

 

“You know, John, the way you’re carrying on, one would almost think you don’t want to be out here,” Draco said with a tone of mock hurt. At least, John hoped it was mocked. “Or that you’re some kind of skeptic.”

 

“I want to believe,” John said stoically.

 

He didn’t expect a reaction, having long ago accepted that Draco was pop-culturally illiterate, but Draco surprised John by chuckling and replying, “I actually got that reference.”

 

John was too shocked to speak momentarily. “You don’t strike me as an X-Phile to be honest,” he said at last.

 

“I’m hardly an X-Phile,” Draco claimed, face pointed haughtily upward. “As if I could be so gauche as to obsess over something so…erroneous. I admit, while the wild inaccuracies I see due to my background are endearing in their attempts, the only reason I’m still hanging on is to see Mulder and Scully get together.”

 

“First of all, what background? Are you an alien?” Draco scoffed indignantly at that, so John continued, “Second of all, an X-Phile and an MSR fan? Will wonders never cease?”

 

“You don’t support them?” Draco said softly, as though the very idea hurt him.

 

“Not as such, I just don’t see it. They’re constantly at odds with each other.”

 

“And they love it. They’re made for each other, if only they weren’t so focused on extraterrestrials, maybe they’d’ve realized it sooner.”

 

“The show is about ‘ extraterrestrials’. There’d be no X-Files if they weren’t—hang on, did you say sooner?”

 

“Please, even the thickest, most oblivious amongst us can see their interactions in ‘Rush’ indicate—”

 

“Wait! Stop! Stop. ‘Rush’?” John interrupted. “Is that season 7?”

 

“Yes—”

 

“Stop! Don’t say anything else! I haven’t seen it yet!”

 

“Oh?” Draco got a mischievous look on his face. “That sounds like a 'you' problem to me.”

 

John was still four seasons behind, as Mrs.Frond hadn’t ordered the other seasons on tape yet. She was the only one remotely interested in watching it, and was also the only one with a VCR. John didn’t think she was really all that invested, since she couldn’t seem to keep up with the plot, but John suspected the real reason she watched was because she wanted company. No one else was willing to spend time with “Batty old Frond” but John. John didn’t think she was that bad. Sure, she said odd things at times, but she was harmless. Sad though it was to admit, the 80-something year old widower was the closest thing he had to a friend in Gleyma. Or, presumably anywhere.

 

But now that he’d met Draco, he thought he could tentatively say they were friends. Even when Draco left eventually, at least John could say he has a friend out there somewhere. Though if he were being honest, it wasn’t just friendship John wanted from him.

 

John was likewise delighted that all it took was a science fiction show to distract Draco from his melancholy. “I swear, if you spoil anything, I will end you.”

 

“Oh, I’m quaking in my boots,” Draco joked, but he didn’t spoil anything other than the illusion that he wasn’t above being heavily invested in a fictitious romantic relationship that was nothing but wild conjecture.

 

They walked in companionable silence for a while, John getting harrassed by the flora and Draco staying immaculate. Eventually John grew too conscious of everything they weren’t saying, however, and had to break the silence. “How can you see anything in this fog? Even if The Beast were upon us, I don’t think I’d notice until it was too late.”

 

"There's a lot you fail to notice, right in front of your face," Draco mumbled darkly.

 

"What?" John demanded, not sure he'd heard correctly.

 

“I said, 'Good thing my eyesight is better than yours, Sirius'.”

 

“Sirius?” John echoed, turning around to pin Draco with a quizzical stare.

 

Draco eyed him haughtily. “After careful consideration, I’ve decided calling you ‘John’ just doesn’t feel right.”

 

John cocked his head and gave Draco a funny smile, feeling vaguely uncomfortable and yet wanting very much to have this conversation. “Why not?”

 

“It’s too common,” he said with an elegant shrug.

 

“I’m a common man,” John retorted. He thought he heard Draco mumble ‘You’re anything but’, though he couldn’t be sure.

 

“Anyway, I think I’ll just call you a series of different names until we settle on something serviceable.”

 

“I did say you can call me Harry,” John reminded him. Harry, at least, was better than John. More importantly, he just liked the way Draco said it, as though it were unfamiliar on his tongue but full of affection nonetheless.

 

“And so I can. I can also call you Sirius, or Fred, or Cedric, or Lily.”

 

John scowled, and cast Draco a reproachful look. “Hey now, Fred I can abide, but Cedric? Doesn’t suit me.”

 

He could hear the smirk in Draco’s voice as he replied, “Duly noted, Ginevra.”

 

They walked on in this way, Draco rattling off a series of increasingly peculiar names as the fog around them became increasingly dense.

 

“What about…Albus?”

 

“I think not.”

 

“Severus?”

 

“Absolutely not. Makes me feel kinda greasy.”

 

“What about Albus Severus?”

 

“Those names are Quite Enough on their own without you needing to combine them!”

 

Draco sighed, long suffering. “Fine. Viktor.”

 

“With a k?”

 

“Or a c, if you like.”

 

“Meh.”

 

“Hagrid.”

 

John considered this. “I don’t think I’m tall enough for that one.”

 

“Fair enough. Gilderoy?”

 

“Now I know you’re just having me on!” John laughed. “Where are you coming up with these names, anyway?”

 

“Maybe I’m reading them from a carefully cultivated list of underappreciated names.”

 

“They certainly are…unique .” John wondered if there wasn’t some deeper purpose behind the exercise, or if it were meaningful in some way.

 

“What do you think of Dean?” Draco offered.

 

“That one’s pretty normal.”

 

“Remus.”

 

“And we’re back to business as usual, I see.” They’d arrived at a part of the woods John couldn’t remember ever seeing before. There was a crumbling arch far off in the distance, barely visible through the mist. There was something secretive about it, like it was all that was left of some long forgotten structure. It was almost romantic, discovering ancient ruins in the misty woods, just the two of them.

 

But those were dangerous thoughts.

 

He was about to point out the academic and definitely not romantic arch to Draco—who hadn’t noticed it yet—but the daft bugger was looking off into the middle distance, stroking his chin as though deep in thought. John barely stifled a laugh and had to look away, heart too full of... something.

 

“Seamus,” Draco said triumphantly, and John lost the battle against his laughter.

 

“Do I look like a Seamus to you?”

 

“No, you look like a Harry.” John shivered, feeling a sudden chill run down his spine like an icy finger.

 

But there was such a warm sincerity to Draco’s tone that John had to stop to turn around and look at him. Their breath fogged visibly in front of them, punctuating the silence that hung in the air. John took a step closer and whispered, “Then call me Harry.”

 

Those pewter eyes swirled with some indecipherable emotion, Draco’s lip parted slightly with words that didn’t need to be spoken. His eyes locked on John’s, then moved to his mouth. John took a step closer, and looked up at Draco, hoping to find the same emotion reflected as the one he felt with all his being. He couldn't deny it any longer, and why should he?

 

This was more than friendship, and if Draco felt the same, his eyes would say so.

 

And for a moment, they did. But then Draco’s gaze flicked to just past John, and any warmth they’d held was replaced with dread. John felt it like a punch to his gut, and he wondered how a moment could spoil so quickly. But Draco was already stepping past John, placing a hand on his shoulder. He was shaking. “T-try not to panic, and get behind me, don’t turn around.” The feeling that something was terribly wrong spiked acutely.

 

“What’s going on Draco?” John asked, doing the opposite of what Draco instructed.

 

A firm hand stopped him, but it was Draco’s tone that truly gave him pause. “Don’t.” He gasped like it physically pained him to speak, to breathe.

 

John felt the dread he'd seen in Draco's eyes settle in to the pit of his stomach, and felt cold. Colder than was normal for mid-September, like he’d been plunged in an ice bath. All the anxiety he’d been attempting to quell since this morning reared its ugly head; John’s breath hitched, and although he knew worrying about hyperventilation would only make it more likely to happen, already his throat was closing up and he was short of breath. He’d messed this up somehow, he knew it. God, he was always screwing up. Likely even before he lost his memory, he suspected. Failure was written in his DNA. Had to be; how else could he have ended up adrift at sea, memories forgotten? It was his fault. Had to be. And he still couldn’t remember, could he? He wasn’t doing enough. He was only able to scrape by now because people pitied him, but they were probably getting sick of him, weren’t they? How pathetic did he have to be to stop being pitiable and start being disgusting? Draco probably was sick of him already. Had to be. He’d only tolerated John because he looks like someone Draco used to know. Soon, he’d leave John and forget about him, just like everyone else, and—

 

“Expec,” Draco rasped, coughed. His voice was as hoarse as John was sure his own would be had he the courage to speak aloud. But I don’t. I’m a coward.

 

Draco tried again, seemingly wrenching the words from his very core. “Expecto Patronum.”  John didn’t know what ‘expecto patronum’ meant, but it seemed to be a mantra of sorts. Whatever it was, it interrupted John’s downward spiral enough to give him the clarity to decide that this was not normal.

 

Draco’s grasp on John’s arm had weakened enough that John was able to throw it off and turn around. He was undoubtedly scared—terrified, really—but his concern over Draco’s deteriorating state was more pressing.

 

“Draco, what in the hell—”  John was unable to finish the thought, unable to think anything at all, too overcome was he with a primal fear unlike any he’d ever known. His knees were weak, and he felt ready to topple over, but some hidden strength within him kept him on his feet.

 

For standing not 4 meters in front of him were three creatures whose vileness defied description. Black, tattered robes covered gangly shapes, from which protruded scabby, skeletal hands and sucking sounds that made John want to retch. “What in the ever-loving fuck are those?” he managed to gasp out, voice raw with terror. He wondered if he’d ever be able to speak again.

 

“Dementors,” Draco said faintly, leaning back against John like he wanted to flee but didn’t know how.

 

“How are they—they’re floating.” He hadn't noticed that before. While relieved that he could still speak, he knew with every fiber of his being that this was no time for celebrations. He shivered violently. He should be doubting his sanity, but Draco seemed to be witnessing the same vision, at the very least. Shared hallucinations weren't common, surely?

 

Draco didn’t say anything, and really that was more alarming than anything he could’ve said. “What do we do?” John hissed at last. “Can you run?”

 

“They’re faster.” Draco’s voice trembled, underscoring the unspoken even if I had strength to run.

 

“Never know till you try.” Harry tried at humour. It didn't work.

 

Draco glanced at him quickly then back at the dementors, as though unwilling to take an eye off the approaching creatures for too long. They didn't seem to be moving very quickly, contrary to what Draco said, but he had a name for these creatures, where John knew only terror. He recognized them as real while John was reeling with weak hope it was just a mirage. Draco knew what these were, and he knew they couldn't run, and he knew to be just as petrified as John. Somehow, the thought failed to comfort him.

 

"Are we going to die?" John whispered. Draco didn't seem to hear him, eyes wide and…thoughtful?

 

“You never know, indeed…” Draco repeated, eyes calculating. “Well, fuck it. We’ll probably die either way, so. Yes, there is something we can do. Well, you can do it. I can’t.”

 

“Huh?” John said smartly, too horrified to follow Draco’s poor explanation. We're going to die. Fucking fantastic.

 

“Do you want a lecture, or do you want to live?”

 

Whatever Draco had done before, the expect-something-or-other, John could feel the effects fading, the intrusive thoughts returning. He didn’t know how those simple words had helped him feel more stable, as if by magic, but he didn’t understand much of anything about this situation either.

 

He didn’t need to think a second more. “Tell me what I need to do.”

 

Draco handed him a slender, polished, wooden stick, eerily reminiscent of the one belonging to John’s former life before he was John Doe. “Point this at them, and think of the happiest memory you have, it needs to be fucking strong, alright? And yell ‘Expecto Patronum’.”

 

“How will that help?” he said, doubtful.

 

“It will. You’ve done it before, I know you can do this.”

 

John was certain he'd never done anything as silly as this before, but Draco's tone brooked no argument. Draco had to know John didn’t have many memories at all, let alone powerfully happy ones, but he was insisting John could do this.

 

And maybe it was the fact that Draco was swearing, even though he never swore. Maybe it was the fact that nothing about this situation made sense, but John knew a fate worse than death awaited them. Maybe it was just the completion of a moment that had been so rudely interrupted by these ghastly creatures, and John hated interruptions.

 

Maybe it was just having nothing else to lose, and everything to gain.

 

He guided Draco back on his feet, put his back to the dementors, and grabbed his face—less gently than he would have liked, but the situation was dire—and kissed him deeply, passionately, with hope and longing and happyhappyhappy and god please don’t let this be the last time I kiss him.

 

He didn’t know if Draco kissed him back—he was frankly too terrified to notice, but he also felt brave and powerful and only a little foolish. Draco believed John could do this; knew he could. So John pointed the strange implement at the Dementors, only a few paces away now, and thought about kissing Draco, talking to Draco, drinking coffee with Draco, making lasagne with Draco, just Draco, Draco, Draco,

 

and yelled, “EXPECTO PATRONUM!”

 

A power that felt righter than anything surged through John, burning from his toes through the roots of his hair and into the wand—and yes, that was what it was, John was sure, no; Harry was sure, and a silvery stag made of light and goodness erupted out the end and charged the dementors, driving them back, back, back, taking all their dread with them, so far he couldn't see them, and they were gone.

 

Well, for now. Harry remembered that a patronus didn't destroy them. That took a different kind of power.

 

The stag circled back, coming to rest in front of Harry, and this was familiar from long ago but important. The name “Prongs,” came to his lips, unbidden, and suddenly he remembered. He remembered everything, Hogwarts and Ron and Hermione and—

 

He grabbed his head, a piercing pain shattering through his skull. Crying out, he dropped to his knees, and Prongs disappeared.

 

“Harry!” Draco cried, by his side in a moment. He touched Harry’s cheek tenderly, concern etched in every feature. “Are you alright?” he asked, eyes searching Harry’s face.

 

“I–I don’t know,” he eked out, wincing in pain. There was too much all at once, but there was something else just beyond his reach, something important and dangerous and Draco needed to know it but—

 

“You did it,” Draco breathed, eyes full of pride and wonder. “I knew you could—you’ve done it before, but—but Merlin, Harry, you did it! ”

 

“I have a bit of a saving people thing.” Harry laughed even though his head felt like it was about to explode. “And here I thought the Beast of Exmoor was the only thing to watch out for in these woods.” Why he tried for humour at times like this, he’d never understand.

 

Harry could tell Draco was thinking about it though, turning it over in his mind. “They shouldn’t have been here,” he said at last. “The dementors. Someone sent them.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Harry said darkly, and when he tried to think of who might want him dead now, that sharp pain came back, but it wasn’t stopping this time. His vision was going blurry, and everything hurt. A pained voice screamed, and he distantly recognized it as his own.

 

He thought he heard Draco calling his name, hands fretting as he tried to figure out how to help, what he should do, but it all felt so far away. Harry vaguely noted he'd thrust Draco’s wand back at him, needing both hands to cradle his throbbing head.

 

Now that he wasn’t holding a wand, the pain receded slightly, but Harry knew it wouldn’t last. “I can’t—think—” his words cut off there, and he was in agony. Gentle hands rubbed circles on his back. Draco. How could he have doubted this before? He didn't doubt. Not before all this. And certainly never again.

 

He nearly thought of a name, a face, a one responsible, but he couldn't think through the pain, even if he wanted to, needed to, he had to tell Draco, but—

 

It was useless.

 

There was a pained sigh, Harry thought, but really he couldn't be sure. Then a soft voice—Draco—whispered, “I’m terribly sorry about this, Harry, truly I am. Given what just happened I think even I can produce a patronus now,” he laughed once, bitterly, broken, as though he was only half talking to Harry. “I have no idea what’s hurting you, and I can only think of one thing to do. I wish I were…better. Gods!” He lost his grip for a moment, but quickly regained control.

 

He looked at Harry, eyes brimming with misery. Harry felt the same way, and not just because his head felt like it was cracking in two. “It’s just a temporary solution, Harry, I promise. I’ll bring you back for real next time, without this pain. Forgive me.”

 

Harry knew what Draco was about to do, and managed to look Draco in the eye and hoped what Draco saw there managed to communicate that it was alright, there was nothing to forgive.

 

Draco pointed his wand at Harry, eyes full of pain, self-loathing, and regret.

 

And whispered,“Obliviate.”

 

And then there was darkness.

 

Notes:

Well. That happened. Less than ideal, I know. Sorry >.<’ it’s not over yet, don’t worry! The dementor scene is actually one of the first scenes I wrote of this story, and it’s one of my favorite chapters. I know this story has a bit of a slow start, but here's some payoff ^w^ Thank you for all your kudos and lovely comments, my heart is bursting with gratitude!! Sorry that Harry had a lot of suffering this chapter, and sorry for the cliffhanger!

here's a moodboard I made to make up for it ^w^'

find me on tumblr at http://noir-renard.tumblr.com/

Chapter 9: Cynical Optimism

Summary:

Let it never be said that a Malfoy hadn't done a thing to help a Potter.

Notes:

There's nothing explicit, but you might not want to read this at work.

It felt like hours Draco waited for Harry to wake up, but in reality it was probably not even forty-five minutes. The only good thing about Harry passing out after Draco obliviated him was that it gave the hapless Slytherin a chance to think for a goddamn moment and try to put all the shifting pieces of this…clusterfuck of a puzzle together. But even after thinking about it non-stop for half an hour, he wasn't anywhere close to a solution. If anything, Draco was only more acutely aware that he was still missing pieces—huge chunks of the full picture, really. So much that he didn't even know what the full picture was, let alone how to go about doing anything about it.

 

He'd taken Harry back to the depressing basement flat, though not because he particularly wanted to, nor because he thought it was even a remotely good idea. But it was the only viable option, unfortunately. Having no options made him anxious, but he wasn't yet ready to admit he'd been backed into a corner.

 

As for why he had no other options, well. Harry's flat was more comfortable than his tent, to begin with, and unconscious people needed to be comfortable, he was reasonably sure. Not that the flat was a particular source of soothing solace—Draco had every reason to suspect that cellar was in fact mendacious, sinister, unpropitious, and all a part of this tangled web somehow—but his suspicions about the basement notwithstanding, it would have to do. The glamour version of his tent was incommodious, to say the least, but the main reason he could not take Harry there was that Draco had been forced to take it down just before their ill-fated jaunt in the woods. Given that someone had attacked it and damaged it, after all, in spite of his wards and charms and…well. Cautious, suspicious, overzealous nature. That whole fiasco on top of this morning's discovery…and the dementors…he sighed, weary, and gazed on Harry’s peaceful sleeping face. Lucky bugger.

 

It had been Quite A Day for Draco Malfoy, and it wasn’t even three o’clock yet.

 

It really was such a joy and delight, cavorting with Harry Potter. Not that this was Harry’s fault, of course, but still. When all of this was over, Draco felt he was owed the chance to air his grievances to the Ministry's Golden Boy for all the trouble Draco had gone through on said Golden Boy's behalf. Let it never be said that a Malfoy hadn't done a thing to help a Potter. Was it always so difficult to save saviours, or was this particular Gryffindor variety exceptional in every way?

 

A small part of Draco (a very small part, mind) was envious that Harry remained blissfully ignorant of the Absolute Disaster that was the situation they found themselves in. Or rather, the situation that Draco found Harry in and had inadvertently gotten wrapped up in himself. He was also hoping that his being here had not made Harry's situation worse somehow; Harry wouldn't have been foraging in the woods if Draco hadn't shown up, and probably wouldn't have crossed paths with dementors, either…

 

But no. He was not going to think like that anymore; maybe that seed of doubt wasn't even his own. He couldn't be sure any more. What Draco was certain of was that the negativity of Gleyma would still be weighing Harry down, regardless of Draco being there. Draco's natural disposition leaned toward cynicism, but until he got Harry and himself out of this cesspool, he was going to make an extra effort to be…optimistic, Salazar help him. Such as: At least there’d been nary a dull moment since Harry had re-entered his life. Or rather, since Draco had re-entered Harry’s. Now the trick was how to get out of this together. In one piece, preferably. In several pieces, if necessary (Draco hoped it would not be necessary).

 

If there’d been any doubt before, Draco was certain now: someone had cursed Harry. Was still cursing him, by the looks of it. This wasn’t mere amnesia or a simple memory spell, but something far more sinister. After all, what kind of person sends Dementors after…well, anyone, much less the Boy Who'd Forgotten and his Unwitting Companion. Now that Draco was sitting in the baleful flat, effectively alone, he felt eyes watching him from every corner. He'd erected wards around the place, as one does, naturally, when beset on all sides by invisible eneimes, and proceeded to raid Harry's pantry for chocolate before attempting a very poor cheering charm. He'd never been good at them, even at his most cheerful. Draco was regretting now more than ever the fact that he'd neglected to practice them more. Silly him, thinking there were no more dementors in England. But of course, here they were, in fucking Gleyma.

 

There was of course one thought that warmed him, even more than the (ridiculous) spiced hot chocolate he was drinking. Harry had kissed him. Which meant, perhaps, in a sense, if he considered it, Draco had been the one to give Harry the power (the happiness) to cast a Patronus. It made Draco oddly proud of himself, that he could make anyone that happy. He'd certainly never done so before, he could say without a doubt. It was only a sliver of goodness for what had been quite a shite day, as things went, but what a silver lining it was.

 

He’d been shocked to say the least when Harry had kissed him—it was hardly an opportune moment, certainly less than romantic, and regretfully Draco had been more than a little distracted by horrifiying thoughts of soulless eternity—but he couldn't say he regretted it in the least. He only hoped he’d get to tell the story one day. He could see it now, telling all and sundry about the danger and daring of their first kiss. Three dementors right there, not a meter away, ready to kiss them, when Harry Fucking Potter gives a kiss of his own and sends the strongest damn Patronus Draco had ever seen, saving the day yet again even when hope was a rare commodity. Draco he would pepper the story with the grim reminder that at this point, Harry had been no more than an amnesiac, muggle barista called John Doe. But perhaps it was oddly fitting, for a first kiss between the two of them. Things had always been like that between Harry and Draco—explosive and dangerous. Why should romance be any different?

 

Draco did regret what had come next, of course. After the glory of Harry’s Patronus, the obvious light of recognition and remembering in those appallingly enchanting green eyes…the agony of what remembering cost was more than Draco had expected, though perhaps that shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He’d seen the mental chasm in Harry’s mind—and the shivering, writhing mass of memory beyond it. To have it all come back at once must have been overwhelming, but the sick feeling in the pit of Draco’s stomach wasn’t imagined. There was something more to that pain. Confusion, he could have understood. A headache would have been justified. But Harry reacted like he was being tortured by a cruciatus curse.

 

It had been instinct rather than careful planning that made Draco resort to obliviation. Harry’s Patronus had been the inspiration, really—the roiling, raw power too great for someone who couldn’t remember holding a wand before. It was pure survival instinct, yes, but also as though a dam had broken. Draco knew what a corporeal Patronus looked like (was supposed to look like, anyhow), but Harry’s Patronus was more than corporeal. It was nearly solid, as though Harry had summoned an actual silver deer. Wonder Boy or not, that was not normal, Draco was certain. The way it looked reminded him in a most unpleasant way of the barrier in Harry’s mind.

 

Draco only hoped that Harry forgetting he’d seen dementors and cast a Patronus would reset the delicate balance in his mind. Being an amnesiac again wasn’t ideal, but it was better than writhing in agony. Draco had been reluctant to make Harry forget, of course. What if it didn't work? Then he would have made Harry forget their brilliant first kiss for nothing. Of course, he'd made it possible for Harry to remember later; it wasn't a strong enough memory charm that it could not be undone. But for now, the whole affair in the woods was hidden under that silvery shroud of memory suppression that could only be Harry's magic. Putting the pieces of what the hell had happened to Harry in Gleyma would be easier if he could have told Draco before the obliviation, but…ah, well. What was done was done. It had seemed Harry wanted him to do it, but Draco hadn't really had the chance to reflect on it given that his highest priority had been ending Harry’s suffering.

 

At the very least, Draco had gotten new insight to Harry’s condition, that using magic—or powerful magic, perhaps—cleared away the barrier that was suppressing Harry’s memories. Before the whole Dementor Debacle, Draco hadn’t considered that Harry’s own magic could be suppressing his memories. The revelation added a whole new layer of terrible possibilities to explain what the hell had happened to him in the past seven months. The worst theory of all was unfortunately now the most likely one: something was trying to take those memories, or otherwise attack Harry's mind. And forgetting was the only way to protect himself.

 

It wasn’t…quite as bad as self-obliviation. But nearly. It made Draco uneasy, the gaps in his knowledge staring back at him like the curse-damaged walls of Hogwarts. Broken, wrong, fractured. But not impossible to fix.

 

Draco rather thought it was almost as pathetic as Beatrix's methods for self-defense. Had Potter done it in hopes that someone would show up and save him? Or had he…accepted that he might never remember? Or, perhaps there were specific requirements for remembering, and once he'd met them, Harry could save himself. Draco didn't know, and the endless possibilities terrified him.

 

Now more than ever, Draco needed a second opinion on this. Granger, he admitted begrudgingly, would be invaluable in this endeavor. Pansy would be helpful too, with her curse-breaking skills, but she was off Salazar-knew-where doing “top secret things” for 'undisclosed employers'. If he didn't know her better, he'd be worried.

 

But neither Granger nor Pansy were an option now; he was quite alone in this, with only an unstable Harry as his ally, and everyone else a potential enemy in this horrid town.

 

As he drank the hot chocolate and warmed by the fire, Draco felt a bit calmer, and somewhat more able to analyze what the actual fuck had happened to him today. The Dementor attack was really just the icing on the cake, the pièce de résistance for the autumnal equinox from hell. It had started well enough, all things considered. He hadn’t been murdered in his sleep, which he always counted as a win. The pygmy owl was still with him as well, for whatever that was worth. It’s a lifeline to the outside world, he figured. Not that he could send any messages with it, but he could try to send a letter with his blood on it if things got really dicey. It would alarm his mother, and Blaise even more, but maybe they could use it with a tracking spell. Blood magic wasn't his go-to back up plan, but the knowledge that at least he had a back-up plan was…somewhat comforting.

 

He’d been anxious to get to Cosmic Latte as quickly as possible this morning, equal parts worried about Harry and missing Harry. He hadn’t seen him at all the previous day, and only remembered belatedly that he’d sort of promised to go over to Harry’s after he finished catching up on research. He had a valid reason for effectively standing Harry up, considering he’d discovered none of his messages about finding Harry sodding Potter had gotten through. That he was essentially stranded in what could be enemy territory. That everything was a lot worse than he'd originally thought. And because of that distinct possibility, he had to move carefully. If there were nefarious plots afoot—and that morning it had still been a big ‘If’—he’d lost almost all his advantages. All he had left was that they didn’t know he knew about him, and they didn’t know he knew they knew about him, and…Merlin, it was all a right mess, wasn’t it? There was no headache potion strong enough to deal with this.

 

As was his habit, Draco decided to arm himself with knowledge. He'd known the moment he saw Harry he’d want to stay by his side, so he forced himself to drink instant coffee (revolting) and visit the library. He'd been  hoping beyond hope that his Leftover Ancient Warding Runes theory was the situation they were dealing with. It would be tricky to solve without being able to consult his texts, but there were surely records about the history of this town. A written memory.

 

It turned out that there wasn’t much in the way of a written history of Gleyma. That should have been his first clue about how the search for more runes would turn out, but in an uncharacteristically optimistic effort, Draco had pushed ahead in the face of adversity. The Librarian was summarily unhelpful and unashamed of that fact, claiming Gleyma had always been a farming town, and that was all there was to it. “There’s no fishing industry here?” Draco had asked, feeling a right tit.

 

The Librarian had shot him a dark look at that. “Of course not.”

 

“What do you mean ‘of course not’? The sea is right there, ripe with fish!”

 

She’d given him a no-nonsense look and explained no one in their right mind would want to eat the fish from the sea near Gleyma, and then refused to explain anything about it. The only reason she gave was that ‘an out-of-towner such as yourself wouldn’t understand.’ And he hadn't. Still didn't, really.

 

Asking about the Archaeologist had likewise been a disaster. “We don’t discuss that disrespectful miscreant anymore! Now get out of my library before I have to call the Old Man to forcibly remove you!”

 

It wasn’t very potent as far as threats went, but Draco had left anyway. There was no useful information to be found if the holder of said information weren’t willing to speak to him.

 

The only thing he could do was attempt to detect magical traces, and the results of that inquiry were as perplexing as they were troubling. Mindful of the Statute of Secrecy, Draco had retreated to the woods and did his best to recall the more precise detection charms he’d read about in his father’s personal library. As he’d suspected, there was…something surrounding the town from all directions. But rather than a curse or wards tinged with dark magic, the pall covering the town nearly reminded him of protection charms. They held an odd, shimmering quality that nearly blended into the grey skies, and the overall effect rather reminded Draco of the way things looked inside a pensieve when you tried to wander away from the focus of a memory.

 

Other than that, the only wards were typical of what one would expect in Wizard space intermingled with Muggle space: 'Notice Me Not's, 'That’s Plausible, I Suppose's, and 'Nothing To See Here's. They surely had official names, but since Draco had never erected any himself he’d never bothered to learn them. A fatal mistake in this case, which he determined he would remedy as soon as this situation was handled and they could all go home laughing about what a riot that had been.

 

The situation—or rather, Draco’s understanding of it—had taken a swift and decisive turn for the irrevocably worse when Draco noticed that many of these charms and wards were most strongly layered around Cosmic Latte. Draco didn’t believe in coincidence, though sometimes he wished he did. Wished he could.

 

By that point, he couldn’t put off visiting Cosmic Latte, both because he could no longer suppress his anxiety over not being with Harry (who had no idea of the potential danger all around them) and because his body demanded a proper cup of coffee, so help them all.

 

Seeing Harry again had been…both a relief and a heartbreak. He’d missed Harry more than he'd realized, but the look on Harry's face robbed Draco of any solace seeing him brought. He was shuttered, blank, and emitting an air of hollow acceptance.

 

He seemed hopeful when he saw Draco, but there was pain and uncertainty in his whole being as well. The playful banter Draco had gotten used to between them was muted and forced. And when Draco had touched Harry's arm, had dared to perform one last legilimens to understand what exterior forces might be affecting his mind…well. It had been both encouraging and heart wrenching.

 

Please don't give me the wrong idea, I can't bear to hope. That was what Harry thought when Draco touched him. But that wasn't the worst of it, really, heartbreaking though it was.

 

Draco had seen it then, clearly and undeniably: someone was messing with Harry's head. A black tendril of negative thought, like a fern frond unfurling from a point of contact with Harry's conscious mind, tainting every idea with a layer of doubt and anxiety. Draco hadn't exactly meant to ask Harry to come with him to search for runes he was fairly sure weren't there; but he couldn't just leave him, either. Harry didn't fully believe the negative thoughts, optimist that he was, and spending time away from Cosmic Latte and his toxic flat could only be good for him. And where would be safer than with a fully trained wizard?

 

Of course, of course, things went terribly wrong after that. Well, before, during, and after. He'd let Harry leave to grab warmer "outdoors" gear, while Draco returned to his tent to "put away his notes". Only to find that his tent had been destroyed from the outside, knocked over and slashed. It was horrifying to see, and although ultimately it wasn't damage he couldn't fix, that had never been the point. The attack was a message to Draco, and he got it loud and clear: you're not welcome here. Leave.

 

He was still deciding whether that was more intimidating than the poisonous thoughts that had filled his head at Harry's apartment, thoughts Draco was now certain weren't his. On one hand, the very concept of someone poisoning his mind was distasteful, but none of those thoughts had hurt him. Merely frightened and discouraged him. But if Draco had been in the tent when they attacked, if it had been a normal muggle tent…he wouldn't have had any place to go. There were no inns in Gleyma, after all.

 

Well, he could stay at Harry's again, ominous though it was.

 

He'd packed up his damaged tent and put it into a bag with an undetectable extension charm. Even now it sat in his pocket, magically featherweight but weighing on his mind all the same.

 

Manipulation. Intimidation. Attacks on mind and body. Poisoning Draco against Harry, and Harry against Draco. Someone wanted Draco to leave very badly, which only made him all the more determined to stay and figure this out. If not for Harry's sake, then because he was petty and spiteful. No one could tell him to leave when he didn't want to, and he'd make sure they knew about it.

 

Draco still hadn’t figured out what he was going to say to Harry to explain this situation when those devastatingly green eyes fluttered open, looking confused before focusing on Draco. “Wha…where am I?” he asked, and for a moment Draco was worried he'd overdone the obliviation spell, that Harry didn't remember anything of the past seven months let alone week.

 

Draco was on the ground between the coffee table and the sofa, legs curled up under him and facing Harry so he'd know the moment his troublesome saviour regained consciousness. Draco hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now he was hyper-aware of his face's proximity to Harry's. It was certainly not an opportune moment to take note of the fact, nor of how long Harry's eyelashes were, how dark and lush they are, the way they gleamed slightly in the low light…

 

He coughed, clearing his mind of the distracting thoughts. “We’re in your flat.” He withheld further explanation, waiting to see how the words registered before saying more.

 

“Oh,” Harry said, fumbling for his glasses. Draco handed them to him wordlessly. Once he put them on, understanding dawned on his expression. “You put me on the futon.”

 

“You were heavy, I couldn’t make it to the bedroom,” Draco explained with a devious grin.

 

Harry smacked him playfully, and it was a relief to see he was acting like himself. “I am not heavy. You just have twigs for arms.”

 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dear.” He patted Harry's head in faux sympathy which earned him a playful scowl.

 

Harry, as it so happened, could stand to gain a few pounds in Draco’s opinion. Even so, Draco was sure he wouldn't have been capable of carrying Harry all the way from the woods without magic. While he did try to train his body for his (hopefully) inevitable acceptance to the aurors, it'd been many years since Draco's Quidditch days. He could barely heft Harry's unconscious body onto his shoulder before giving it up as a bad job and casting a featherweight charm on him.

 

Thus, the real reason he'd chosen the futon had little to do with fatigue and everything to do with his discomfort entering Harry’s bedroom. Either he’d see Beatrix in her tank and panic, or he’d see that she wasn’t in her tank, which would be a hundred times worse. He didn't have time for another snake-related breakdown.

 

"Drink this, you'll feel better," said Draco, shoving the hot chocolate he made for Harry in his favourite mug ("World's Best Amnesiac") into his hands. There was nothing like chocolate for dementors.

 

Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but Draco sent him a look that brooked no argument. It was one he learned from his mother, and it had never failed him. Harry took a dubious sip and choked. "You added more cayenne and cinnamon?" he asked, fighting a smile and a cough.

 

"Isn't that how you like it?" Draco asked.

 

"Yes, but it's already mixed in, you didn't need to add—you utter pillock." He laughed, colour already improving. "Is this revenge for not warning you about the spices?"

 

Draco smiled innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about." Cinnamon and cayenne might make potions useless, but they were excellent for pranking your former rival who had only days previously failed to warn you that the hot chocolate was spicy.

 

Harry shot him a reproachful look, but the way his lips twitched belied his amusement. The colour was slowly returning to his cheeks, and Draco knew from personal experience he felt better already. Cayenne apparently was excellent for battling dementor-induced morbidity. Something to add to his own notes.

 

“What happened?” Harry said at last, sitting up slowly and joining Draco on the ground. He stretched his legs toward the fire and took another sip of the hot chocolate. Draco's stomach did a funny little flip.

 

“What do you remember?” When he’d (briefly!) examined Harry’s mind, he’d seen that the silvery, writhing veil he now recognized as Harry’s magic was back in place, covering Harry’s memories and sealing them across the chasm. The whole mass of memories looked far more agitated than before, desperate to resurface. He feared now that this magically induced amnesia wasn't sustainable. And while Draco wanted Harry to remember, he was terrified it would put Harry right back in agony. His intuition was telling him it was a matter of timing, and now was too soon.

 

But he also knew time was running out.

 

“We were in the forest…looking for runes…and I told you to call me Harry. Again,”  he paused to glare playfully at Draco before continuing, “and then you saw something that interrupted an important moment.”

 

“Was it important?” Draco teased, because in spite of everything he still wasn't secure about…whatever this was between them. He was fairly sure that right before the dementors had arrived, they'd been about to share a very sweet and romantic first kiss in the misty woods, but the whole filled-with-mortal-dread bit really killed the mood. Even though Harry had still ended up kissing him a minute later, kissing someone because you think you’re going to die wasn't really the same.

 

Harry smiled gently, eyes painfully sincere. “It was important to me,” he said softly, then added, “I feel like something…big happened?”

 

“It did.” Draco swallowed dryly. He wished he could tell Harry the truth, but he couldn't just come out and say ‘You’re a wizard, Harry’, and not expect things to go badly. “You passed out. When’s the last time you ate?”

 

Harry glanced at him, expression guilty. “Er…I don’t remember?” He laughed sheepishly, and Draco fixed him with an unimpressed stare.

 

“I had a feeling you’d say that." Draco handed Harry a plate holding a bacon sandwich. "Eat. I’m rubbish at cooking, but even I can’t mess up bacon.”

 

Harry took the plate but put it back on the coffee table, turning to face Draco head-on. “I believe I said an important moment was interrupted.” Draco froze, unsure if it were presumptuous to hope in this situation. Harry placed a tentative hand on Draco’s cheek and leaned forward slowly, pausing just before reaching Draco’s lips. “Can I kiss you?” he whispered, eyes nearly closed.

 

Draco's heart soared, thumping heavily in his chest so hard he was certain Harry must be able to hear it.

 

He worried for a moment that kissing Harry might remind him of the whole dementor fiasco and force Draco to obliviate him again, but he put the moment out of his mind. That won’t happen, he insisted to himself; I'm being an optimist now, after all.

 

Harry’s question remained unanswered, and that simply wouldn't do.

 

Rather than say yes please or something equally embarrassing, Draco closed the distance between them and found himself kissing Harry Potter for the second time that day. The second time in his life, really. He could feel Harry smile into the kiss, and it was all much more enjoyable when they weren't moments away from death and soullessness. “I don’t know if I asked before,” Harry said, pulling away.

 

Draco wondered if this meant Harry remembered the first kiss, but decided it was plausible Harry meant he couldn't remember if he'd asked before passing out. Draco pressed forward and kissed Harry again, on the nose, on the corner of his mouth, on the lips, on his palm, because he could, and because it made the tight ball of anxiety winding around his heart loosen just a bit. He stroked Harry's cheek with a tenderness he hadn't known he possessed, staring into emerald pools of hope and…something he wouldn't name yet. “I don’t think you had the chance before, being unconscious and all,” Draco teased, full of all kinds of soft feelings he didn't know what to do with. He made a silent promise to do whatever it took to fix this, to keep whatever it was they'd found in each other.

 

Harry shrugged and turned to his sandwich, now apparently ravenous, and like that the romantic moment was gone, replaced with something a thousand times more dear. “I didn’t think you’d want to kiss me after the sandwich,” he admitted with a saucy wink between bites, “but bacon baps are my favorite.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes and advised Harry to focus on regaining his strength. Secretly, however, he took a private moment to be pleased that of all the things he knew how to cook, it was Harry’s favourite sandwich.

 

When Harry finished eating, the first thing he asked was, “Did we see a deer?”

 

“I don’t think there are deer in this close to the coast,” Draco paused, then added, “or at least, not this time of day.”

 

Harry raised a dubious eyebrow and polished off his hot chocolate. “Haven’t you heard of Beach Deer?”

 

“That’s not a thing.”

 

“What are you, a cervine expert?” Harry scoffed. He rubbed his eyes, and Draco wondered if his head was still aching. Maybe he could slip Harry a headache potion before dinner. 

 

“Are you sure there wasn’t a deer? I have the very distinct feeling I saw a deer.”

 

“Maybe you dreamt it,” Draco said, very glad not for the first time that he was a fantastic liar. Even so, Harry didn't look convinced, but dropped it.

 

“Speaking of dreams…I have something I want to show you.” He stood up and stretched, then gestured for Draco to follow him.

 

He led Draco to his bedroom, and now having permission to be there Draco surveyed it for anything noteworthy. Other than the computer (which was bigger than he thought it’d be) and the snake tank (Beatrix was inside; he moved as far away as politesse allowed) there was nothing personal about the space. The walls were white, the sheets were white, the bed frame was a basic, boring artificial oak-orange that screamed generic. There were no posters or knick knacks or even books, other than the one Harry was reading now. A small pink sticker identified it as a library book.

 

The whole picture made Draco crumple in on himself, the lack of any life horribly revealing of how Harry felt about this place. If anything, it looked like a hospital, not a room where someone has been living for seven months.

 

While Draco glanced around, Harry rummaged in his closet. With a soft ‘aha!’ he emerged, holding the famous holly and phoenix feather wand with reverence, and Draco had to school his expression into something neutral. That at least was one question answered: Harry hadn't lost his wand.

 

Although doubtful that Harry knew what it really was, it was clear it still meant a lot to him. “I dreamt about this, I think.” He frowned, examining the wand. “The one in my dream was a bit different, though…a bit shorter, a bit darker, a bit more rigid…”

 

Draco cleared his throat, feeling a bit embarrassed, as though it was his own soul being described. “What is it?” he asked, curious how Harry would try to explain it.

 

“I don’t know,” he said after examining it with a critical eye. “It was found with me in January. It feels…like the last link to my real life.”

 

Draco nodded, secretly relieved that even if Harry had forgotten the dementor encounter, the revelations that came after seemed to have left an impression. “It's important, then. It’s quite beautiful.” Even back when Harry was just 'Potter' to Draco, he'd always admired his wand.

 

Harry eyed him quizzically, then held the wand out for Draco to inspect. Draco glanced back and forth between Harry and his wand, floored by the gesture even if Harry didn't remember that one does not hand over one's wand to another wizard lightly. He swallowed, then picked it up gingerly. He felt the powerful thrum of magic within it call out to him, a buzzing determination laced with caution. It felt…trusting, if not a bit begrudging about it. 'If you're what I have to work with, so be it', the holly-phoenix-feather seemed to say. Impatient. Demanding. It was just so…Harry, he couldn't help but to smile. Draco wondered what it felt like to Harry when he picked the wand up. Did he recognize the familiarity of it, or did his magic suppress that connection as well?

 

"What do you think?" Harry asked, breaking Draco out of his reverie.

 

Draco blinked several times, as though waking from a trance. "Hmm?"

 

"About the fancy stick. What do you think it is?"

 

"A magic wand?" Draco said in mocking tones. Many a truth is said in jest, after all.

 

Harry scoffed at that. "Be serious."

 

"Sirius is my cousin," Draco advised, then with a frown added, "Once removed. As for the 'fancy stick'…maybe it's a good luck charm, an embodiment of good will to protect you from evil." The wand thrummed in approval, and Draco set a reminder to himself to investigate wandlore and magical sentience once this whole debacle was over.

 

Harry hummed and took his wand back, turning to place it back in the closet.

 

"You should keep it with you," Draco said, stumbling over his words.

 

Harry turned to blink at Draco. "What? Why?"

 

Draco scratched his wrist contemplatively. "Well, you said it's important. Maybe if you carry it around, you'll…remember something."

 

Harry gave him a considering gaze, shrugged, then stuck the wand in his pocket. Draco tried not to wince and suppressed memories of wizards who'd accidentally hexed parts of themselves off due to storing their wand where they ought not.

 

Fortunately, Poppet—the daft bird—made himself useful and flew out of Draco’s pocket toward Harry, hooting wildly in what appeared to be relief. With his seeker reflexes, Harry caught the disheveled thing, something like recognition sparking in his eyes.

 

It was gone as soon as it arrived, but Poppet had served his unknown purpose of distracting Harry. “Is this…an owl?” he finally asked, eyes wide with incredulity. He looked rather owlish himself, really.

 

“My…pet,” Draco explained. It wasn't quite true, but he didn't have a better explanation off the top of his head that was Muggle-approved. “Meet Poppet.”

 

Snorting to himself for reasons unknown to Draco, Harry said, “Hello, Poppet.” He stroked the tiny owl with unconcealed affection, and Draco was jealous in spite of the fact that he had kissed Harry several times now and seemed to have many more kisses ahead of him. Imagine, him, Draco Malfoy, jealous of a bird!

 

“I didn’t know you could keep owls as pets,” Harry marveled. Poppet hooted enthusiastically, nuzzling into Harry's cheek and trying to nest in his hair. Harry only laughed and pulled him down.

 

“Yes, well,” Draco glanced around the room in search of an explanation conveniently written on the walls, but all he found was Beatrix’s tank. “I’ll tell you all about it, but maybe we should take the daft bird to another room? He’s just the right size for a serpentine snack…”

 

Harry laughed again and assured him that even if Beatrix wanted to, she couldn’t possibly open her jaws wide enough to accomodate Poppet’s size. "And besides, she’s already eaten this week," he added, like that would make Draco feel better. The fact that Harry didn't deny she’d try if she were bigger was enough to jump start Draco into action and steer Harry out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind them just in case the bloody snake got any cute ideas.

 

Once to safety, Harry asked, “Why didn’t you mention you had a pet?”

 

“Well…Poppet is more of a tamed wild owl than a pet. Normally he stays at my campsite and the woods around.”

 

“Why isn’t he today?”

 

Draco’s heart sank. With all the drama surrounding the dementors and Harry’s momentarily returned memory and the kiss—kisses—he’d nearly forgotten: this day had begun with a serving of shite, and had only gotten progressively worse.

 

“Ah. Well.…” he hadn’t really wanted to tell Harry because he knew it would worry him, but also because Draco didn’t think Harry could act natural around the rest of the Gleyma residents once he found out. “It’s nothing big…”

 

“Draco…” Harry warned. “You can tell me. Something’s been bothering you all day. What is it?”

 

So he had noticed, and Draco was worrying him anyway. “There’s nothing to be done about it, really, but…well. Someone trashed my campsite this morning after I left to get coffee.” That wasn’t the only thing, of course, but it was the only thing he could share.

 

“Draco!” Harry exclaimed. “How could you say ‘it’s nothing big’? Your samples are there, all your things…why didn’t you tell me sooner?” He looked just as hurt by the fact that Draco hadn't told him sooner as the fact that someone had hurt Draco.

 

“What’s done is done.” Draco shrugged. “There’s no way to know who did it. I’m not exactly popular here.”

 

Harry pouted and averted his gaze to Poppet, who’d calmed down considerably but still flapped his wings every time Harry stopped stroking him.  “Even so…did you get everything cleaned up?”

 

“Cleaned up and packed up.” When Harry’s eyes widened in alarm, he hastened to say, “I’m just going to move my campsite. I’m not leaving yet.”

 

That seemed to mollify Harry somewhat, but he pressed on. “What about your lichen samples? Were they alright?”

 

In fact, none of Draco’s things had really been damaged, with the exception of one outer wall of his tent and his peace of mind. He hadn’t expected whoever was the ringleader of this fête à folles to get physically violent—at least, not yet—but the attack on his campsite had proven that expectation to be ill-founded.

 

But having “lost his samples” would be an excellent reason to extend his stay in Gleyma.

 

Harry took Draco’s silence as shocked grief, and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. Again with the tactile approach. Not that Draco was complaining. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I can’t imagine who could’ve done this…can they be replaced? The samples?”

 

“Should do,” Draco advised. “But it’ll mean another trip over the cliff…”

 

“I’m supervising this time,” Harry insisted, and his tone brooked no argument. “I think Randall has some rock climbing gear, so we can set up better safety precautions this time.”

 

Draco's pulse increased in alarm; the cost of his bluff meant he was, indeed, going to have to go over the cliff again, and this time with potentially faulty muggle rock climbing gear (whatever that was) instead of his trusty firebolt. “I’m sure that’s not necessary…” he offered, but he knew it made no difference. There was no changing the mind of a determined Harry Potter.

 

“So where is all your stuff now?” Harry asked after getting Draco to give his word that he wouldn’t go over the cliffs while Harry was working.

 

And yet another consequence for his hasty lie: he had no plausible explanation for a very reasonable question. He couldn't explain it was all shrunk down and stuffed in his pocket, could he? “Well…what I couldn't salvage, I threw out,” he evaded, picking at imaginary lint on his jumper, “What I could save I hid in…the outcropping by the bonfire pit.”

 

Harry's brow wrinkled, as though considering whether that explanation made sense. “Aren’t you worried it’ll get damaged further? Or stolen?”

 

“You said yourself no one goes over there now that it’s off season and the kids are at school.”

 

Considering Draco's words, Harry mumbled under his breath and paced, weighing options only he was aware of. “I’m not comfortable sending you out there again…” he mused aloud. He turned his sharp gaze on Draco, pinning him with conviction that couldn't be rejected. “You can stay here."

 

"What?" Draco said softly. "I can't do that."

 

"You can. In fact, that’s exactly what you should do. Stay here and no one will bother you again. So until you leave…my place is yours to use.”

 

Draco’s heart panged at the thought of leaving. He wanted to say 'I won’t leave until you can as well', but telling Harry that now would only alarm him—and then there was the other unpleasant discovery of the day, worming its way to the front of his mind. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, trying to stay focused on Harry. “I would refuse and say I couldn’t possibly, but something tells me you’d feel offended if I tried, and somehow convince me anyway."

 

Harry grinned wide, and Merlin was it beautiful. "So let’s skip all that and get to the part where you thank me for my generosity.”

 

Draco rolled his eyes, but he didn't say no. "If you're sure..."

 

“It’s the least I can do to repay you for catching me when I passed out and carrying me back here.”

 

“It’s my de facto job to get you back on your feet,” Draco smirked, and it was true in more ways than Harry could possibly realize.

 

---

 

Draco attempted to make John relax and spend the rest of the day in front of the fire, tutting at him and throwing another blanket on John's lap whenever John tried to stand up and do something for himself. He wasn't sure where Draco was getting all the blankets from, and thinking about it too much made his head hurt, so he stopped thinking about it. John didn't want to bring it up, but this wasn't the first time something like this had happened. It was the first time he'd passed out, but in the seven months he'd been living in Gleyma, he'd had a number of "episodes", as Queenie called them. Usually he just got a massive migraine and had to lie down in a dark room for several hours, but he'd found there was nothing he could do to predict them or make the pain subside. Nothing but wait. He had the telltale migraine now, but it felt better after Draco gave him his third cup of tea—in spite of the fact that he had yet to finish the first two.

 

He tried to explain this to Draco, but Draco wouldn't hear of it. "Good grief, just sit there like a good barista and let me take care of you!" he insisted, throwing yet another blanket on top of John as though he thought it would keep John anchored to the sofa. It warmed John's heart, even if it was excessive.

 

The thing was, Draco clearly was not used to taking care of people. His attempts were endearing, but John had half a mind to worry Draco was going to burn the house down. He did seem to have a thing for fire, after all, and yet trying to get the hob lit baffled him. He'd nearly cracked his head on the counter searching for tea (John still couldn't explain how he'd managed that), and he was more than marginally alarmed by the refrigerator. But he seemed to be enjoying himself despite it all, so John let him fumble his way through the experience all while keeping an eye on the situation to ensure nothing blew up (literally).

 

But as clumsy as Draco was at taking care of others, apparently John was just as bad at letting others take care of him. "Draco, let me at least cook dinner," he complained from the sofa, smelling what can only be described as burnt water.

 

"Nonsense, you're unwell!" Draco called back, then cursed under his breath about something. "Don't make me come in there with another blanket."

 

"I wouldn't dare."

 

After all John's complaining about being left out, he did stay put on the sofa, curious in spite of himself what Draco had made with the sparse ingredients in John's kitchen. "Budge up," Draco said, nudging John's feet onto the ground. He carried two bowls on a tray John was quite certain he'd never seen in his life and looked far too expensive to fit in with John's second-hand cutlery and dishware. But when he tried to figure out where Draco could have produced it from, his head went all funny again, and he resigned himself to allowing Draco his mysteries.

 

"It's uncouth to eat dinner anywhere but the table, but since you're poorly, I generously have decided to turn a blind eye to the rules."

 

"You make it sound like I'm dying," John said with a fond eye roll. Draco glared at him fiercely, as if to say it wasn't something to joke about.

 

John held his hands up apologetically, which seemed to appease him. Draco sniffed and placed the tray on the coffee table, handing a bowl and spoon to John. "My mother says the infirm can do as they please."

 

"How generous of your mother," John grumbled.

 

What Draco had made was some sort of thick, orange soup that tasted strongly of ginger. He refused to list the ingredients, though John was certain he'd never purchased ginger in his life. He didn't mind, though. It was fun enough to try and guess what was in it.

 

"Did you add lemongrass?"

 

Draco snorted. "Guess again."

 

"Mushrooms."

 

"You already guessed that, and you can clearly see the mushrooms in the soup, so it's cheating."

 

"How's that cheating?"

 

"It's not a guess if it's obvious," Draco said like it was something everyone knew. Maybe they did, and it was among one of the many things John had forgotten.

 

"Fine. Let's see…carrots?"

 

In the end, John never did find out what was in the soup, but it was delicious and made him feel strangely energized. They fell into a familiar pattern after dinner, with Draco taking out his strange texts and John trying to make his way through his philosophy book. He just didn't have it in him to do finance today.

 

If he were being honest, though, he wasn't all that interested in philosophy, or finance, or reading at the moment. He wanted to talk to Draco. And, well…maybe not talk. But something mouth related.

 

He thought he was being discreet with his glances over at Draco, but when Draco sighed and put down his reading to pin John with a stare that was somehow both annoyed and fond, he realized he hadn't been. "What is it?"

 

"Hmm?" John said, feigning innocence. He didn't know how to broach this topic with Draco. Or anyone, really, but Draco was the only one who he needed to discuss it with. The only one he wanted to discuss it with.

 

"You keep looking over here, and you're thinking very loudly."

 

"I am not."

 

Draco raised an eyebrow and waited.

 

John groaned, feeling his face flush, but decided he had to be an adult about this. He was an adult, after all. A twenty-something. "Can I ask you something?"

 

"One thing," Draco said seriously, but the way his mouth twitched at the corners hinted he was suppressing a smile.

 

"Um, well, it's just…" John paused, getting up his nerve. "When I…invited you to stay the other night…” he trailed off, looking for the words to explain.

 

“Why did I act weird about it?” Draco supplied.

 

John shot him an apologetic look and nodded. It wasn't exactly how he would have phrased it, but it was good enough.

 

“Well…I didn’t know what your intentions were, I suppose. You hadn't exactly seemed…interested, so it came a bit out of nowhere."

 

"Oh," John said smartly. He thought he was being embarrassingly obvious in his intentions, but perhaps not. "To be honest, I just didn't want you to leave.” He glanced at Draco again, cheeks hot. Draco was looking back calmly, but his cheeks were also a bit pink.

 

Encouraged that perhaps Draco wasn't as cool about this as he seemed, John squeezed his eyes shut and made himself say what he was really thinking. “I don’t want you to leave,” he blurted out, almost defiantly. “I mean, leave me. Here. In Gleyma. I know I don’t have any right to ask you to stay, but…"

 

Draco was silent for one long, excruciating moment. Long enough for John to wish he could take it back, but he'd needed to say it.

 

“I don’t want to leave you, either,” Draco said softly, sounding vulnerable, honest.

 

John chanced a look, desperate to see if Draco's face revealed more than his words. Afraid to hope.

 

Draco looked…conflicted. It was a complicated expression. Frustrated, but determined as well. “You don’t want to leave me,” John repeated slowly, cautiously, “but you don’t want to stay here, either.”

 

Draco didn't seem surprised that John read between the lines.“ You know you don’t have to stay here, don’t you? In Gleyma.”

 

John didn't want to think of Queenie in this moment, but there she was nonetheless, offering her unwanted opinion. He remembered one of the first conversations he'd ever had with her—when she offered him a job and a place to stay. 'Normally, you need some kind of identity card, proof you can live and work in a place. Obviously, you don't have that, but I'm willing to be flexible. My coffee shop has availability, and if you're willing to work mornings, I can offer you a place to stay, too. You'd be doing me a favour, really. It will be hard for you to get work elsewhere. Until you remember who you are, of course.'

 

John averted his gaze, unable to deal with the sincerity in Draco's eyes. “Where else can I go?”

 

“Anywhere," Draco said vehemently. "Wherever you want. You don’t really like it here, do you? There are far nicer towns, even in Somerset if you don’t want to go far.”

 

John crossed and uncrossed his legs, looking for a way to explain. “I can’t afford anywhere else. And my job is here.”

 

Draco tsked and if John were looking, he had a feeling he'd see Draco rolling his eyes. “You can be a barista anywhere, I promise you.”

 

John mulled it over. Maybe he could be a barista anywhere, but…why would they hire him? Deal with his…episodes? "I don't know…"

 

“You don’t have to stay here,"  Draco repeated, this time grabbing John's shoulders so he couldn't look away. "Come with me. Or don’t; go your own way, if you prefer.” Draco paused to swallow, eyes flashing painfully for just a moment, then it was gone, replaced with sheer determination to convince John: “Leave Gleyma behind.”

 

John's heart was filled with longing, and it was both painful and everything he'd ever wanted. Draco wanted John to go with him. But… “I don’t know how.”

 

Draco and John sat there, eyes locked in a silent battle of wills to understand each other. “Well. There’s no need to make any rash decisions right this moment. Just think about it.”

 

John blinked, and put a hand on Draco's cheek. Draco covered it with his own, smiling painfully. "I will," John promised.

 

But thinking was about the last thing John wanted to do right now. He'd always been much more of an action-oriented individual, and he didn't think the look of longing and desire he saw in Draco's eyes was imagined. He leaned in toward Draco, placing his other hand on Draco's thigh.  Draco's eyes went a bit wide, but he didn't knock it away.

 

Emboldened, John glanced down at Draco's lips and scooted closer, putting one knee up on the sofa. "Can I kiss you agaun?" he breathed, only inches away from his goal.

 

Draco sighed in fond exasperation. "Are you going to ask me that every time?"

 

John smiled, and leaned a bit closer. "Maybe."

 

"Alright," Draco said, and then they were kissing again, a bit less gentle than before. John heard one of Draco's massive books fall to the ground, but he couldn't be arsed to care at this moment. All that mattered was Draco, here with him, kissing in heated, tender passion.

 

He pushed Draco back on the couch, climbing awkwardly on top of him, and Draco let him, kissing him back with just as much enthusiasm. He felt Draco's tongue on his lips, asking for permission to enter, and John was all too happy to oblige, exploring Draco's mouth with his own tongue. Draco hummed appreciatively, moving his hands to muss up John's hair. God, it felt amazing. He'd never known how delicious it felt to have someone play with his hair, and knowing it was Draco, who's hair was always immaculate…

 

John threaded tentative fingers through Draco's fine locks, not surprised to find they were just as soft and silky as they appeared. John pulled away to kiss down Draco's jaw, to suck on his ear, stick his nose in the base of Draco's throat. He spared a glance for Draco's hair, satisfied to find it was certainly not immaculate now.

 

Draco's hands moved down John's back to cup his arse, squeezing it gently and eliciting a moan from John. He smothered his debauched sounds by sucking on Draco's neck, smiling against his pale, delicate skin.

 

"You taste good," he whispered, peppering Draco's collarbone with kisses. "Like ginger—"kiss "—and lemongrass—" kiss "and carrot—"

 

Draco made a scandalized noise. "If you're implying I taste like tonight's dinner—"

 

John silenced him with a deep kiss. "You taste better," he said, resting his forehead against Draco's, both of them taking a moment to catch their breath. John placed a hand on Draco's chest, playing with the lapel of his shirt. "Is this alright?" he asked quietly, looking earnestly into Draco's eyes.

 

"Bloody hell, Harry, if you knew how long I've wanted to do this…" Draco sighed. John hadn't exactly forgotten that he'd insisted Draco call him Harry, but it was still strange to hear the name on Draco's lips, directed at him. Strange and thrilling, like a secret shared.

 

"How long?" John asked, trying to hide his smile and failing if Draco's matching smile was anything to go by.

 

Draco flushed, but he didn't look away. "An embarrassingly long time."

 

John didn't comment, deciding he'd rather not know. He brushed his thumbs on Draco's cheekbones, relishing the way Draco's hands trailed up and down his back.

 

"I like this jumper," he said, plucking absently at the article of clothing. "Take it off."

 

Draco chuckled, grey eyes twinkling mirthfully. "You'll have to sit up then."

 

John happily obliged, taking off his own jumper, more pleased than he'd ever been in his life. Draco took off the offending article and attempted to fold it—fold it, for heaven's sake!—but John pulled it from his hands and draped it over the back of the sofa.

 

"Impatient, are we?"

 

John smiled devilishly and starting unbuttoning Draco's shirt. If he didn't know better, he'd say the buttons were twice the size of the buttonholes. Or perhaps his fingers were just uncoordinated. Draco laughed at him and didn't help, choosing to play with John's hair instead. The distraction was distinctly un-helpful.

 

Finally, he got the damn buttons to cooperate and ripped the shirt open, ready to set to work worshipping Draco's chest with his mouth, lips, tongue. And then he saw them: several long, silvery scars across Draco's chest, like he'd been in a sword fight.

 

He tried not to react—he knew from his own experiences how awkward it was for people to comment on scars. Rarely did they hold a happy story, though in John's case they held no story at all. Not ones he knew, anyway.

 

There must have been something in his face that gave his thoughts away, though, since Draco grabbed one of John's hands and placed it on the scars. "It's alright, you can ask," he said quietly.

 

"Only if you want to tell," John responded in kind.

 

Draco hummed. "Well…I told you that Harry Potter almost killed me once, didn't I?"

 

"He almost killed you?" John exclaimed, sitting up. "I thought he just…attacked you!"

 

"Oh," Draco said, averting his eyes. "It was an accident?"

 

John pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed down his anger. Why did he have to share the face of someone who'd done something so…so awful? Someone who'd marked Draco in such a permanent way?

 

"I don't think he meant to hurt me so badly," Draco said quietly.

 

"But he did mean to hurt you."

 

Draco scoffed. "I doubt he really thought about it. We were fighting, things just got out of hand."

 

"You call this out of hand? It looks like he attacked you with a knife! Several times!"

 

"He…pushed me out a window."

 

John stared at Draco incredulously. "That doesn't sound like an accident!"

 

"Let me rephrase that: he pushed me, and there happened to be a window behind me, and I fell. He looked horrified when he realized what happened, though I suppose I'm not the best judge given that I was focused on my imminent death."

 

John squeezed his hand into a fist, clenching and unclenching as he processed this horrid revelation. He traced the scars delicately with one finger, and tried not to cry. "Did he apologize?"

 

Draco swallowed thickly, and John had the impression he was about to lie. "He did in his own way."

 

"That's not the same," John said petulantly.

 

"Coming from him, it was. He…defended me when he didn't have to. Saved my life, my future. And returned something to me when he had every right to keep it. He thanked me, too." Draco placed a finger under John's chin, lifting it so he'd look him in the eye. "I didn't apologize either, for what it's worth. That's just how things are between Potter and Malfoy."

 

John nodded, like he understood, but he didn't. "How can you stand to look at me?" he asked quietly. "Since I look like…him."

 

Draco frowned, cocking his head. "Don't you know? You're very attractive. Looking at you is certainly no hardship."

 

They shared a laugh, and a few more kisses, but the mood had changed, and they were both happy to curl up and hold each other's hands, not talking much. Words weren't needed. Somehow, it was all much more intimate than everything they'd done before.

 

John almost suggested they move to the bed, seeing as it was at least marginally more comfortable than the couch, but Draco was already asleep. He probably wouldn't have been able to relax next to Beatrix's tank, anyway. And besides, it was all delightful and wonderful, pressed against Draco and the couch, the fire crackling softly as it died, and the excessive number of blankets all around them like a bouquet of tranquility.

 

No, John thought, he didn't mind this at all.

 

Notes:

I really love the head cannon that while Draco can cook, the only thing he can make is soup because of his background in potions. The reason he wouldn't let Harry into the kitchen is because he was transfiguring potions ingredients into food items, with varying degrees of success.

This chapter was my most challenging to write and edit. I am really bad at writing sexy times, so things will never get any smuttier than this. It might be implied, but you don't want to see my attempts, believe me ORZ anyway, hope you liked it!

Thank you to everyone who's left comments! It really cheers me on to hear how you're feeling about the story, and to read your theories on what will happen next!

As always, you can find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 10: A Show of Good Faith

Summary:

midnight musings, and some answers to a question or two. Or: the Return of Draco's Angst™ (did it ever really leave us?)

A distant grandfather clock struck midnight—it must have been somewhere in the main house, Draco thought, for the sound was muffled by stone, wood, and distance. It was just soft enough that he wouldn’t have heard it if he weren’t quiet and still (as one tended to be when awake in the middle of the night). He couldn't remember hearing it the last time he'd spent the night here, and he hadn’t noticed it chiming earlier in the evening, either. Maybe it only chimed at midnight.

 

Draco hated grandfather clocks. They reminded him of the one his family kept in the manor growing up. He’d always feared it as a child, sure that a boggart lived inside the cabinet. One hadn’t—his father would never have stood for such nonsense—but he’d always had the impression that the tolling of the bells inside were trapped souls trying to escape. He’d been so keenly aware of it that it nearly always woke him up, if not the sound itself than from nightmares of the blasted thing. It didn’t matter that it was kept in a different wing of the house than where he slept; he'd always heard it. The clock weighed on his mind until it vanished under mysterious circumstances one day when he was ten. He still suspected one of the house elves did it in an act of pity—probably Dobby, the insubordinate little thing—and for that he would always be grateful.

 

Just like the days of yore, Draco was wide awake, though unlike his childhood, it had little to do with the Grandfather clock. He was wide awake even though he hadn’t slept well the night before, either. Wide awake even though he would very much like to be asleep, with Harry curled up next to him, blissfully unaware of the waking world. Wide awake in spite of having dozed off earlier after a delightful conclusion to what had otherwise been a very stressful day.

 

Hours after the fact, the euphoria had faded away to be replaced with doubt that tarnished what should have been nothing but a beautiful moment. Perhaps it was a thought from a dream. Perhaps it was the loathsome effect Gleyma had on the minds of those who stayed here. Or perhaps it was his nascent conscience finally making itself known, late but in earnest. Regardless of the origin of the thought, here he was, wide awake, wondering if what he and Harry had done were really…appropriate. Harry had been a willing participant—very willing, by all accounts. But what if that was only because his current relationship with Draco was uncomplicated by the burden of their troubled past? Harry was willing now. But what about later? What would happen when he remembered everything Draco had done to him, and his friends, and the wizarding world? Would he resent Draco? Feel taken advantage of? And the worst thought of all: had Draco taken advantage of Harry?

 

He tried to imagine how he would feel about it if he were in Harry's position, and decided he wouldn’t mind it terribly were their positions reversed. But any positive spin he put on it could be blamed on his usual self-serving spirit. And fine, maybe he’d be a little annoyed in Harry's place, but ultimately he thought having amnesia didn’t make one incapable of consent. Then again, he’d always had a thing for Harry. Even when he’d hated him (or thought he did…), he probably wouldn’t have said no to a proposition from Harry Sodding Potter, amnesia or not.

 

Somehow, he doubted Harry would feel the same.

 

And though he was worried about it, he didn’t have mental space to devote to figuring out the intricacies of their relationship at the moment. That didn't stop his traitor brain from hyper-focusing on it, of course, but he had bigger problems to solve, Salazar help him. Namely: being stranded in a cursed town with no way to ask for outside help. His best bet at this point was to convince Harry to leave with him, but bringing it up had gone so terribly before. Gleyma had its claws sunk deep into Harry’s mind, and Draco didn’t have any idea what to do about it.

 

Kissing Harry had been nice—nicer than nice, really. Definitely something he wanted more of, once he decided whether or not he was allowed to pursue that path. But it had temporarily distracted him from the reality of the situation: they were utterly fucked. And not in the good way. He could only thank his lucky stars (or lucky scars, as it were) that he hadn’t gotten too carried away in romancing Harry Potter to realize that this was no time for romance .

 

Draco had never been grateful to his sectumsempra scars before. They were hideous, first of all, but more than how they looked it was what they represented that haunted him. Failure. Misery. The terrible aching loneliness of being tasked with the impossible. He’d often wondered if Harry felt the same with his own task of destroying the Dark Lord. Well, alright, he hadn’t thought about it during 6th year. It hadn’t been until the years after the war, during his house arrest, that he really thought about the ways he and Harry were similar, and different. Weeks of yawning silence with nothing to do but think about all he’d done. Which had rather been the point of the house arrest, he suspected.

 

No, he’d never liked his scars for what they were: a physical reminder of the myriad ways he’d fucked up. A memento of how Harry Potter had judged Draco Malfoy and found him wanting. In a way, it was almost worse than the scar of the Dark Mark.

 

But tonight, he was almost grateful to them. This Harry could look at them and not know what they meant other than pain, but for Draco they were a memoriam aeternam: just because Harry didn’t remember didn't mean Draco could forget. The shock of seeing them had stopped Harry, and they’d stopped Draco, too, effectively ending what might, upon reflection, have been a terrible idea. And nothing really had happened, yet, but…But. He wouldn’t have an excuse next time, other than “I don’t think you would be so into me if you remembered all I’d done to you”.

 

And yet…there was more to it, wasn’t there? He hoped there was. Draco hadn’t been lying when he told Harry (reminded him, useless as that was) that he hadn’t apologized; some things were beyond apologies. How could he apologize for not being more mature? How could he apologize for the way his parents had raised him? How could he apologize for not trying harder to be friends with Harry sooner (or explain that he had tried)? Or for not thinking to ask people who hated him and his family for help? There was no apologizing for the things out of his control. All he could do was try to be better now, to take responsibility for the actions and thoughts that were in his control.

 

Harry had never apologized either, perhaps for similar reasons. But he had done what no one else was willing to do after the war: he gave Draco a chance to try. It wasn’t quite forgiveness, but it was the chance to prove he was worthy of winning it.

 

Draco looked over at Harry’s sleeping face. Peaceful, untroubled. For Harry, the biggest obstacle to their relationship was that Draco didn’t live in Gleyma and no one save Harry wanted him to. He brushed his fingers through Harry’s disastrous mop, smiling fondly. Harry was untameable down to his roots. His hair was softer than Draco had expected, given how unruly it was.

 

Harry smiled peacefully, mumbling something in his sleep that sounded suspiciously like parseltongue. Draco sighed and extricated his hand from that annoyingly attractive bird's nest of a hairdo. Maybe he couldn’t sleep, but he could let Harry.

 

Instead, he examined his wand—10 inches, hawthorne, unicorn hair.  It shouldn’t have come as a shock that Harry could still use his wand like his own. He’d won the wand’s loyalty, fair and square. And he’d won Draco’s now as well.  He still remembered the day Harry had returned it to him five years ago. He’d actually gone through the trouble of coming to the Manor himself to do so. Well, Draco couldn’t have left the Manor, confined to house arrest as he was, so Harry'd had no choice but to come there to return it in person. But Harry could easily have sent it by owl. He could have not returned it at all. But there he’d been, in Draco’s study, in auror trainee robes looking tired but hopeful.

 

At the time, Draco thought the whole get-up was to gloat about the fact that Draco was stuck at home while he, The Saviour, got to live his life. But now that he knew Harry, knew how earnest he was, he had to interpret it differently. He probably thought it was a courtesy Draco would appreciate, being dressed in Wizard robes instead of Muggle clothing. Draco hadn’t appreciated it. Instead, it had been quite the nasty shock when Slanket announced there was “one Auror Potter here to visit Master Draco.”

 

It had been a brief meeting. Brief, but cordial. Well, tense, more like. Neither saying anything inflammatory, carefully skirting around their historical interactions. Draco hadn’t thought about it at the time (had mentally refused to acknowledge it), but the politesse had been a disappointment coming from Potter. He’d been itching for a fight, and hadn’t gotten one. “Auror Potter. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

Harry had made a face at that. Draco could almost laugh at the memory now, at his assumption that Harry had been judging Draco’s pureblood manners. “Please, none of that ‘Auror Potter’ nonsense. I’m not here in an official capacity. And I'm not an auror yet.”

 

"Oh? Here to make a social call, then? I wasn't aware we were friends now."

 

Potter had scoffed (and yes, he'd still been Potter then) and hadn't dignified that with a response.

 

Draco had been hurt at that, angry. Even though he used acerbic words and cutting tones, deep down, he had always wanted to be friends with The Boy Who Lived. Maybe that's where he'd gone wrong—not wanting to befriend Harry, but Harry Potter. It had always hurt, the rejection, but he used to relish in causing pain of his own. He got no such pleasure now, only pain; it was worse after the war, after the trials. Worse, because against all odds, he’d dared to hope for more, thought better of Potter. Potter, who’d defended him in front of the Wizengamot. Potter, who'd asked for clemency, rather than judgement, for Draco and Narcissa both. Who hadn’t spoken up for Lucius, other than to say he’d gone searching through the rubble for Draco, without a wand and with enemies on all sides. Definitely guilty, but not a completely evil git, for what it was worth.

 

Ten years in Azkaban instead of twenty was what it was worth.

 

So yes, Draco had perhaps expected something different from Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived Twice. Something more. He hadn’t understood at the time that, perhaps, Harry wanted the same. “Why are you here, Potter?”

 

Without a word, Harry had reached inside his robes and withdrawn Draco’s wand. Draco hadn’t said anything, hadn’t moved to reclaim it. At the time, he'd thought perhaps Potter had come to say ‘I’ve found your wand, and I’m going to snap it in front of you.’ Harry had never been needlessly cruel like that, but he hadn't known what to expect from anyone anymore. So when Harry had said, “I came to return this,” it had been a shock.

 

Draco had been momentarily speechless. “You told the Wizengamot you lost it,” he'd said, reaching out to take it gingerly. As he wrapped his fingers around his wand, the sense of familiarity and rightness was nearly overwhelming. He’d felt the low-level panic that’d buzzed beneath his skin since he'd been separated from it vanish. He hadn’t even been aware of it until it was gone. He'd believed it gone forever, had the audacity to be angry with Potter for losing it. But there it had been, back in Draco's hands again. He'd nearly cried, but Malfoys were not criers, certainly not in front of adversaries.

 

“Well, what the Wizengamot don’t know won’t hurt them,” Potter had said with a tentative smile. “They only wanted it so they could snap it, anyway. It seemed like a waste of fine craftsmanship to hand it over just so they could destroy it. Besides, that wand saved my life. I’m a bit attached.”

 

“Why are you giving it back to me?” Draco had asked, throat thick. He'd been as touched by the gesture as suspicious. “Does it have a trace on it? So you can keep track of me?”

 

“Merlin, no!" Harry had actually laughed at that. Laughed! Draco recalled thinking it was a bitter laugh, but he doubted that now. Draco could almost imagine the scene perfectly—he'd thought about that day much over the years. Harry probably found the very idea of keeping track of Draco ridiculous; Draco wasn’t a threat. Never had been, not really. "If I want to find you, I know where you’ll be.”

 

At the manor, of course. Six months’ house arrest. At least, that was what Draco had assumed he meant. But perhaps not. Perhaps he hadn't known what he meant, either.

 

“I gave it back because you deserve the chance to prove yourself. And I reckon you might need it for defense as well. Acquittal and forgiveness aren’t the same thing, and I don’t imagine Ollivander is too keen to sell you another wand after…everything.”

 

“You mean after we kept him locked in the dungeon for a year?”

 

Harry had smiled tightly at that. “Anyway, if anyone asks, I was never here. I lost your wand, remember? Shame, that. It’s the wand that defeated the Dark Lord. Thanks for lending it to me, by the way.”

 

“Why are you giving me any chances at all?” Draco had asked before he could think better of it and stop himself. Even now, he was glad he'd asked.

 

Harry had given him a considering gaze. “I think we’ve all suffered enough, don't you?"

 

"I did terrible things, Potter." There was no denying it; he had.

 

"I know," Harry had said, looking into the fire and shivering lightly. It had been mid-november. The manor was cold year round since the infestation of Dark Magic, and no amount of fire or heating charms seemed to help. "I don’t think I can forget about what happened…none of us can. None of us should. But if we can’t let it go, the same thing might happen again. I’d rather it not happen again, if it’s all the same to you. Twice is enough.”

 

“But…why?”  He hadn’t been aware of it at the time, but no explanation would have satisfied him. The gesture didn’t fit in with his world view, how he understood people. Especially Harry Potter.

 

“Consider it a show of good faith, Malfoy.” And then he'd left, and it was the last Draco saw of him until running into the erstwhile saviour in a cursed muggle town.

 

He’d told Harry this, yes. But only in the briefest of words that hardly did the story justice. Like it or not, Draco’s life had revolved around Harry since the day they’d met. Now that he knew Harry, he wished he could tell him that. Tell him how his simple act of good faith—good faith for the son of a family named Bad Faith, Mal Foi—had made him want to be better. To not give everyone a chance to say “I told you so” when Draco descended into darkness again. He’d be better than that. He'd be the best: he’d decided then to become an auror, to show that good faith in a Malfoy didn't have to spell regret.

 

Perhaps…if Draco were really going to give this whole ‘optimism’ lark a shot…perhaps he could believe that Harry had never really hated Draco all that much, after all. Maybe the feelings he’d found for Draco in Gleyma would last, even with the context of all Draco had done. Of all they’d done to each other.

 

It couldn’t kill him to hope, could it? He cast one more cheering charm while he was feeling light. Maybe it would keep the tendrils of dark magic away.

 

---

 

John awoke the next morning, finding himself on the futon for the second time in 24 hours. His first thought was confusion, then alarm, but both quickly gave way to a warm rush of affection as he remembered the previous night. Saw Draco sleeping peacefully, half on top of John. He looked younger in sleep, the tension of his frenetic mind eased by dreams. His sleep-mussed hair was incredibly endearing, and the urge to reach out and touch it was too overwhelming to resist, so John didn't bother trying.

 

Draco hummed at John’s fingers, eyes blinking open slowly as a lazy smile spread across his lips.

 

“Good morning,” John said quietly, lips curving to match Draco’s.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“6 o’clock.”

 

Draco groaned. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I might have some words to say about being woken at the arse-crack of dawn.”

 

John rolled his eyes. “You’re always at Cosmic Latte right when it opens, don’t tell me I woke you up early.”

 

“Haven’t you heard, you shouldn’t—" yawn "—tickle a sleeping Draco? Er, dragon.”

 

“I didn’t tickle you,” John pointed out, “but that can be arranged.”

 

Draco was apparently not so sleepy as to not realize what John was about to do, pinning John’s arms at his sides. “Don’t,” he warned, and John only escaped by kissing Draco’s nose and solemnly swearing he wouldn’t.

 

“God, I hate being awake in the morning,” John said, ambling into the kitchen.

 

“Then why did you wake me up?” Draco groaned, snuggling back into the blankets. “I don’t see why we should both have to suffer."

 

“Because misery loves its company.” John felt his face heat up. It was closer to the truth than he was ready to admit aloud. “And you were on top of me. You’re heavy.”

 

Draco whinged loudly on the couch while John made breakfast, eventually joining him in the kitchen with one of the blankets wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. It suited him, oddly. “It’s bloody freezing in here.”

 

“You know where the stove is,” John said innocently, biting into his toast. “You’re more than welcome to fix it, Mr.Lord of the Flame.”

 

It was clear that Draco was not a morning person. He claimed to have not slept well the night before, and John couldn’t blame him. As much as Draco had brushed off the incident with his tent, losing all that research had to have been upsetting. John didn’t know what to say that would be comforting in this situation. His go-to method of showing support was showering people in tea, lattes, and baked goods. But he only had toast for the moment, so it would have to do. 

 

John was reluctant to leave Draco alone, wanted to keep an eye on him. He thought he was being subtle with his dawdling and lingering and trying to give Draco a third piece of toast with lemon curd, but Draco only sighed and told him to 'stop worrying and get his arse to work'.

 

John said that people who attacked a stranger's tent in the woods could, at the very least, wait for their coffee. And maybe hinted that they didn't deserve it at all.

 

Draco pointed out that ‘Harry’ missing work would likely not help the problem. “People like routine, and if you break it, they'll start to wonder why. They’ll ask, ‘What changed?’ And when they think about it, who do you think they'll blame?”

 

Instead of saying what they were both thinking—that they'd blame Draco—John said, “I think you may be overestimating the importance of coffee in the lives of Gleymans.” 

 

“I would never do something as uncouth as underestimating coffee,” Draco scoffed, and the matter was settled.

 

John was, for once, not too fussed about being late. In fact, he was tempted not to show up at all. Murph missed 5 shifts out of 6, and he still had a job. John was the employee of the month seven months running. Then again…Murph had family circumstances, an ailing wife, and two daughters too young for school and too old for platitudes. John had nothing but rent to earn and a boss who was already short with him.

 

When John mentioned this as he laced up his boots (very slowly and methodically), Draco opined that a coffee shop that wasn't open in the morning was a ‘bad business model’.

 

Finally, there was no other menial tasks to delay his departure, John had no choice but to leave him there with the promise of coffee once Cosmic Latte was officially open. He left Draco miserably nibbling on toast and bacon, looking exhausted.

 

He didn't know what made him think it would be bad to raise suspicions, but somehow he knew it would be. John was still shocked that someone in town—maybe several someones—had destroyed Draco's campsite, his research. As far as John knew, no one was particularly rankled by Draco’s presence in Gleyma. Curious, sure. A little cautious, perhaps. But not angry. No one had the energy to be angry, usually. John didn't know how he was going to act normal today, wondering if one of his regulars had been driven to violence. Why they'd been driven to violence.

 

Maybe it was one of the few people who never came into Cosmic Latte. There were only about 135 residents in Gleyma, and while John knew who all of them were, he didn't know all of them personally.

 

John patted his pocket, feeling the outline of the strange fancy stick Draco insisted he take with him today. “I don’t see what I’ll need it for.”

 

“You don’t even know what it does, how can you say you won’t need it?”

 

John took it to appease Draco more than anything, but he did feel strangely comforted to have it with him. Maybe it really was a good luck charm.

 

 

— — —

 

As it turned out, Draco had been right about people and their coffee routines, but he’d failed to realize that he himself had already been incorporated into that routine. They'd gotten used to Draco being at Cosmic Latte as soon as it opened, and his absence now was noted.

 

It was hard to tell whether their inquiries were harmless curiosity or pointed questioning. ‘Where's your blonde friend?’ ‘Did that researcher leave already?’ ‘I hope he's alright…’ ‘Where's he been staying, anyway? Maybe someone should go see him to make sure nothing's happened.’

 

Before yesterday, John would have been touched that they cared so much after only a week. Now, he hated that he was full of doubt at their intentions, hated that he suspected all they really wanted was to see if their message had been received.

 

An hour after Cosmic Latte opened (and an hour after he usually arrived) Draco swept into the shop with his usual grace and an unusual amount of determination. It seemed he'd completely gotten over whatever had been bothering him that morning, taking the sentiment of being violently ousted with an air of only being snubbed. If John didn't know better, he'd say Draco almost seemed used to being unwanted. Trouble was, he didn't know better. But he couldn't make Draco be as outraged about it as he was, just as he couldn't tell what Draco really thought of it. All he could do was give Draco something to smile about instead. “Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” he drawled, putting on an exaggerated air of indifference and using the poshest accent he could imitate.

 

“Morning, Mr.Stag,” Draco answered in kind, lips quirking up in a tiny, secret smile just for John. Or 'Harry', as it were.

 

“What are we having today?” God, how could anyone want to threaten this man? Want him gone? He was smart, funny, attractive, an excellent conversationalist, adventurous, ambitious…

 

Well. John might have been a bit biased, he thought, as he watched Draco's eyes twinkle in excitement and knew he'd probably go to any length to defend this pointy, wonderful git. “Chocolate and raspberry will do nicely today, I think.”

 

John was impressed. It wasn't one of their advertised combinations. But he could do one better. “If you want my professional opinion, Mr.Malfoy, the house recommends the white chocolate with the raspberry.”

 

“Really?” Draco raised an eyebrow. “Well, I can't dismiss the opinion of a professional, can I? White chocolate raspberry it is, then. In my usual mug.”

 

John took out the green and gold mug that he kept hidden away for Draco and rang up the latte. “You know the drill,” he said.

 

Draco smirked and pulled out a deep green coin pouch embroidered with silver. “You really do like green, don't you,” John noted.

 

He looked John right in the eye and smiled softly. John felt his face heat up, but he was rather flattered than embarrassed. “You know I do.”

 

Draco went back to rummaging around the pouch, as though unable to find the correct coinage although the clinking of metal pieces suggested that it was full of money. “Having trouble there?” he teased.

 

“I've just realized why people buy a new coin purse when they go on a trip.”

 

John cocked his head, considering that. He'd only heard of people doing that when they went on an international trip or handled foreign money, but Draco came from Wiltshire, by his own admission, and had no reason to have a coin purse full of foreign money. Perhaps he's been an an international trip lately?

 

By rights it probably shouldn’t bother John; who cared what kinds of coins Draco had and why? But now that the idea had been given form, John couldn’t let go of the nagging sense that there was an important piece of the puzzle he logically knew but wasn’t putting together.

 

And when Draco pulled out a gold coin that looked exactly like the strange coinage found in John’s pocket all those months ago, he nearly leapt over the counter to grab it. As it was, his hand shot out with speed that impressed he himself and latched on to Draco’s wrist. “That coin,” he breathed, eyes wide and unblinking. “Where is it from?”

 

“What?” Draco said smartly. He followed John’s eyes to the gold metal piece in his hand, brow furrowed. “O-oh, you mean the galleon?” He handed it over to John, who had no real need to see it—he’d seen his own before. “Why?”

 

“I just thought…well, can you tell me where they come from? What country?”

 

Draco’s eyes searched John’s face, reading him like a book in all likelihood. “Have you seen them before?”

 

“I have some,” John clarified, wondering why it was important for Draco to know.

 

The door jangled then, and John turned his eyes sharply on whoever had interrupted a very important conversation about his past. Unfortunately, it was Phyllis, which could only mean one thing. She looking frazzled and distressed as she always did when she came to Cosmic Latte, which was very rarely. She didn’t drink coffee—she was convinced it shortened your life because of an article she read in an “alternative science” magazine.

 

She didn’t drink tea either, because ‘it’s just hot leaf juice’.

 

There was only one reason she ever came to Cosmic Latte: to find John. “Oh, John, you’re here, good! I checked your home but…”

 

“But I wasn’t there. Because I’m here. Like I am every morning.” He glanced quickly at Draco (who had vanished the strange coin) and gave him a look that hopefully conveyed that their conversation about said coins was not over.

 

Phyllis had been going on for some time about why she hadn't checked Cosmic Latte first, but John had stopped listening, because the story was always the same. “…and, well, you know, one can never be careful with toxic fumes, especially at my age. So I figured I’d look here last. Coffee aromas could be carcinogenic…”

 

She was still partially in the doorway, presumably to maintain an air source uncontaminated by coffee. Which was fine, except that it meant their conversation was half shouted across the shop. “Could be,” John agreed, putting on his best ‘I’m reasonable and so are you’ voice.

 

“It’s Mrs.Frond, you see,” she said, getting down to business at last. “She’s having an episode. Found her turning over stones in my garden looking for gnomes again.”

 

“Gnomes? Not again, surely?” John said, removing his visor for the imminent request that was sure to come any second now.

 

“Must be the weather. Always makes her gnomey. Anyway, I know you’re working, and it’s earlier than usual, but…can you come settle her?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Phyllis shot him a grateful smile then turned around and all but ran out of Cosmic Latte as quickly as was polite.

 

“Batty Mrs. Frond again?” Ed called over his morning paper.

 

“Don’t call her that,” John snapped. Then, softening, added, “She’s eccentric, is all.”

 

“You would say that,” Ed mumbled, returning to his paper.

 

John ignored him, turning to Draco who had a bemused expression. “Terribly sorry, Draco, but I need to pop over to see to something. I’ll make you a latte when I get back, but I’d best not dawdle.” John pulled out the -be back in a mo '- sign he’d made expressly for occasions like this and locked up the pastry hut and register before taking off his apron and stowing it under the counter, exchanging it for his rumpled black coat.

 

“That’s fine," Draco said with a distant tone. "I seem to be short on change, anyhow, but…what’s going on?”

 

“Mrs. Frond. She's wandering around again. She has dementia, you see. She gets confused about things," he added, seeing the blank look on Draco's face. "She’s harmless, but it’s best for everyone if she gets resettled in familiar locations sooner.”

 

Draco nodded, mouth pressed into a grim line. “Better for her, or for everyone else?”

 

“Everyone else can sod off, far as I care,” John scoffed, not bothering to lower his voice. He'd never kept it a secret, the way he felt about Gleyma's general treatment of Mrs. Frond. “They’d just let her wander off. She lives close to the edge of town, and the cliffs are hard to see on a foggy day like this…” John walked to the door and flipped the sign to closed before opening the door. Since Queenie was upstairs, he wasn’t too bothered about kicking everyone out, and he hoped this would be a short trip, anyway.

 

He was surprised when Draco followed him outside. “You can stay, if you like. No need to worry about people harassing you here; no one will bother you. Not in a public place.”

 

Draco frowned for a moment before understanding dawned on his face. “Ah. I’m not worried. I just wondered if I might come with you?”

 

John raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

 

“I am. You care about her.”

 

And that, apparently, was enough of a reason for Draco to go, too.

 

John smiled. “I do care. Alright, you can come.”

 

---

 

When Draco decided to go to Mrs.Frond's with Harry to “settle her", he hadn't been exactly sure what to expect. To hear Harry tell it, she was suffering from the early stages of dementia. He only vaguely knew what dementia was, but as Harry explained a bit more it became apparent her mind wasn't working correctly anymore. Harry had tried to coax more information about galleons out of Draco, but a few strategic questions about Mrs.Frond had steered the conversation away from that Kelpie's Lair. He still hadn't settled on how he ought to explain wizarding money, but he'd have to think fast.

 

"What do you do when Mrs.Frond has an 'episode'?" Draco asked, following Harry down the main street of Gleyma and around the corner to the more residential area. The houses all seemed to be in different shades of brown, grey, and what could pass as "formerly white". It was rather depressing, as curb appeal went.

 

“She's not dangerous, just confused,” he reiterated for the third time. Once had been enough for Draco to believe him, but Draco could only wonder why Harry felt it was necessary to emphasize the sentiment. “It helps when people sit with her and talk.”

 

“That's it?” Somehow Draco doubted that could help, but Harry knew this woman better than he did. “Isn't there anything else we can do to help her?”

 

Harry shook his head sadly. “She might have fewer episodes if someone lived with her, or if her family came to see her, but…”

 

“They don't?”

 

“There's no one to come.” He shrugged helplessly. “Her son used to visit, before her condition deteriorated too badly. But according to folks who've been here longer, they had a terrible row a few years back. She told him to leave and never return, and he hasn't. She still sends letters, but they're all dated in content. He doesn’t write back, though I don’t see how he could reply…”

 

There was something important Harry had just revealed, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “What do you mean?”

 

“She asked me to write for her once when she misplaced her glasses. The things she dictated were…hard to follow. She wouldn't refer to anyone by name, not even her son.” Harry chewed on his thumbnail, as if the very thought of it was somewhat unnerving. Perhaps it was, for all he knew. “She described things in a roundabout way. She said he would understand.” Harry shrugged, as if he'd already thought about it a hundred times and decided he'd never make sense of it.

 

Draco wasn’t sure quite what to make of that. “I heard someone call her Batty Mrs.Frond…”

 

Harry’s eyes hardened in anger. It was a look Draco was quite familiar with—but not one he’d seen in a long time or ever hoped to see again. “It's cruel. She's ill, not mad. But I think they've been calling her that long before she had any mental health problems. She's always been a bit odd, so they say, but now she's…well, lost in her memories.” He waved a hand vaguely before carding it through his hair distractedly. He walked a bit faster as he continued, “It's different than my situation, but I can understand a bit what she's going through. And anyway, I'd want someone to take care of my mum or gran if she were like this. Especially if I couldn't for whatever reason.”

 

Draco's heart ached hearing that, both because Harry didn't know his mum was dead, and because of how hard he tried to help this woman who had no one else.

 

“Sometimes she thinks I'm her son,” he continued quietly. “Other times, her husband. That's difficult because she doesn't know in those moments that they're gone. People here can't deal with that, but it only upsets her when you try to tell her they're gone.”

 

“So they just ignore her, then?”

 

“Not as such. They just don't know how to respond, so they don’t. They make an excuse and leave her.” Harry all but growled like an agitated lion—which he was, in a sense. He took some calming breaths, then added, “She does say some strange things—claims nargles are bothering her and can we bring her dirigible plums, things like that.”

 

“Nargles?” Draco had the most peculiar feeling he'd heard that somewhere before…but where? “Plums?”

 

“Dirigible plums,” Harry repeated, but hearing it again didn’t somehow make the words have meaning. “Don’t ask, I’ve no idea what they are.”

 

“Hmm,” Draco said noncommittally.

 

“There’s a running competition for the most satisfactory explanation for what in God's name a nargle is. Right after we figure out where crumple horned snorkacks come from. Or why she keeps asking about her Quibbler subscription.” Harry opened the gate to a faded white row house on the corner of the street, leading them through a decently well kept garden to a golden yellow door. “When in doubt, just go with it,” he advised, opening the door. “Mrs.Frond?” he called out, ushering Draco in.

 

Draco followed Harry into Mrs.Frond’s home, eyes wide open for whatever he saw or heard. He was keenly aware of an alarming sense of deja vu from Harry's choice of words. If he didn't know better…

 

Well, he didn't know better, did he? He shut the door behind him, praying he wasn't walking to his doom.

 

“Nigel? Is that you?” A kind, worried voice called out. The house smelled of mothball soup, and he could hear the faint chatter of daytime television playing in the background.

 

“No, Mrs.Frond. It's John.”

 

“John?” An older woman emerged from the kitchen, wearing a black and yellow dressing gown that had seen better days with well-loved bunny slippers. Her dark red hair was done up in an elegant chignon, like she planned to go to a ball or formal dinner. She'd put on lipstick and stopped there, makeup-wise. Draco had the impression they'd interrupted her getting dressed for some grand event. Maybe they had, in her mind.

 

“Don’t you look nice, Mrs. Frond. Got plans tonight?”

 

“Oh, Nigel, I know you live to torment me, but I really can't take it, not tonight! It's the Memorial Remembrance Ball, you know that!” Draco noted that this was the second time she’d called Harry ‘Nigel’; based on the slight way Harry’s shoulders crumpled and his eyes filled with sadness, he’d noticed as well.

 

A moment later, however, he’d straightened up and pasted a brilliant smile on his face. His eyes held his true emotion, however. “Of course I do, Vivien. I think Bacchus and Thena are meeting us there, though. He's tied up at the office, and she won’t go anywhere without him, after everything.” Harry took the woman by the hand and gently guided her to the sofa. She looked confused for a moment, but then her vision cleared.

 

“Oh, John Doe-Sometimes-Stag, what are you doing here?”

 

“You were just telling me about the Remembrance Ball you went to with Nigel.”

 

She patted his hand affectionately, as though that were exactly what she'd been doing. Draco watched, transfixed in the hallway. She either hadn't noticed him or was intentionally ignoring him.

 

“Deary me, that's right, I was. It was a grand thing, everyone out in their dress robes. The occasion was terrible, of course. So many lost…but we hadn't had any reason to wear anything but battle robes in the war years, it was so nice to have something to celebrate instead of something to mourn. Or at least, to pretend.”

 

Harry nodded in understanding, but Draco's mind was racing. He hadn't misheard that, had he? “Did you say robes?” he asked, stepping lightly into the front sitting room. It was full of plants, enough to put Professor Sprout to shame.

 

Mrs.Frond looked at him as though noticing him for the first time, which she probably was. “John, dear, who is this?”

 

“This is my friend Draco Malfoy. He's visiting from out of town.”

 

“Malfoy?” She echoed, eyebrows raised impressively high. “Terribly beautiful family, the Malfoys. Lovely estate, not that I've ever been invited. How is Abraxas? Still tinkering around with curing dragon pox?”

 

Draco nearly choked. If he’d had any doubt before, now he was sure: this woman was a witch. Had she done this to Harry? Was the whole ‘madness’ bit just an act? Maybe she was lonely, and didn't want Harry to leave her alone again.

 

Better tread carefully until I'm sure. “He's doing quite well, thank you. He’s had enormous success with the Dragon Pox cure. He thinks all cases could be eradicated within the year.” He hadn’t the heart to tell her Grandfather Malfoy had died from Dragon Pox. That it had been Albus Dumbledore who found the cure, which was probably why his father had hated the man. At least in part.

 

“Oh, marvelous. It shall be nice not to have to worry about that anymore. There's so much to worry about these days, having one less thing is just…marvelous!”

 

Draco nodded like he understood exactly what she meant, and perhaps he did.

 

Something sparked in her eyes and she turned to Harry and asked, “Nigel! Surely you aren't planning on going to the Memorial Ball dressed like that? Dear heavens, what are you wearing? And your hair…oh my dearest Nigel, why must you insist on driving me spare!”

 

“Vivien, the ball is next week,” Harry said patiently, eyes full of sadness in spite of his brave smile.

 

“What?” she blinked once, twice. Perhaps processing the use of her first name, Draco mused. If she were actually ill and not just pretending. He didn’t know of any Fronds in the wizarding world; perhaps she was a Muggleborn? “Nigel, are you quite sure?”

 

“Yes, I've received a message just now. They've postponed it.”

 

Mrs.Frond—or Vivien, was it?—didn’t bother hiding her disappointment. It seemed too genuine to be faked. “Trouble with the firewhiskey supplier again?”

 

“I imagine so,” Harry nodded sensibly.

 

What was it Harry had said? Play along? That, Draco could do. “Their supply is always low these days,” he said wistfully. “Can't even get a personal bottle without calling in a few favours.”

 

Harry shot him a grateful look while Mrs. Frond was focused on Draco. It was a bit unnerving, having those pale blue eyes looking at him like she’d never seen him before. He was fairly sure Mrs.Frond wasn’t acting now. He’d never met someone so…guileless. Not to mention with all the yellow and black and the plants…she was probably a Hufflepuff. He was pretty sure they were allergic to lying.

 

Then her vision cleared with recognition. “Abraxas Phineas Malfoy?” she exclaimed, turning to Harry and fixing him with a glare that was half embarrassed, half pleased. “NIGEL, why didn't you tell me we were having a Malfoy over for tea?!”

 

“That's my fault, I'm afraid,” Draco interjected with an apologetic smile. He channeled his inner Blaise—he was always strangely popular with old women—and said, “I insisted on tagging along and surprising you, old girl. Apologies.”

 

She shook her head, making the bobbles in her bun bounce comically. “No apologies needed, Abraxas, I won't hear of it! It's an honour to have you here.” She stood with surprising grace and agility considering her apparent frailty. “Rumours don't do you justice, dear. Handsome AND polite! Smart, too, if the bruit about the Dragon Pox Cure I hear floating from your corner is to be trusted.” Draco wasn’t used to liking Hufflepuffs, but Mrs. Frond was doing a bang-up job of changing that impression. She grew on you like a fungus. “Let me go fix tea, Darlings. The elves are all on strike these days, you understand.”

 

“Good help is hard to find,” Draco said sympathetically, channelling his father this time. It felt…not so marvelous.

 

Mrs.Frond trundled out of the room, humming slightly off tune but cheerfully. It sounded familiar, an old wizard song he couldn't remember the name of.

 

Harry sighed and relaxed into the sofa. “Thank you for just going with it. She can be a bit…challenging for some. You're a natural, though.” He gave Draco a brilliant smile, and Draco’s heart melted just a little bit.

 

Draco returned the smile and sidestepped the compliment. He had enough experience with his grandfather's old friends confusing him for the man to know how to handle it graciously. “Which war is she talking about?” There could really only be two, or perhaps three she remembered.

 

“She often mentions Grindelwald. I'm not sure if it's a person or a place. Sounds Germanic to me, so probably one of the World Wars.” Draco had briefly read up on Muggle history during his “re-education”, but Muggles had waged so many wars in recent years, it was challenging to remember them all. Why only two of them were considered ‘World Wars’ was a mystery to him still, as they all seemed to involve multiple countries, though not the whole world.

 

Harry continued, “I don't think she could have been alive for the first one, and she wasn't old enough during the second for what she's talking about, so I reckon she’s confusing her real memories with a movie or something.”

 

“She says some interesting things,” Draco noted, raising an eyebrow at Harry.

 

“That she does. You could practically write this stuff down and make a story of it. Not that I would. Seems exploitative, somehow.”

 

“A bit,” Draco agreed. “Do you think she's…settled, now?” That was the word the cardiganed woman had used for “dealing" with Mrs.Frond. He wondered why no one else was willing—or perhaps able—to help her. She truly wasn't harmful, just a bit…different. She had delightful manners as a hostess, too. Then again, Draco had the advantage of knowing her stories were true, and thus the “rules" governing the mind she was stuck in.

 

“Probably,” Harry said, interrupting Draco’s mental wandering. “Making tea seems to ground her, so usually if I can convince her that the ball isn't happening, she'll set off to make it and come back to the present day, with no memory of anything we talked about before.”

 

“Who settles her if you don't?” Draco had a feeling he knew already.

 

“I'm almost always around to do it, but…well, before I lived here, either the neighbours helped her or Queenie did. She doesn't like doing it, though. Hasn't got the patience for it. So if I'm unavailable, that's who would take care of it, I suppose. But I'm always available.”

 

“It doesn't take much…” Draco mumbled, a hidden criticism for Harry's Boss-slash-landlord. Draco liked this “Queenie" less and less, and if his opinion of her had been low to begin with, it was dismal by now.

 

“Mrs.Frond doesn't get along with Queenie either, so that's the main trouble, really. Says she wants nothing to do with that ‘ungrateful dybbuk’.” Harry sighed, apparently used to the troubling town dynamics of Gleyma. “Normally she doesn't have an episode while I'm working, and I can stay with her, but…I need to get back.”

 

Draco could almost sense the curse poisoning Harry’s mind, making him doubt himself, insisting he get away from Mrs. Frond before she could untangle any loose threads of his memories. He wondered if Harry would be able to remember slowly, one memory at a time, if it weren't for whatever necessitated suppressing his memories and manipulated his thought patterns.

 

And as much as Draco would like to keep Harry here, talking with a witch who cared for him while Draco muttered counter-curses that weakened without destroying, to give Harry a chance to remember slowly, he couldn't. He needed information and had found an unexpected ally. Her mind might be addled, but somewhere under the fog lay the truth about Gleyma, or at least aspects of it.

 

He realized with a jolt that whatever had happened to Mrs.Frond was, perhaps, the fate that awaited Harry if he stayed here. The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He needed to get to the bottom of this, and quickly.

 

But Draco couldn't talk to Mrs. Vivien Frond with Harry here, so when he saw his chance he seized the opportunity. Cunning Slytherins, and all that rot. “If you need to get back, I can stay with her.”

 

Harry's eyes filled with softness that melted Draco's heart a little more (and made him feel a little guilty for his duplicity. The only thought that comforted him was that this was for Harry's sake). “You'd do that?”

 

Draco shrugged. “I don't mind. She seems quite taken with my relative Abraxas Malfoy.” Draco had never thought he looked like his Grandfather, other than the hair, but perhaps that paired with the name was enough for Mrs.Frond to see a resemblance. Then again, he'd never seen a photo or painting of Grandfather Malfoy when he was Draco's age. Perhaps the likeness was closer than he knew.

 

Harry chuckled fondly and rose to leave. “Well if you’re sure…”

 

“I am.”

 

Harry smiled at him, eyes full of affection, and gods Draco hoped he didn’t have to lose this to get Harry’s memories back. He’d do it if he had to, though. “Thank you. If you aren't back to the cafe by the end of my shift, I'll come look for you here.”

 

Draco nodded and bid him farewell just as Mrs.Frond rounded the corner from the kitchen carrying a tray full of tea and biscuits. “Oh, John, you aren't leaving, are you?”

 

“I'm afraid I must. I have to get back to work, but Draco Malfoy, my friend, is going to stay here with you.”

 

She frowned, as though a memory just beyond her grasp was trying to surface. Draco was sure that was the case. “Malfoy?” she repeated, setting the tea down on the elegant coffee table.

 

Harry cast Draco one last apologetically grateful smile before hurrying out the door while trying to look like he wasn't hurrying at all.

 

Draco sat down on the couch, being cautious just in case she wasn't as harmless as he believed her to be. He never expected to need his pureblood manners here, but his mother would be pleased to inform him that good manners were always in fashion. “Mrs. Vivien Frond, it’s a pleasure. My name is Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”

 

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You're Abraxas’ grandson?”

 

He nodded his head solemnly. “Indeed I am.”

 

She seemed to sink in on herself in shock and grief. “Merlin, has it really been that long? I thought he'd only just married…”

 

Draco pulled out his wand and presented it to her. “You know what this is, don’t you, Mrs.Frond?”

 

Her hands seemed to shake slightly as she reached out to touch it, eyes closed in something akin to reverence. “Yes, I know what this is. It's been so long since I've seen a wand…”

 

“What happened to yours?” He pressed.

 

Her eyes flew open, as though Draco's question awoke a fierce protective instinct. “You're in danger here, young man. You must leave Gleyma at once.”

 

“I know, and you're right. But I won't leave without Harry.”

 

“Harry?” she frowned.

 

“You know him as John. His real name is Harry James Potter.”

 

“He's a Potter?"  she whispered, looking scandalized and delighted. “But Merlin, of course he is. That hair.”

 

“How long have you lived in Gleyma?” Draco asked, finding it strange she knew Harry Potter because of his hair, not his deeds.

 

“Too long, I'm afraid.”

 

Draco didn't really want to bring it up, but he had to know. “Does the name Voldemort mean anything to you?” he barely suppressed a shiver at the name, but saying it was a necessary evil.

 

She didn't wince—which was sufficient to answer the question, really—but she did look like she found the name incredibly distasteful. “Should it?”

 

“if it doesn't, you've…missed a lot.”

 

She scoffed. “That's a diplomatic way of speaking you have, young man. I might've known it once…I've forgotten so much. So many memories taken to serve the needs of Gleyma .”

 

“‘The needs of Gleyma’?” he echoed, hoping she'd expound.

 

She didn't; she just nodded, resigned. “I got caught up in the Net.”

 

“Net? I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning.”

 

“The Net of memories,” she insisted, somewhat impatiently. “It steals away small things at first, things you won't notice you've forgotten. What you ate for lunch, whether you've read the paper yesterday or not, who your second cousin married.

 

“Then it takes bigger things. Your mother's middle name. The sound of your uncle's voice. The first time you knew you were in love. By that time, it's too late. Those memories aren't coming back.

 

“If you leave, everything you know about Gleyma will stay behind, join the Net and strengthen it. But better to cut your losses and get out before it starts taking pieces of you. Before you forget what it was like before you came here, before you lose the will to leave. The ability to leave.” She grabbed his arm with impressive strength and stared him in the eye, like she was conveying her message right to his very soul. "There are no graves in Gleyma."

 

Deeply alarmed now and feeling sick to his stomach, Draco swore internally and pressed on.

 

“Who is behind this?” He didn't know how long he had until Mrs.Frond’s mind stopped working, and he needed to know. Harry could still remember—Draco had seen that Harry did, underneath it all—but as for the thrall, the need to stay in Gleyma…usually that kind of magic meant defeating the caster.

 

Mrs. Frond shook her head. “Can’t remember. I've tried to find the way out so many times…it's addled my brain, I'm afraid. Something with a ‘C’…”

 

“A ‘C’…is it Cyril?”

 

She smiled wanly at him. “He likes to act a dunderhead, doesn’t he.” She took a sip of her tea, eyes distant.

 

Desperate now, Draco took Mrs.Frond by the shoulders and all but shook her. “Tell me anything I can use to stop this.”

 

She turned her gaze back on Draco. “Stop this? There's nothing for you to stop. The caster of the curse is long dead, only the Custodians are left. It's an ancient malediction what's been stewing and festering in this specious cesspool for centuries.”

 

“But…”

 

She patted his hand in an approximation of comfort. “I've tried to undo it, to no avail. We Hufflepuffs are awfully good finders, but when it comes to black magic, sometimes hard work isn't enough. Undoing a curse means seeing the worst in someone and understanding. And even after all this time here, I still can't manage it.” She smiled, tone self-deprecating, as if choosing to see the best in someone were a weakness, somehow. There had been a time when Draco would have said agreed, but now…

 

“Is there really nothing to be done?” he pleaded. “You've been able to remember a lot, it seems…”

 

“You only say that because you don't know what I gave up. There’s nothing gained without sacrifice, and for most the cost is too high.”

 

Draco crumpled into the sofa, helpless. “If you know that, why would you stay?”

 

“By the time I figured it out, it was too late. My memories belong to Gleyma now. To leave Gleyma is to leave them behind, and I'm too stubborn to do that.”

 

“And what about me? And Harry?” Draco’s voice was small. If he were being honest, he didn’t want to know, but this might be his one chance to find out.

 

“You haven’t been here long enough to lose much. I don’t know about John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag. But the sooner you leave, the better for both of you.”

 

He sat there and counted plants, trying to quell the rising panic currently swirling around his gut. What had he forgotten already? And what if he’d tried to leave Gleyma to get help? Would he have forgotten all about Harry, like everyone else who’d ever visited Cosmic Latte? The thought gifted him with a new wave of nausea. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

 

She patted his hand again and gave him a kind smile he wasn’t sure he deserved. He didn’t want it, anyway; it was the kind of smile that meant surrender. “That’s very dear of you, young man, but I'm afraid I'm beyond saving. And when you leave, you'll forget all about Vivien Frond and her sad husk of a life in dreary Gleyma.”

 

“But if there were something I could do for you? Hypothetically.” Draco was terrified and feeling unprepared, but he hadn't given up yet. Defeating an unbeatable curse sounded like the kind of challenge his Slytherin sensibilities pushed him to meet.

 

She regarded him fondly, and Draco had the sense she was humouring him, but she said, “You're Slytherin, aren't you?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Malfoys always are.” She sighed, a small, wistful thing. “Perhaps you do stand a chance, then. Alright!” She drummed up her shoulders and inflated herself to her full height, and Draco got a glimpse of the witch she must have been before Gleyma. “If…no, when you get out, please find my son. I banished him so he couldn't try to save me again and risk his own life. Please explain why, and tell him that I did it because I love him and wouldn't wish this fate on my dearest enemy.”

 

“I can do that,” he promised, though he wondered how her son would react to a former Death Eater showing up on his doorstep with a message from his estranged mother.

 

She looked in the verge of tears, so Draco asked, “What's his name? Mr. Frond Jr.? Maybe I have news of him.”

 

“No, not Frond. He has his father’s name, the one I had before I married Roger…” she trailed off, seemingly lost in her memories.

 

“And your son?” he pressed, hoping it wasn’t too late.

 

“Amos. Amos Diggory.”

 

Draco's heart sank. She didn't know, did she? That she'd had a grandson, that he was gone now. Perhaps it was kinder not to tell her, though. “I'll look for him when I leave.”

 

“He wouldn't listen to me. Kept coming back here to take me away. I moved here when I remarried, you know. I met him—Roger, that is—while I was on a walking tour of Exmoor. My second late husband." She smiled ruefully, taking a sip of tea. "I didn’t understand why he was so insistent on staying here, but I was smitten with him. Figured it was a muggle thing, ‘Gleyma’s charm’ as he called it. But then…well, perhaps I shouldn't have stayed. Only witch in town, terribly lonely, heartbroken. But I'd already become a fixture, and the curse fed heavily on my magic. Amos tried to get me to leave, but he doesn't understand that I can't. Won't. Can't. I don't think he's ever quite forgiven me for any of it. For remarrying, for leaving the family estate, for banishing him…he won’t respond to my letters anymore, but I suppose that's what happens when the first dozen you send are magically wiped clean.”

 

“They were blank?” Alarm bells were going off in Draco’s mind, relieved that he finally had an answer for what happened and could, perhaps, do something about it, too.

 

She nodded. “The Net prevents any mention of magic from getting through. Wouldn't do for someone to take it down, would it? I suspect it has to be done from the outside. But if you leave to take it down…”

 

“You forget all about it,” Draco finished for her. He was almost impressed with the complexity of the curse. You couldn't stop something you knew nothing about, and time only strengthened magic like that.

 

A piece of his and Harry's conversation floated to the front of his mind, the letter she’d dictated to Harry. Another piece of the puzzle fell into place. “Is that why you started writing your letters in code?”

 

“Smart boy,” she said with a pleased smile. “You really are Abraxas’ progeny. I figured out a few things, before my wits abandoned me. Any letter sent by owl or touched by magic gets erased, but the muggle post is beyond her reach, and they make it through the Net unchanged so long as you don't use any trigger words.”

 

“Trigger words?” Draco repeated, hoping for more information.

 

“Any word or name that wouldn't appear in muggle correspondence,” she explained. “Sometimes phrasing sets it off, too.”

 

Well, that was useful to know. “Thank you for all your help, Mrs. Diggory-Frond.”

 

"Please, call me Vivien."

 

Draco smiled. "Thank you, Vivien." He hoped this conversation wouldn’t cost her; she looked tired and wilted now, as though it had taken all her mental fortitude to convey this to him. How long had she waited to tell someone? He felt the need to reassure her, even if he wasn't sure he knew what to say. So he told her what he believed. “Help will come. You will see your son again.”

 

She smiled at him kindly, but then something shifted in her eyes again. “…what is Abraxas Malfoy doing in my sitting room?”

 

He felt his heart breaking and his resolve solidify. He wanted to tell her to be strong, and also that she could rest easy; she’d been strong for long enough. He smiled at her gently and picked up his tea cup. Earl grey with two cubes of sugar and lemon; exactly as he liked it. “We're drinking tea and watching the muggle Telly Vision, Madam.”

 

She resettled herself on the sofa, refilling her teacup. “I do so enjoy the Telly Vision. They say the drolest things…”

 

———

 

Draco spent another hour with her until she informed him she was going to have a lie down, but could he please pick up some dirigible plums for her to help with the wrackspurts?

 

He assured her he would, and left with a heavy heart. He was nursing a headache as he walked back to Cosmic Latte, both from the severe lack of caffeine in his system and the overwhelming amount of information he’d just received. Not to mention the very real threat that he was currently losing memories.

 

He stroked Poppet (who was blissfully unaware of any danger as he slept in Draco’s pocket). The bird had a calming effect, he’d found, when he wasn’t flapping his wings frantically. Maybe he could convince Poppet’s owner to give him partial custody of the daft bird. He hoped the featherbrain stayed asleep; Draco didn't know what the muggles would do if he released a neurotic owl in their coffee shop.

 

The only comfort (aside from Poppet) was that he finally had something of an action plan. Of course, that action plan was weak at best: send a muggle letter. It was simple enough. Muggles managed it daily, so why shouldn’t he be able to do the same? Problem was, he had no muggles to send post to. No one to inform ‘I’ve found Harry Potter’ and ‘Help us we’re stuck in a cursed town’. Or rather, not say that, since apparently it was enough to get the whole letter wiped.

 

Now that the concept of the Muggle Post was on his mind, he saw the post boxes and mail flaps on every house. He could’ve kicked himself for not thinking of the solution sooner. The Post was one of the things he’d been most fascinated with during his education on muggle culture. They had to be so organized to make sure every letter got to where it needed to go, a system of numbers assigned to each location so you could send a letter to anywhere in the world. It was quite beautiful in its complexity, and he wondered how anyone could have thought Muggles inferior. Different, yes, but just as clever and creative as wizards in their own way.

 

Of course, he’d have to be tricky about sending a letter, if he ever figured out the particulars of How to send a letter; To Whom he ought to send it; and What To Say—as much as what not to say. His every action was being watched, and he didn’t know who his enemy was here—who Harry’s enemy was. Presumably, they wanted him to leave, so he’d forget all about this. Unfortunately for Draco, it wasn’t so simple as convincing Harry and getting out.

 

But there was no use worrying about that now: he’d burn that bridge when he got to it, or whatever it was the Muggles said. His first priority was sending the letter. It was a bigger obstacle than it ought to be: he didn’t have any addresses to send the mail to, first of all, let alone who to trust with the Very Important Task of taking his request for help seriously and knowing how to deliver. Blaise would’ve been his first choice, but Zabini Estate almost certainly didn’t have a muggle post address, and even if it did, Blaise spent more than most of his time at the lab “working” on business with Longbottom. The letter could sit unread for weeks, and Draco didn’t have that kind of time to wait nor the luxury to wonder if Blaise had even received his letter. So, Blaise was off the short list.

 

The next best option was sending a letter to the Ministry. He was fairly certain they had a post address to communicate with the muggle authorities, but Draco feared that whoever was the mastermind behind all this might recognize the address (or at the very least, the addressee). He couldn’t address it to the third best option for this same reason: every magical person in Europe knew of Hogwarts, even if they hadn’t attended. If Draco intended his message to reach anyone, he'd need the letter to look like it was from a muggle, to a muggle, about muggle things.

 

And so Draco was left with one last, desperate option: Hermione Granger. Well, Granger and Weasley, as she would undoubtedly share any communication about Harry with Weasley. That was the way with married people, as he understood. It complicated things as much as it helped; Draco wasn’t in a position to reject the aide of anyone, especially if they were as worried about Harry as he suspected the duo of the Golden Trio must be by now. Granger he could work with, Weasley…well, he’d try. Granger would be willing to put aside their differences, but Weasley had hated him and his family long before they’d arrived at Hogwarts. Worse than that, the ginger git might convince Granger it was just a cruel prank. He couldn’t blame anyone for thinking it: Draco Malfoy trying to rescue Harry Potter sounded like something one of those Witch Weekly romance columnists might come up with.

 

Well, he decided, he’d just have to hope that their love for Harry was greater than their disgust for Draco. He didn’t have time to be picky; as far as he was concerned, the longer he and Harry stayed here, the more danger they were in. Perhaps himself more than Harry, if for no other reason than whoever had (maybe. probably.) trapped Harry here didn’t want to hurt Harry; just keep him here. The dementors hadn’t actually attacked them, after all. Just threatened them.

 

Granger, being muggleborn, understood the post, and wouldn’t have reason to suspect anything nefarious before she opened the letter. As far as she knew, Draco Malfoy had no reason to use or know about the muggle post. He was counting on her curiosity and sense of responsibility to at least read the letter. Unfortunately, Draco didn’t know anything about where Granger was living these days. He knew she’d married the Weasel…Weasley , but where did they live? Was their residence completely magical? Mostly Muggle? A mix of both? Did they live in the country, or close to their work in London? All that really mattered was whether Granger had a muggle address or not. He suspected that she did, but he couldn’t afford to take chances.

 

And so there was one option, a failsafe. It was terribly inappropriate, given their history together, but he could only hope he’d be forgiven for it under the circumstances. The solution was simple, and he’d maybe even be proud of coming up with it were he not so attached to a positive outcome. The answer, of course, was to send the letter to Granger’s parents. Mrs. and Mr. Granger, as it were. For even if Granger’s own residence were magical, her parents most certainly had a postbox. Perhaps she would think it odd, receiving a letter meant for her via her parents, but Draco was desperate.

 

So now he had someone to send it to, but there was still the problem of how to get Granger’s address. He was vaguely aware of the existence of a muggle directory of sorts, but even he knew it was unlikely to contain the names and addresses of every muggle in England. More to the point, he didn’t know Granger’s parents’ names, and he couldn’t very well send a letter to every Granger in England. Who knew how many of them there were?

 

Which meant he only had one option, really.

 

— — —

 

Draco had never been adept at the Patronus. He couldn’t even make a fully corporeal one. But he’d tested it enough times to know an incorporeal Patronus could still send messages. Blaise had learned the trick from Longbottom, and bloody useful though it was, Draco had yet to fully master it—though not from lack of trying. He’d been able to send an incorporeal patronus message after locking himself in the east wing of the Manor and practicing for a day, but it was so magically draining he’d sworn never to use it unless he had no other option. And now, he really didn’t. It would take a lot out of him, but it was the best plan he had.

 

Certain that it would alarm all the muggle patrons (and Harry) if he cast a patronus in the middle of Cosmic Latte, he retreated into the woods to send his message. It was auror protocol to ensure sensitive information not fall into the wrong hands, and if he mentally framed this as training for the DMLE and not a last ditch effort to save himself and Harry Potter, it somehow made the whole experience less nerve-wracking. He went as far as the Runic circle, circling back around in case he’d been followed. It felt safe there, and magically…grounded, for lack of a better term. And it was extremely unlikely anyone would catch him out here in the act.

 

Draco didn’t have many excessively happy memories to choose from, but most of them came from the past week he’d spent with Harry. Eating lasagne for the first time. That awful hot chocolate Harry loved. Sitting by the fire, reading. Kissing Harry. Cuddling with Harry. Watching Harry sleep. He supposed it was telling that his happiest memories had been formed in the gloomiest fucking place in England. But that just spoke volumes to how…wonderful Harry was. He was turning into a sap, Merlin help him. But maybe sappiness was the secret ingredient to a strong patronus.

 

He focused on the strongest memory he had, complicated though it was. Everything was complicated when it came to Harry Potter. But Draco was learning to love complicated.

 

“Expecto patronum! To Blaise Zabini: Urgent. Need Granger’s parents’ muggle post address. No owls, send patronus. Midnight.” Blaise would undoubtedly be confused by the request, but Draco had faith in the man’s abilities to find obscure information. He also knew that the content and form of the message would probably worry Blaise, and while Draco didn’t enjoy troubling his friends, he had good reason to worry. Hopefully it would impress upon him the need to hurry.

 

The reply was near instantaneous, and though it was a relief, Draco was a bit peeved that Blaise had ignored his instruction to send a reply at midnight. Blaise’s ermine patronus looked distressed, though Draco couldn’t say his own mindset wasn’t influencing how he saw it. “I’ll find it, but Draco: Don’t be a Gryffindor.” In other words, save yourself first.

 

Blaise probably thought Draco was having trouble with the lichens. Perhaps with the Ministry, for attempting to harvest a banned substance. His words were meant to assure Draco that the lichens were not more important than Draco’s safety, and while it was a touching sentiment, Blaise couldn’t possibly know that the thought of abandoning Harry here to his fate made Draco physically ill.

 

The patronus faded away like morning mist in the afternoon sun. Draco tried not to see it as a sign portending doom.

 

Notes:

WELL, THAT HAPPENED. For everyone who said "I think Frond is a Witch", you were ToTaLLY right. Ten points to Hufflepuff.

Thank you for all of your awesome comments again! Y'all are the best, and I love talking to you and hearing your theories.

as always, my tumblr is noir-renard if you want to come holler at me.

Here's the moodboard and Here's a spotify playlist for cosmic latte, because you are all supportive and I love making content for you<3

Chapter 11: A Light to Replace

Summary:

Something about a letter?

Draco and Mrs. Frond got on like a house on fire. Of course they did. They were both incredibly charming and sometimes said odd things that belied they didn't quite fit into normal society. While John had almost been a little jealous at how quickly Draco caught on to the idiosyncrasies of speaking to Mrs.Frond, he was mostly pleased. And proud. John wasn't sure why pride was the prevailing emotion—it wasn't as though Draco were socially awkward or anything. But it was important to John nonetheless. Mrs.Frond was the closest thing he had to a friend in Gleyma, which brought his grand total of friends in the world to two. He counted Draco as a friend now. Surely swapping saliva with a person meant you were friends? Or possibly something more?

 

Actually, he'd quite like to ask someone about it, but the only one to ask (beside Draco, who he obviously couldn't talk to about this) was Mrs.Frond. No matter how well-intentioned, he sincerely doubted she was well-versed in the nuances of modern dating. John supposed he could ask Murph, if he were feeling up to it, but Murph's solution was usually to offer food, and John had already done a lot of that where Draco was concerned. In any case, John had been wondering about his and Draco's relationship status since he'd woken up on the sofa with Draco that morning. Answers, unfortunately, were not forthcoming. John didn't know if he'd ever been in a relationship before. He wanted one—fiercely—but the thought of asking about it filled him with a keen anxiety. What if Draco said he didn't want a relationship? What if he said 'I don't do long-distance'? What if this, that, or the other thing? 

 

Another part of him worried this was all moving too quickly. It was possible to want something too badly, to love an idea of something so much that you'd happily latch on to even a poor imitation of it. He'd only met Draco a week and a half ago. Even if it felt like he'd known him much longer, the truth of the matter was that he hadn't.

 

John thought it best to try to figure it all out before he saw Draco again, which he expected to be at the end of his shift. So when Draco returned to Cosmic Latte at a quarter to eleven looking like someone had kicked his puppy, John went through an array of feelings including: surprised, unprepared, and worried. “Back so soon?” he asked, trying for nonchalance. “Did she give you the boot for insulting the settee?”

 

Draco scoffed as though the mere idea that anyone would kick him out was ridiculous, but then he frowned, gaze considering. “Has she done that before?”

 

“Oh yes. It was a gift from the great Armando Dippet, it was. Been in the family a century, she won't hear a word spoken against it no matter what they're saying on the Home and Garden Channel.”

 

Draco nodded sensibly, unbuttoning his coat and draping it over his arm. “Well, no aspersions were cast on the settee, I assure you. Vivien wanted to rest, so I left. Even if I am the grandson of Abraxas Phineas Malfoy, inventor of the Dragon Pox Cure, I don't think she'd appreciate me loitering in her sitting room unattended.”

 

"I see," John said. He catalogued the pallor of Draco's cheeks, the way his shoulders sagged, the fact that he hadn't looked John in the eye since he'd arrived. There was clearly more to the story, but whatever it was, he knew Draco wouldn't just come out and say it. Fortunately, he had a plan. And yesterday's pastries. Maybe Murph was onto something with the whole food thing.

 

He set to making the latte Draco had never gotten to drink earlier that day (white chocolate and raspberry), which Draco made a show of paying for with his Completely Normal British Bank Notes. All traces of the "galleons" were gone. The "galleons" he was pointedly not discussing, as though John had not mastered object permanence, and not seeing them would make John forget about their existence.

 

But now was not the time to ask about strange coins. Not when Draco was making that face, and when he was trying so very hard to avoid talking about the strange coins. In the internal battle between his own need to know and his wishes to respect Draco's privacy, Draco was more important. He could ask about the coins later. After he figured out how to ask about what exactly their relationship was…  

 

John opened the pastry hut and pulled out an almond Danish, sticking it on a plate for Draco. The almond ones never sold well for some reason. They were delicious, as far as John was concerned.

 

He set both the plate and the drink on the table next to the couch, where Draco was sitting and staring listlessly into the fireplace. It'd been a while since he'd done that, too absorbed to notice his surroundings. John wasn't exactly pleased to see it's return. “Here," he said, startling Draco, "Have a treat, on the house."

 

Draco glanced at the pastry, but made no move to eat it."Why?"

 

That was a rather strange response to free food, John thought, but perhaps Draco sensed whatever it was about the almond danishes that made them unpopular. Or maybe he saw it for what it was: a lame attempt at getting Draco to open up. "You look like you could use a pick-me-up."

 

Draco picked up his green mug and sipped his latte, a tactic John recognized as a displacement activity. "Is there alcohol in it?"

 

"Er…no?" Turning to alcohol was never a good sign. Especially not this early in the day. At the very least, it confirmed that Draco was probably hiding something beyond strange foreign money. Or trying to, at least.

 

"Pity." Draco sighed and picked up the almond danish, taking a reluctant nibble. He didn't even make an appreciative noise, like he usually did when eating sugary confections. That alarmed John more than anything else had so far. "Did something happen, then?" John asked, even though he'd intended to wait.

 

Grey eyes snapped to green, challenging and defensive. It was the first time Draco had looked at John since Mrs. Frond's house, and there was something…vulnerable written there. Something fearful and desperate.

 

John was beginning to suspect pastries weren't going to solve this.

 

He sat down on the sofa next to Draco, speaking quietly in case the nosy patrons thought it a good idea to listen in on their conversation. "Is it about Mrs. Frond?"

 

Draco shrugged, choosing to tear pieces of the pastry off rather than eat them.

 

John felt doubt creep up his neck, realizing anew that it may not have been wise to leave Draco with an unstable Mrs.Frond. “I'm sorry," he said genuinely. Draco's hands paused. "I know she can be a lot when she gets into one of her sad war tracks. I shouldn't have left you there."

 

He wasn't entirely sure that was the problem, but it was a good guess. He'd been so focused on hoping his only two friends in the world liked each other and then being delighted they did that he wasn't as careful as he should have been.

 

"Harry." A pale hand on his knee stopped his apology. “It's not your fault, Harry.” The intensity of his gaze willed John to believe him. He almost did, too.

 

“Well, it kind of is my fault,” he said with a self-deprecating laugh, averting his gaze lest Draco's conviction stop him from apologizing again.

 

"It's not." Draco sighed loudly and muttered something that sounded like 'stubborn gryffin door' under his breath. “You can't take responsibility for all the world's problems, Harry." With an air that made it seem like he was forcing himself to share, he gritted out, “There's just…a lot to unpack. It was an intense visit.”

 

John smiled gently. "I have it on good authority that I'm a very good listener. If you want to talk about it." You can tell me anything, he added mentally. Just in case Draco really could read his mind, like John often suspected.

 

"Whose authority?" Draco asked, taking another bite of the pastry.

 

"Mrs.Frond's, of course."

 

"Ah." Draco grimaced and turned away, fingers tapping a pattern on his green cup. "It's not her stories that upset me, it's just…one moment she was completely lucid, and she's such a cheerful champion, isn't she? And the next she's forgotten where she is, and it's heartbreaking."

 

"Yeah," said John, though he still felt responsible. He was pleased Draco was sharing at all—not about the content, of course, but because he knew it didn't come easily to him. But he was doing it anyway. For me, John thought with an odd thrill. He wondered if this were what it felt like to be trusted.

 

"She told me a bit about her son, you know,” Draco confided after another sip of his latte. He was taking his time, but he was opening up. Pastries really were magic. “He won't even respond to her letters.”

 

“I know," John said sadly. If he had a mother to write to, nothing would have stopped him. "Maybe it's too much to bear. She doesn't ever use his name in the letters. Perhaps it's easier to pretend the letters are from an imposter.”

 

“She remarried,” Draco murmured. “Said her son never forgave her for it. Not in her mind, anyway, which matters a bit more than reality.”

 

John hadn't known that, but he supposed it wasn't a surprise. Mrs. Frond never had any children with Roger Frond, a Gleyma native. Everyone in town knew she had a son from a previous marriage, but it was considered gauche to talk about such things behind someone's back. So naturally it was everyone's favourite thing to gossip about when she wasn't around. After her very public fight with her son, however, they'd apparently laid off. She had disowned her son and was as utterly alone as a person could be. It had happened long before John arrived in Gleyma, but everyone was only too happy to tell him the story. Especially once it became known how much time he spent with her.

 

“Sounds like you had a lot to talk about,” John said at last, swallowing the lump in his throat.

 

“I think she was happy to have someone new to talk to,” Draco said with a wan smile. “I wonder if I shouldn't have encouraged her so much. I thought it was a good sign, but…she was so tired at the end.” He stared blankly at his latte, as if hoping the answers would be written there.

 

John patted Draco's hand, which was still placed on his knee. Mrs.Frond often did it when he was upset, and it always made him feel better. “It's easy to forget about her condition on her good days, but eventually she always gets lost again. I think she'd rather have someone to talk to when she's lucid than spend those precious few moments alone, waiting to lose herself."

 

He tried to pull his hand back, but Draco grabbed it and laced their fingers together. No one had ever held hands with John before—not that he could remember, anyway. He stared at their clasped hands, terra cotta joined with porcelain. Did friends hold hands? Or only people who were something more than friends?

 

Maybe it didn't really matter that much. All he knew was that it filled him with warmth, and he quite liked it.

 

Feeling brave, he ventured to ask, "Was there…anything else troubling you?"

 

Draco glanced at John briefly before looking back at the fire. "No."

 

It wasn't a very convincing response, but he supposed Draco had said everything he wanted to for now. "Okay." Trust was a two-way street, after all.

 

John sat there as long as he could before he had to go back to work, giving Draco's hand one last squeeze before letting go. Perhaps Draco wasn't the only one in need of a pick-me-up.

 

———

 

Draco seemed somewhat cheered up after that. He pulled out his notes and snuggled into his spot in front of the fire as the day went on, making appropriately scandalized noises at the ridiculous gossip the patrons of Cosmic Latte brought in. He glared at Cyril with particular vehemence when the lad performed his usual parade of ignorance. He drank the chocolate almond latte John brought him at the end of his shift. He said hello to Murph and asked after his wife. He smiled when John took his hand and held it all the way back to John's flat.

 

But beneath it all was a tension that hadn't quite left him since his tent had been attacked.  John could only ask so many times 'what's wrong, is something bothering you, Draco?' and be told 'no'.

 

He thought about all the things it could be. Perhaps someone had said something rude to him on his way back to Cosmic Latte. Maybe he was worried about who in town had attacked his tent. It was possible he was thinking about his research, the lost lichen samples.

 

There was nothing John could do to change the past. But if Draco's gloom were caused by a lack of lichens in his life, there was something John could do about that. He wasn't much of a planner, he thought, but as he looked up the weather for the weekend, he thought this at least was something he could pull off.

 

Draco insisted on making soup for dinner again, which was an experience no less fascinating the second time through. John still couldn't identify any of the ingredients beyond mushrooms. They talked about Draco's research in vague terms, and Draco even asked if he could see 'That Bloody Snake' again. Beatrix loved Draco, of course, which was amusing to watch.

 

"She wants to curl around your neck," John explained.

 

"Why? So she can strangle me?"

 

"She isn't a python, Draco."

 

Beatrix won that particular battle of wills. Draco admirably tolerated having a reptilian scarf for a full five minutes before all but begging John to 'save me, please'.

 

Draco fell asleep on the sofa, book abandoned in his lap, Beatrix curled up around his arm. John didn't have the heart to wake him, even to move into a more comfortable position.

 

He thought about sleeping on the couch again. He still hadn't brought up their relationship, but…friends could sleep on a couch together, right? They'd done it before. And it was just sleeping, after all.

 

He told himself it was only the logical thing to do—it was much warmer in front of the stove, and the nights were getting cold as winter approached. Not to mention that Draco was an excellent foot warmer. Draco who smiled in his sleep, murmuring nonsense that filled John's heart. He tucked a lock of Draco's hair behind his ear, and covered both of them with a blanket. "Good night," he whispered, falling asleep to the sound of Draco's soft breathing and Beatrix's sibilant snoring.

 

He'd never felt more at home in Gleyma. Or, perhaps, anywhere.

 

———

 

John woke earlier than normal the next day, and was careful to be quiet as he left for work. Draco was still sleeping on the couch (where else would he be?), in the same awkward position of one who's fallen asleep reading. It amused John that Draco, apparently, was the type not to move once asleep. John was a roller, himself.

 

But even in the low morning light John could see the bags under Draco's eyes. The thoughtful thing to do was leave Draco asleep as he crept out of the house, surely. Besides, if he could have, John would have preferred to have a lie-in as well.

 

It was a quiet morning shift for John. Draco was late, likely still asleep. Paloma and her book club came and left. Ed came and ordered a croissant, like usual. It felt like the days before Draco had come into John's life, and he didn't like it. The emptiness of the couch. The lack of huge books scattered on the table. Not hearing Draco muttering nonsense under his breath while carding his long fingers through his pale hair without mussing it, somehow. Not having someone to talk to when business got slow, or laugh with him about the gossip overheard around the pastry hut.

 

No, John did not like it at all. How had one person become so important to him in a week and a half? It almost frightened him, were it not for the fact that Draco had never made John do anything he didn't want to do. It was not as though he needed Draco; he just wanted him there. Surely that was an important difference, he told himself sensibly as he cleaned the grate in front of the fire.

 

And, well…if he needed Draco a little bit, that wasn't so terrible, was it? A desperate part of him screamed he didn't need anyone, but it was…nice to need someone a little bit. To think 'things are better when you're here' and 'I'm happier with you around'. Surviving wasn't really the same thing as living, after all. He was tired of just surviving…he wanted to live.

 

So he resolved himself: as soon as he saw Draco, he'd ask to define their relationship. He was an adult. He could do this. He had a fairly good idea of Draco's feelings already, but he wouldn't know for sure if he didn't ask. He hummed contentedly to himself. A planner he was not, but there was some comfort in knowing one's next course of action instead of just drifting along.

 

The door jingled, and John whipped his head around so quickly he thought he might have injured himself. But it wasn't Draco. It was Queenie.

 

"Good morning, Stag," she said brusquely, crossing the floor in five quick strides. Her arms were full of the brown burlap sacks he knew to be full of coffee beans. It was odd, he thought. He'd just picked up their order a few days ago, when Queenie was being a brat. Well, brattier than usual. They normally only got one shipment a month, but…

 

Well, he wasn't the manager. Queenie must have her reasons. Maybe she wanted to try a new roasting technique.

 

Besides, he didn't have time to think about excess coffee beans. He had a mission today. "Morning, Queenie." He closed his eyes briefly, preparing himself to engage in a conversation he didn't really want to have, but needed to. Now was the best time, while the shop was all but empty. He wouldn't be able to talk to Queenie after she retreated into her office. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

 

She paused, hand already on the railing headed upstairs. "About what?"

 

"I'd like to ask for some time off this weekend. This afternoon, actually." He swallowed, trying to gauge her reactions. When she said nothing, he continued, "I'm sure Murph wouldn't mind if we just…closed up early. He's always happy to spend more time with Loretta."

 

Queenie turned to face him fully, expression unreadable. "You want time off? Whatever for?"

 

He swallowed, trying not to let his irritation show. "I don't see why it matters."

 

"Is there some reason you don't want to tell me?" She took a threatening step towards him. Queenie hardly came up to his shoulder, so she wasn't very intimidating. There's nothing she can do to you, he reminded himself. She needs me.

 

"I'm not going to attack anyone's tent, if that's what you're wondering." Oh, bugger. So much for staying calm.

 

She stood there, unnaturally quiet, and John was fine with that. A quiet Queenie was a tolerable Queenie. “It's something to do with that boy, isn't it?” she said at last.

 

Draco, being twenty-four, was hardly a boy, but he didn't want to intentionally upset Queenie anymore than she already was ny pointing that out. “So what if it is?”

 

“You know he’s just going to leave." She took another couple of steps toward him, lowering her voice like she was sharing great wisdom, though there was no one to hear but John. "All I want is to prevent you from getting a broken heart, dear, but you seem determined to plunge right on ahead into tragedy.”

 

He stepped back, uncomfortable with her proximity. It was never a good idea to be within an arm's length of an unhappy Queenie. “I’ll think you’ll find it’s none of your business.”

 

“If it affects your work, then it is my business,” she countered. “But that’s not why I care. You’ve been distant, distracted, and ineffective lately. Sighing and staring off into space, letting lines form, giving away pastries for free.”

 

“Old pastries,” he mumbled.

 

“The point is, he’s just some passerby with a passing fancy, filling your head with impossible thoughts.”

 

John clenched his fists, breathing heavily. “What do you know about it?”

 

“I can see it in your eye. You've barely known him a week—"

 

"Week and a half, actually."

 

"—and you want to go galavanting off with him somewhere? To what end? You have no history, no background. Who else will hire you, rent you a flat without any references? You can’t even prove you have the right to work in this country.”

 

"I'm English!" he growled.

 

"Prove it," she snarked.

 

His face flushed with anger. He hadn't experienced that much racism here, to the point that it always shocked him when someone did say something like…well. That. "I suppose if I looked like you there'd be no problems then, hmm? If I were blonde like Cyril, I could get time off whenever I liked?"

 

She winced, as if only just now realizing what she'd said. "That's not what I meant, and you know it."

 

"Do I?" He opened his mouth to tell her exactly what he thought about her racist bullshit when the lightbulb over the register exploded. Queenie went pale and John remembered his purpose here. To get time off. Not aggravate his boss. He swallowed his anger, his righteous indignation, and hating himself just a little bit for it. He should be able to yell at her for this.

 

He took a deep breath and only just barely managed to keep his temper under control. "I'm not handing in my two weeks' notice, or leaving without saying a word. I just want the afternoon off. Or if that's too much to ask, I'd like to leave a bit early.  No one comes in here after 11 except for Cyril, anyway. And he doesn't even order anything."

 

She seemed relieved at the return to familiar ground. “What do you really know about him, anyway? Other than the fact that you fancy his face.”

 

“I happen to like a lot more about him than his face, actually." He said it quietly, but he was sure she heard it based on the way her brow lowered angrily. "What is your problem with him, exactly?"

 

Queenie regarded him, her eyes dark with an emotion he couldn't quite decypher. John held her gaze, though he'd rather look anywhere but her. "He's changed you," she said finally. "You were never like this before. You're a good employee, John. A good tenant. And I'd like to say you're a friend, but you won't talk to me. You don't trust me."

 

John did look away now, staring at the remains of the light bulb inside the fixture. The shade was incredibly dusty, like it hadn't been cleaned in months. He'd certainly never changed it, and he doubted Murph got around to it, either. He usually forgot to even empty the trash bin. "I never had a reason to ask for time off before. If you're a friend, why can't you just be happy for me?"

 

She sighed and shifted the bag of beans in her arms, as though itching to put them down so she could touch John instead. He'd never felt more grateful to coffee beans in his life. “What will happen when he decides he’s bored with you? That it’s too much work to deal with you when you have a memory lapse, or a migraine? One of your episodes? You barely know him, and he barely knows you.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you, John, but you’ve blinded yourself to the truth with hopes and dreams. Reality isn’t so kind, and neither am I.”  She stalked back over to the stairs, shoes clicking on the wooden floors. "You may have the afternoon off, but if you want my advice, you should end this before you get any more attached."

 

John nodded, even though she couldn't see it, and mumbled his thanks. He had a light to replace.

 

---

 

It had been alarming, to say the least, when Draco awoke to an empty flat. He didn't want to admit it, but he was a bit hurt that Harry had left without waking him up to say goodbye. Then again, given the state he found himself in—fully dressed, book in his lap, upright on the sofa, blanket draped over him—Harry hadn't moved him since he fell asleep reading that maddening muggle philosophy book. How Harry got through it with setting the thing on fire was beyond him.

 

Poppet hooted at him from the top of a bookshelf and swooped down to fly circles around his head. There'd been a tense moment the night before when he'd introduced the daft bird to Beatrix, but after he warned her 'not to even think about it', she lost interest. She was too small to eat Poppet, anyway.

 

"What have you got here?" he asked the pygmy once it had finally calmed down enough for him to extract the note from it's talons.

 

He warmed slightly when he realized the folded note was from Harry. Then again, who else could it be from? Draco, your damn owl keeps trying to steal this, so hopefully you're able to read it before I see you later. I would've woken you, but I've been warned about waking sleeping dragons before. You looked like you could use the sleep, anyway. I hope you know how the toaster works. Then again, you are the lord of the flame. Maybe you can just hold it over the stove? —John-Doe-Sometimes-Stag-Sometimes-Harry

 

Draco laughed at the signature, pleased that Harry was at least a little more comfortable with his actual name.

 

Blaise's Patronus had not arrived in the night, not that Draco had expected it to. The man was good, but even he couldn't find out such vital information in only a few hours, surely. He was tempted to send a Patronus of his own, pressing Blaise to hurry, but he didn't like the thought that he would be effectively unable to cast any more spells for the rest of the day if he needed to. Not to mention that Blaise had told him numerous times that asking him to do something faster was the guaranteed way to get him to take longer out of spite.

 

Draco felt he really needed to do something with his time to feel productive, however, and the only thing he could think to do was write the damn letter while he waited. He wouldn't be able to send the letter on parchment—all of his parchment was charmed with never-fade and smudge-me-not, and he wasn't taking any risks when it came to the pernicious 'Net'. Charming his notes hadn't helped him at all before, and he couldn't let his final draft be magic touched in the least.

 

But a bit of drafting was for the best, even if written on parchment. Having a copy of what he'd sent after the fact was probably a good idea as well. He wanted to send the letter as soon as possible, though he'd have to ask Harry for muggle parchment and a muggle quill—after he consulted his Muggle Guide for what those were called. He could write it now, and transcribe it (manually, ugh) onto the muggle parchment.

 

He sat there for nearly an hour, nibbling on toast and drinking tea. What he really needed was coffee, for the creative juices were just not flowing. So far, all he had was:

 

To she who rightfully should have been head girl had circumstances not dictated otherwise,

  

To the future Minister of Magic, please don't destroy this, I have an important message for you,

 

To the wit girl lady person hero who punched me when we were 13,

 

But none of those sounded right. Granger would be just as likely to be offended and rip up the letter as read it. No, he couldn't reveal who he was in the first line. He'd have to capture her interest first…

 

He sighed, turning to look at Poppet. "What do you think? Give it up as a bad job until after coffee?"

 

Poppet hooted in what Draco interpreted to be an enthusiastic 'Yes!', so he got dressed and set off for Cosmic Latte, putting a sleepy Poppet in his pocket. Work before play, but nothing before coffee, as they say.

 

He'd just shut the door behind him when he all but ran into a larger than average man wearing 'wellies' and a hunter's cap.

 

"Pardon me, sir, I didn't see you there," he said quickly. The man gave off an…odd impression, but Draco was first and foremost polite.

 

"You're that outsider," the man grunted.

 

Draco was feeling less and less optimistic by the moment. "Um, yes. My name is Draco Malfoy."

 

The man looked unimpressed. "I thought you'd left already."

 

"No, no. I'm still here." Draco narrowed his eyes. "Doing research."

 

"You're not an archaeologist, are you?"

 

What was it with these people and archaeology? "No, I'm not."

 

The man grunted again. "You should leave soon, if you've got a sense of compassion."

 

Well, that was a disturbing thing to say. "I beg your pardon?"

 

"This town isn't meant for folks like you."

 

Draco suppressed a shiver. "Was there something you needed to give Har—John?"

 

The man pulled a bundle of letters out of his pocket, but made no move to hand them over. "The post."

 

"Oh," Draco said, sensing a strange theme emerging in his life. "I can…give it to him for you? If you like?"

 

The man eyed him strangely for just a second too long, then shoved the letters unceremoniously into Draco's hands. "It's a felony to read post that isn't addressed to you."

 

Draco swallowed. "Right. Well, if you'll excuse me…"

 

The man said nothing as Draco all but ran away. Draco could feel eyes on his back until he rounded the corner. He would not be sorry to say goodbye to this place.

 

— — —

 

The sight that greeted Draco upon entering Cosmic Latte was Harry standing precariously on a ladder doing something to the lamp. Screwing in a light bulb, he thought, remembering the unit on Muggle Jokes. His lips spread wide in a devious smile as he thought to use one now.

 

"I guess it really does take only one barista to screw in a light," he drawled, leaning against the counter.

 

Harry shot him an unimpressed look, but his lips twitched with a suppressed grin. "Look who finally decided to wake up."

 

"I was advised I needed the sleep."

 

"For your beauty?"

 

Draco scoffed. "Please. I'm always beautiful, even when sleep deprived."

 

"I don't doubt it," Harry mumbled, then blushed furiously. "Did you know anything about spontaneously exploding lightbulbs?"

 

"I do not."

 

"Pity. you seemed like the type."

 

Draco wasn't sure what to make of that. "I didn't know they could explode spontaneously," Draco replied, lacking anything else to say.

 

"Neither did I," Harry said honestly. "But this one did. Strangest thing, really. It's been fine the whole time I've been here."

 

"It just…exploded? Out of the blue?"

 

"yep," Harry said, popping the p. "Probably for the best. I was about to yell at my boss."

 

Well, that was interesting. He didn't know about lightbulbs, but wild magic on the other hand… "You were angry?" he asked, then realized that was probably an odd question if one were unaware of accidental magic. "I mean, why were you angry?"

 

"Doesn't matter," Harry said with a shrug. "The important thing is, I got the afternoon off."

 

Draco smiled, a little confused, but pleased nonetheless. Harry worked too much, and any time spent away from Cosmic Latte was good for him, as far as Draco was concerned. "Congratulations?"

 

"It is, indeed good news."

 

"Why?"

 

"You'll have to wait and see."

 

It sounded a bit ominous, but not like the strange old man had.

 

"What would you like to drink? Better make it a good one. Just in case."

 

Ominous, indeed.

 

---

 

“Well, Draco, are you ready, then?” John plopped down on the sofa next to Draco, who'd been bugging him for the past hour to tell him what the significance of getting the afternoon off was. Randall had pulled through and brought his climbing gear over, only too happy to lend it. He'd given John a brief tutorial on how to use it, though it seemed foolproof to John.

 

Draco frowned. “Ready for what?”

 

“For gathering the lichens you need for your research. Forecast says it's going to be foggy, cold, wet, and windy for the next week. So if you want those lichens, it's today or it's seven days from now.”

 

Draco looked thoroughly discomfited, pressing his lips into a firm line for a solid minute as he searched for an escape before he gave up with a loud puff. “I guess it has to be today, then?”

 

“‘fraid so, unless you want to go climbing in a squall.” John patted Draco's shoulder, expression mournful. “Enjoy that latte, it could be your last.”

 

“Why would you say something so ominous?” Draco scowled, sipping his latte obnoxiously.

 

“I'm pants at divination, don't worry.”

 

Draco smiled privately at something, but he cast John a sly glance. “Maybe your weather predictions will be wrong as well.”

 

“I know better than to hope by now. Gleyma’s weather is nearly always gloomy, that's why we have to make our own cheer.”

 

“And how is that going so far?”

 

“Cheer is still low, but that's why we drink spirits.”

 

Draco guffawed at that and finished his latte, and his only comment on the way to the cliff was that he wanted a shot of something if he survived the climb. He wasn't too pleased when John offered to leave him hanging so he could run back to the flat to get something. His bad mood was cleared away when, upon making it safely back over the cliffside, John was waiting with a bottle of whiskey and two mugs. He only briefly complained about drinking spirits out of anything other than glass, and the fact that he was soaking wet from the drizzle. But he had his lichens and he wasn't dead, so he was more or less content.

 

When they woke up the next morning and the weather was fairer than it’d had apparently ever been in late September, Draco both cursed and thanked ‘Harry’ for his poor divination skills. John hardly thought the weather was good enough for the all-but-chipper mood Draco was in, but he wasn’t going to question it. It was good to see him so pleased.

 

---

 

He’d done it. Draco had believed he could, of course, but Blaise had actually done it. He’d found Granger’s parents address. The man could be an Unspeakable if he cared to.

 

The silvery ermine had bounded right up on Draco’s chest, and Draco was alarmed for a moment that the sound of Blaise's voice would wake Harry. Fortunately, all Harry did was grunt once and roll over.

 

As it turned out, he needn't have worried, anyway, since the patronus whispered Blaise's message right into his ear. “Hope you’ve got a quill nearby, old man. It was bloody difficult getting this piece of information." Draco summoned a quill and parchment with a bit of wandless magic that he was rather proud of, had anyone asked.  "Granger keeps her parents' intel a closely guarded secret. Even their names aren't registered anywhere. Did you know she obliviated them and sent them to Australia during the war?" Draco had not known that, and he'd be sure to ask Harry about it the moment he regained his memories. "Terrifying, that one. Anyway, hope you’ve got that quill and parchment ready, here it is: 14 Heathgate, Hampstead, London, NW 6SS UK. Interestingly enough, in the “Yellow Pages”—sounds awfully tawdry considering it’s just a directory, doesn’t it?—anyway, the names of the individuals listed there are Wendell and Monica Wilkins, not Granger, but I am certain Granger—our Granger that is. That sounds strange, doesn't it? Our Granger?—Anyway. Hermione Granger visits that address twice a month, be they Wilkins or Grangers, so make of that what you will.

 

“You’re going to buy me a drink once all this is over and you better have the best fucking yarn I’ve ever heard in my life. Once again, the address is…”

 

Draco had never been more excited to send a letter in his life.

 

He knew he'd be too worked up to go back to sleep, and wary of waking Harry up too early, he levitated him to his bed. He looked peaceful, all tucked in. Not to mention the ridiculous pajamas he was wearing. Somehow, he'd removed the pullover he'd gone to sleep in. He moved more than was healthy for a person who was meant to be sleeping.

 

Hoping he wasn't overstepping his boundaries, Draco kissed Harry on the forehead, smoothing that ridiculous, dashing hair back. Soon, they'd be out of here, and then maybe…maybe he wouldn't have to wonder.

 

Soon, he promised, and shut the door.

 

---

 

The next morning, the first thing Draco said to John was, “Do you have any paper I could use? And one of those vexing click pens.”

 

John hadn't even woken up fully. His alarm was going off. And Draco was in his bedroom. With Beatrix winding up his arm. Hold on—John was in his bedroom. He was certain he'd fallen asleep on the sofa the night before. Had Draco moved him in his sleep? Why? “Is this a dream?" he asked blearily, sitting up and silencing his alarm.

 

"I should hope not," Draco said indulgently. "I shudder to think that my mind could come up with that get-up as sleepwear."

 

As his brain came to full wakefulness, he became painfully aware of the fact that he'd elected to sleep in shamrock boxers and his "Lyle, Lyle, The Crocodile" shirt. The shirt had been a gag gift from Murph for his "birthday". The boxers…well, he'd been wearing them when he arrived in Gleyma, apparently.

 

"You probably sleep in silk," John muttered, running a hand through his hair.

 

"Are you casting aspersions on my sleepwear?" Draco huffed. So he does sleep in silk, John thought with a wry smile.

 

"You're awfully cheery for a self-professed morning hater."

 

"I don't hate mornings," Draco huffed, unconvincingly. "I just don't like doing things in the morning." He patted Beatrix on the head and hissed at her. It sounded a lot like 'tax benefits'.

 

It just wasn't worth the mental effort it would take to sort that out, John decided. He shoved his glasses on his face and yawned. "What was it you wanted again?"

 

"Paper. And a click pen."

 

John stared for a moment, still not entirely sure this wasn't a dream or an elaborate hallucination. "Okay," he said finally, unable to think of a reason to say no. Not that he ever intended to. It was just…all very odd. He walked over to the desk dominated by his computer, opening drawers in search of the requested items. “What do you need them for?”

 

“I need to write a letter,” Draco said, tone implying that the answer was obvious.

 

John paused again, turning to stare at Draco, then at the clock, and back at Draco. It was 6:30 in the morning, according to the clock. “Now?”

 

“Yes, now, ” Draco said, impatiently clicking his tongue. Absently, John remembered Draco did that on occasion when feeling threatened. “Do you have a problem with that?” And there it is. The defensiveness.

 

“No,” John replied, and he didn't. It's just…odd.

 

"Then what is it it?" Draco demanded.

 

John found paper and a pen at last, handing them over. “It’s just…well, you don’t do anything before coffee.”

 

Draco blinked, eyes wide, then softened a bit. “No time like the present,” he said, smiling coyly at Beatrix.

 

It was just too early in the morning for all this, John decided. Again. His heart couldn't take the sudden onslaught of affection. Only a week ago, Draco was terrified of Beatrix. And now…well. He got over it for me, John realized. He hoped.

 

It was too early for this.

 

“Who’s it for?” he asked, heading for the kitchen before his heart burst. "The letter, I mean."

 

“My mother," Draco said, following closely behind. "She worries when she doesn’t hear from me regularly. I want to get this sent off to her as soon as possible.”

 

"Did you wake up and decide this?" John tried to suppress the laugh, but didn't quite manage it. A quick glance at Draco showed he'd noticed.

 

"I've been rather involved since I've been here, and I just…haven't made the effort. And she doesn't have an address for me, since I'm travelling, so if I don't write her, she has no way of knowing where I am, whether I'm alive…"

 

"You could call her," John suggested as he rummaged around in the refrigerator, but as he suspected, there was little left to eat. There was jam, but no bread or butter. There was an apple as well, but it was one of the green ones that he only ate with peanut butter, and there was no peanut butter left. Maybe apples with jam would be alright?

 

"She doesn't have a phone," Draco said, as though the idea had only just now occurred to him.

 

"Hmm," John said noncommittally. It wasn't the strangest thing he'd ever heard Draco say about his family; that honour still belonged to the albino peacocks. Better not to push the issue. Especially not before breakfast. “Well, there’s a post box around the corner from Cosmic Latte, but the postal worker almost never checks it. They usually deliver around 2 or so, though, so you can just hand the letter to them directly.”

 

There was nothing for it, he decided, shutting the refrigerator. He'd have to eat the apple as it was.

 

He dressed quickly, pausing to kiss both Draco and Beatrix on the head before departing for the shop. Draco smiled but didn't look away from the letter he was writing. Beatrix opined that she would like to 'adopt' Draco to 'keep forever'. Or at least, that was what John imagined she'd said as she flicked her tongue.

 

It'd been an odd start to the day, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. John was cautiously optimistic, in fact. This would be a good day. He just had a feeling.

 

---

 

Draco was relieved he thought to claim the letter was for his mother, having already laid the foundation for his parents not being conventional in any sense of the word. As far as Harry knew, it was only natural that Draco’s mother didn’t have a phone, because of course she didn’t. It would have seemed much stranger indeed and raised more questions than Draco was comfortable answering if he’d said he was writing a friend or his advisor (Blaise).

 

Nodding to himself, Draco shuffled the papers before him, methodically writing the date across the top. Merlin, was it the 25th already? He heard a loud thump then Harry swearing about his toes, saying he’d send the dresser back to the dumpster whence it came, when an idea struck him. He called out to Harry, asking, “I don’t suppose you have a return address I can use? In case she wants to write back?”

 

Harry emerged from the bedroom, fully dressed now and scowling slightly. “There’s no postal code for Gleyma, so all our post gets sent to Lynmouth and someone brings it over. You can just put Cosmic Latte as the return address.”

 

“Cosmic Latte gets post?” Draco joked, mostly to cover up that he thought it would be a very bad idea indeed to put Cosmic Latte as the address.

 

“I told you, didn’t I? The cafe receives our shipment orders in Lynmouth. A delivery truck brings them here, or Queenie picks it up herself. I use Cosmic Latte as the address for my finance class as well.”

 

Not for the first time, Draco was struck by how much he disliked Harry’s boss. At the very least, it seemed that mentioning Cosmic Latte wouldn’t tip off the magic-sensing net. “Here I thought you had little elves or something delivering your mail.”

 

“Only Mrs. Frond has that privilege, I’m afraid,” Harry said with a chuckle. He placed a hand on Draco’s shoulder and gently squeezed it. The gesture felt strangely intimate, and Draco had to stare resolutely at the blank page before him lest Harry see his furious blush. “I have to go now. If I wait any longer Paul will be there banging on the door for his doppio.”

 

Draco detected a hint of amusement in Harry's voice, and could imagine the indulgent smile there.

 

“He’s a terrible addict, that Paul,” Draco said, not exactly sure he knew who Paul was. He suspected it was the gentleman who wore the tweed coat and uncomfortably reminded Draco of Cornelius Fudge, but it didn't really matter. Soon they'd be out of here, away from Pauls and Cyrils and Queenies, all.

 

“You’ve no room to judge, Mr.Something Pompous.” Harry kissed Draco on the head and gave the same treatment to Beatrix as well. He suspected he would've tried to kiss Poppet, had the daft bird not been trying to exhaust himself flying in circles around the ceiling. "See you later," Harry said, and Draco's stomach did a funny and not altogether unpleasant little twist.

 

"Bye, Harry," he said, but Harry was already out the door. He probably hadn't heard.

 

Draco waited a moment to make sure Harry didn’t come back for anything. Now, he set his mind to the gargantuan task before him: writing a letter to Hermione Granger that would explain everything, solicit her help, and not set off any wards. How did one say ‘I’ve found Harry Potter, and I need your help to save him from a cursed not-so-muggle town’ without saying any of that?

 

Draco wished he'd done a bit more prep work, but between old men and lichens and falling asleep on the sofa…well. There was no minute like the last minute. In any case, the phrasing of his request needed to be delicately handled so Granger didn't just rip it up without reading it. There was no meaning in flouncing around exchanging pleasantries—he had a feeling Granger wouldn't appreciate that, anyway.

 

He considered once again everything Mrs.Frond had told him about what was and wasn’t able to be communicated through the ‘Net’; he was taking no chances. He stared at the innocuous white envelope, address already written on it. He thought it was particularly inspired to address it to H. Jean Wilkins. Enough information to the informed reader, but nothing remotely suspicious to anyone looking for magic. He was incredibly grateful to his younger self who'd stayed up half a night memorizing the full names of all his classmates. At the time, he’d claimed it was a great way to occlude anyone attempting to use legilimency on him, but he’d actually done it simply because he liked knowing. His father had always told him information was worth more than gold in certain situations, and while he sincerely doubted Lucius would be impressed that Draco knew a muggleborn’s middle name, it was certainly useful to him now. More useful than gold, really.

 

And he really couldn’t put this off any longer if he wanted to get the letter in the post today.

 

To the brightest mind of our age,

 

Before you destroy this letter on principle, let me advise you that you will regret that dearly. You certainly have every right to do so; no one would blame you, least of all me, but please resist a little while longer. For you see, I’ve found Him. You know of whom I speak. Regardless of what the Daily reports, I am sure you are missing Him.

 

Now that I have your attention, please allow me to apologize for contacting you in this way. I know that out of all people, I certainly do not have the right. Believe me, I would not have done so had I any other option. You are the only one I could think of who has a postbox. I hope you will be understanding given the circumstances.

 

The place I find myself in has made it impossible to send messages by means you and I and those like us would usually employ. Messages sent by that devilishly useful method our headmaster created do come through the invisible walls, so to speak, but I have far more to tell you than I or anyone could send by silvery messengers. I have been travelling along the Bristol Coast searching for ingredients for our mutual acquaintance, Augusta’s grandson, and his business partner Blaise. You may ask them to confirm the truth of this, at least.

 

If you are wondering at my peculiar phrasing herein this letter, I assure you it is merely a precaution. Mentions of anything too fantastic tend to get erased, or so I'm told by a very reliable source. My own experiences attest to it.

 

When I arrived in what appeared to be a mundane town—I dare not say the name—I came upon a most curious discovery: the best seeker of the lion house since Charles, or so they always liked to say…no matter.

 

You can imagine my surprise at seeing him in such an odd place, and my indignation when he refused to acknowledge he knew me, even within the confines of privacy. I think you'll understand my meaning. After doing more investigating, I learned that our favourite leo has completely forgotten everything about himself, name included.

 

I thought it was perhaps brain trauma, since he told me he was found washed ashore in January and was in a coma for some time after that. Not a terribly good condition for a body to be in.

 

But after doing more digging, it came to my attention that there were a number of irregular details to his story. According to him, no one is either capable of or willing to tell him when exactly they found him and when exactly he awoke from his slumber. That on its own isn’t strange, but our friend also seems to have some sort of…compulsion to stay in this town.

 

Naturally, I contacted our government to alert them of the situation. When no one came to rectify the situation, I tried again a few days later with a more strongly worded (and protected) message. I sent it directly to our earringed leader with the Lion Seeker’s whereabouts, but still no one came. I only learned through Blaise that my letters had either not arrived or were blank. Furthermore any attempt to send me letters in our normal way had been unsuccessful.

 

I was very distressed to learn this, as it indicates my presence in this town is known, as well as my connection with Lily’s progeny. This suspicion was all but confirmed when we were attacked by those dreadful soul-suckers what used to guard the north sea prison. Fortunately, He was able to fight them off in the only way one can. Very fortunate, since I was incapable of doing so.

 

The activity appeared to stir his memories, but the price was excruciating mental pain. I had no choice but to remove the encounter from his recollection (temporarily, I assure you) to stop his anguish.

 

This is all very worrisome, to say the least. I have seized upon the realization that while any means I might normally employ to communicate have been thwarted, the way your parents use—the post—seems to come and go daily. Except for Sundays? For some inexplicable reason, there is no post on Sundays.

 

I have attempted to give you as complete a picture of the situation as I can, the circumstances being what they are. I am afraid to use any special effects on this letter lest it be rendered blank. I only hope it reaches you in as expedited a manner as I have been lead to believe the royal post operates. I have no address to tell you to send your return to, but a silvery animal confirming receipt will suffice in its stead. I ask you send it at midnight, as I am often with the green eyed wonder, and as he believes himself to be a normal barista, if not slightly forgetful, I imagine it would open that painful mental crevice that can’t be any good for his condition. You are clever; you will surely figure out exactly what I am saying.

 

I don’t have the resources to thwart this alone, and I fear some force is getting desperate to make me leave. All the more reason I must stay. Others from our corner of society who have run across our saviour were made to forget the encounter upon leaving town. Thus I cannot leave to seek help, for the same fate will befall me.

 

The town is small and difficult to find. I fear being too explicit in my directions will render this letter blank. All I can tell you is that it is close to Lynlip. Or Lyemouth. Something lip or mouth related, surely. It is the closest town. Go there first, but DO NOT TRY TO COME HERE YET. The wards need to be taken down from the outside.

 

I need not impress upon you that time and sublty are of the essence. Bring your ginger along, but no one else. Tell that tall dark handsome leader of our government as well. And please bring appropriately protective attire, if you catch my drift. I stumbled upon this situation by chance, and was unprepared for it. You have the opportunity to come prepared. Books, information, special concoctions the likes of which the Greasy One and the Slug used to make, bring whatever you think might help. He’ll need it. We all will.

 

Cordially yours,

A very sorry blonde snake

 

Draco felt drained once he finished writing. While it had almost been fun to think of creative ways to describe the people he and Granger knew without naming them, seeing the whole situation written out underscored how serious it was—and how little he knew.

 

He'd perhaps laid the flattery on a little thick, but he hadn't been merely trying to curry favor when he told Granger he was confident she'd figure out his coded language.

 

And, in all likelihood, the answer to the riddle that was Gleyma.

 

Now all that was left was to send it.

Notes:

oh golly he did it! He wrote the letter! I'm sure sending it will be fine, right?

Thank you for all your wonderful comments! I love hearing from you, and your encouragement really is inspiring!

you can find me on tumblr at http://noir-renard.tumblr.com

Chapter 12: A Debt of Gratitude

Summary:

Draco has no idea what's going on.

In spite of John's optimism, the positive start to his day had not set the precedent he'd anticipated.  

 

To be fair, it had not been bad  as such. Simply…bizarre.

 

Perhaps he should have expected it, given that the first thing that had happened that morning had been the business of Draco's letter. It was not until he'd gotten a healthy dose of caffeine in his system that John had realized how strange it was. Well, it wasn’t strange for Draco to want to write a letter. John had no doubt that Draco’s Mother did not have a phone. Writing a letter wasn’t odd, not really. A bit antiquated, perhaps, but no cause for alarm.

 

And yet there was a sense of peculiarity that hadn’t left John since Draco had woken him asking for paper and a pen. Draco had his own paper: that strange parchment he claimed to use for “the aesthetic”. Perhaps it did not go through the mail very well, and that was why he wanted to borrow paper. It was a perfectly plausible explanation, but John just knew in his gut that it wasn’t the right one. Draco told him he routinely wrote letters to his mother. But if that were the case, and he knew it was the only way to contact her, why did he not have his own paper? Not to mention the fact that it seemed he’d had a midnight epiphany and simply had  to write the letter immediately.

 

It was suspect, to be sure. Not because John didn’t trust Draco, but because there was clearly something other than letters afoot.

 

He was considering what the real reason for the letter could be, and how concerned he ought to be about it, when the second strange thing happened: Gleyma's general practitioner walked in to Cosmic Latte. Or rather, he walked down. From Queenie's office. The office no one save Queenie was allowed to enter.

 

John's opinion of medical professionals was, regretfully, low. His own nurse—who John thankfully did not have to see ever again—had been a picture of arrogance and ignorance. They often went hand in hand where health care was concerned, in John's experience. John, personally, had not met the GP of Gleyma; the doctor didn't "deal with head trauma", apparently, and "didn't want to be held responsible for malpractice". John knew for a fact the real reason Dr-Whatever-His-Name-Was did not help John was because John had no money, and there was no medical treatment to help with his condition. Dr.Whatever at least had the decency to feel guilty about it, though, according to hearsay, and thus avoided Cosmic Latte like the plague. John had no issue with that.

 

But here he was, walking down the steps from Queenie's office, looking deeply troubled. That was strange enough, but then he approached the counter, for all intents and purposes looking like he wanted to order something. Or worse: chat. "You must be John Doe," he said cordially, like he was greeting an old friend.

 

"Er, yeah, that's me. And you're Doctor…?" John said dully, trying to remember the doctor's name. Something with a 'D', he thought. Devon? Douglas?

 

"Dustin," the man offered, doing his best not to show offendse that his name had been forgotten.

 

That's right. Dustin. "Sorry," John offered, not sorry at all. "Slipped my mind."

 

"I suppose you've yet to overcome your amnesia yet, then," Dustin said with a disappointed sigh. "It's quite normal, I assure you. Though studies have shown the longer you go without remembering, the less likely it is that you will  remember."

 

John wanted to point out how funny it was how much someone who "didn't specialize in Brain Trauma" was versed in the latest amnesia studies, but doing so would mean prolonging this already unwelcome experience. "Right," John said instead. "What brings you here?"

 

Dustin deflated a bit. "I got a call for Loretta Moretti this morning."

 

"I thought chemo day was Tuesday." In fact, John knew chemo day was on Tuesdays.

 

"She's taken a bit of a turn, I'm afraid," Dustin whispered, loudly enough that anyone in the cafe could have heard it should they care to. "I'm not sure whether she'll pull through."

 

John was fairly certain sharing this information was technically a violation of patient confidentiality. His opinion on the doctor was certainly not showing signs of improving. "I thought she was doing better…"

 

"These things happen, I'm afraid," Dustin said with a sage nod of his head, speaking with the sensitivity of dealing with a sick rabbit rather than a dying wife and mother. "One week, you're doing better, the next, it's all over."

 

"You shouldn't give up on her yet," John said harshly. He hadn't needed a refresher on exactly why he disliked this particular man, but here it was.

 

Dustin shrugged. "It's not for me to decide, one way or the other." He ran a hand through his brown salt-and-pepper hair. "Do you think I could get a cuppa? Your boss said it's on the house. Decaf, no room."

 

What a waste of a free drink. Their decaf wasn't even good. It was an enormous pain in the arse to make, though.

 

John thought of a wide range of uncharitable things he could call the doctor. It made him feel a bit better. He didn't bother to ask whether Dustin wanted his coffee in a mug or paper cup. The Doctor was obviously ancy to leave, glancing over at the stairs at regular intervals, as though concerned an explosion were waiting to go off. He didn't want the man to have an excuse to stick around making small talk about 'the latest in amnesia studies', anyway.

 

Dustin stuffed a fiver in the tip jar, said goodbye, and swept out of the shop like he'd never been there. Good riddance, as far as John was concerned.

 

The bells signaling the doctors departure had only just stopped ringing when the door swung open again, followed by a shrill cry of, “John Doe-Sometimes-Stag!”

 

Hello, strange occurrence number three. There stood Mrs.Frond, an expression of unmasked horror on her face. She walked slowly to the counter, as though certain doom waited her there. Maybe Phyllis had gotten to her with her proselytizing about carcinogenic coffee aromas.

 

"Mrs.Frond," he said with a careful smile when she stopped her march to the counter. It was rare that she came to Cosmic Latte to see him. It was rare that she came at all. He could count on one hand the number of such occurrences on one hand. “What brings you by today?”

 

Her pale eyes widened, no doubt at the horror that was her purpose here. A dire prediction, then. That was the only thing that brought her to Cosmic Latte. She thought 'Nigel' worked there, and came only to deliver the newest signs of the apocalypse she'd "seen". He didn't know what happened to the real Nigel, but John often wondered if Mrs.Frond blamed herself for it. She often lamented that Nigel never took her warnings seriously. Perhaps it had lead to his demise. For Mrs. Frond's sake, John hoped not. Whatever the case, something compelled her to share her visions of ruination with Nigel—or rather, John.

 

Today, however, seemed different; she addressed John as himself, the usual mist of years long since past evaporated from her gaze. It was as electrifying as it was terrifying. “It's Friday the 13th, young man. I never leave the house on a 13th Friday.”

 

It wasn’t really friday the thirteenth, but that didn’t really matter. She thought it was, and yet she left the house anyway.

 

“Guess today's an anomaly for you too, then,” John said followed by a heavy sigh.

 

“I'm here to warn you, John Doe-Sometimes-Stag. You can’t stay here. Neither can Young Malfoy. Especially Young Malfoy. The Debt Collector comes tonight.”

 

He was speechless, completely at a loss as to how to respond. When she needed settling, he could fall into a role easily enough, be that of her son, her late husband, or John Doe-Sometimes-Stag. As usual, he didn't exactly understand what she was talking about. But somehow he felt like he ought to; that it was vital he understand. John's gut clenched with ice-cold terror. His fingers buzzed faintly. His head throbbed dully. It was just there, beyond his reach, the reason why he should know, why it was important, why she'd come here to tell him this now—

 

A shattering noise distracted him from thinking of an adequate reply, and he wrenched his eyes away from Mrs. Frond to the source of the noise. On the ground was Draco’s green mug, shattered.

 

With a horrible sense of foreboding, he crouched down to inspect, to gather the pieces. It was in three, four, five large pieces. It’s salvageable, he thought, with enough glue…

 

It was just a mug, but…it was Draco's mug.

 

He winced when one of the shards sliced his finger down the side. The blood drop pooled at his knuckle until the weight of it became too much and it rolled down into his palm, like a red stream. He stared at it, transfixed. He knew he should probably clean it off; it was a health hazard, blood around food. But the mug was broken, and Mrs. Frond was here, and Loretta Moretti was dying, and Draco was writing a letter…

 

There was a first aid kit somewhere, but he didn’t know where. In all his time at Cosmic Latte, he’d never needed it.

 

He put the shards in his pocket; he could deal with them later. "Mrs. Frond…" he said, addressing her directly. "I can't just…leave.  I have a job here, and—"

 

"You cannot stay!" She repeated, face paler than normal. She grabbed his wrist with more strength than he believed she possessed and pressed a golden dragonfly brooch into his blood-covered hand. He suppressed a wince as one of the metal wings brushed against his sliced finger. “This will help you understand. I certainly can't use it anymore. It's been my pleasure to know you, John. But your need is greater than mine.” Considering how important she claimed it was, she didn't seem to mind that it was getting John's blood all over it. He really did need to find that first-aid kit. 

 

“…what are you saying?" he asked, trying to force down the panic levels that were rising alongside the ever-growing dread in the pit of his stomach. "Are you unwell?”

 

“I'm the same as I've ever been, but I fear I’m at the end of my chain.” She looked around the coffee shop, eyes scanning for invisible enemies. She looked back at John, and with all the gravitas of an oracle at Delphi, repeated: "The debt collector comes tonight."

 

John shivered. Hearing her prophecy a second time did nothing to calm his nerves. This wasn't the first time she'd made a dire prediction, but it was the first time she'd made one to John, naming herself as the victim of Misfortune. He had the sinking sense of horror that this time, she meant it.

 

At the very least, he didn't want to find out what it would mean to ignore her. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispered, not caring if he sounded pathetic.

 

She clasped his hand—the unbloodied one—tightly. It felt like goodbye. “You have to let me go. I've been your anchor, but it's time to set sail, John.”

 

Squeezing her hand back, he said, “…can you call me Harry? It's a privilege for my dearest friends.”

 

She smiled warmly at him, eyes misty with tears rather than dementia. “John never did suit you. Be well, Harry. Don't worry about me. I've made my choice, and I'm at peace.” With those final cryptic words, she floated out of the shop, humming that strange nostalgic song she always did when she went to fix herself some tea.

 

John took a shaky breath. Hopefully she didn't mean anything by this, and there was nothing to worry about. He excelled at denial, after all.

 

John examined the brooch in his hand, frowning. It really was quite ugly, not that he was any kind of expert on insect brooches. The eyes were inset with green jewels that could have been emeralds, but could just as easily have been peridot or some other green stone. He felt an uncomfortable kinship with it, what with the green eyes. There was something peculiar about it, captivating, and he couldn’t look away…

 

His hand tingled, vibrated, hummed, like a whisper breathing out around the brooch, spreading from his fingers down to his toes like the wings were not metal, but alive. His head throbbed, and as he blinked back tears, clutching the brooch until it hurt, the meaning of Mrs.Frond’s words struck him. “Oh. Well, shit.” 

 

---

 

Of the things Draco might have expected to see upon walking up to Cosmic Latte, seeing Harry in the midst of a furious row with a petite brunette woman did not even rank in the top three. Not that he had a list, per se. But it was so shocking that all he could do was stand there and watch. Neither Harry nor the woman took notice of him.

 

"His wife is dying!" Harry said with all the intensity of the Dark-Lord-Destroyer he was. "The least you could do is close the shop for the weekend!"

 

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She sneered. Harry's conviction seemed to have no power over her. Her voice wasn’t unpleasant, even if it lacked the usual lilting quality Draco associated with this part of England. She almost sounded posh, but it wasn’t natural, as though she'd studied and adopted it later in life.

 

"Yes, I would, and so would he! But you know, we could prevent all this if you'd just—"

 

"Oh, so I'm to blame in this?"

 

"Kind of, actually!"

 

She looked genuinely surprised to hear that. “Did you remember, then?” It struck Draco as a somewhat strange question in the context of everything, but he didn't actually know  what the context was, let alone have the chance to analyze it now.

 

“I intend to,” Harry said, eyes gleaming defiantly. “And I won't if I stick around here.” He folded his arms crossly, glaring at her. 

 

"John, you don't understand, you—"

 

Harry interrupted her. "Don't call me that,"  he spat. “That's the name of someone who doesn't know who he is.”

 

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. “If you don't like the name John, we can call you something else. Whatever you’d like me to call you.”

 

“I'd like for you to never call me anything ever again.” The anxiety in Draco’s chest snarled angrily.

 

She didn’t bother to conceal her impatience. “There's no need to be cruel.”

 

His expression darkened, jaw tightening. It was like staring down an angry lion. Draco wasn't sure how she managed not to flinch. "You're one to talk."

 

"John—"

 

“He told you not to call him that,” Draco cut in, unable to just sit there and watch any longer.

 

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to him, one furious and the other relieved. She had long, wavy black hair, frizzing in the morning mist like a failed straightening charm. Her black eyes had a tinge of brown that might have been warm on someone else, but on her the color looked more like dried blood. She was dressed elegantly but comfortably in a long, black linen skirt that fell just past her knees, paired with a black jumper and black nylons.

 

He'd never seen her before, but he knew exactly who she was.

 

“You must be Queenie.”

 

“You," she glowered. "This is all your fault, Draco Malfoy. You should've left while you had the chance.”

 

Draco was not entirely comfortable with the fact that she knew exactly who he was, but perhaps it shouldn't have surprised him. He was, in a roundabout way, living in her house.

 

“We intend to do just that,” Harry interjected, walking over to join Draco at his side.

 

Her beady eyes darted back and forth between the both of them before finally settling on Draco. “I don't know what ideas you've poisoned his mind with—"

 

“He hasn't poisoned my mind. That’s your specialty, I think.”

 

She gnashed her teeth angrily, but her tone was calm. “If this is about me being skeptical about you opening that Inn—"

 

“It's not about the inn, and you know it.”

 

Draco was keenly aware once again that there was some larger context he was missing here. If he didn’t know better, he’d say this was Auror Potter speaking to a suspect.

 

Harry and Queenie stared coldly at each other, a silent battle of wills raging on. The tension was heavy and almost visible; Draco didn't dare speak, lest he disturb the palpable something hanging in the air.

 

At last, Queenie's face turned feral, like a dog backed into a corner. “Fine! Be my guest. Try to leave," she snarled. "See how well that  goes for you. You'll come crawling back soon enough, begging for a second chance. Don't say I didn't warn you.”

 

“Funny, the only one I see begging here is you.” Harry was colder than Draco had seen him in a long time, but he had the feeling Queenie deserved it, if not for whatever had set off this particular tiff, then for everything else she'd done recently.

 

She scoffed and stormed off, slamming the door to Cosmic behind her.

 

Harry and Draco shared a look of disquiet, for similar but ultimately vastly different reasons. Harry gave Draco a wry smile. “Well, I guess I can’t count on her for a good work reference, then.”

 

Draco chuckled and squeezed Harry’s shoulder, but he didn’t really see any humor in the situation. Her parting words were held an odd quality to them, like a premonition or a curse. It wasn’t really  a curse, of course; Draco could’ve stopped that.

 

He felt a heavy sense of foreboding nonetheless, and hoped he was wrong.

 

“What was all that about?” Draco asked tentatively. He didn't want to jump to conclusions, but he was fairly sure Harry had just quit his job. Which, on one hand, was fabulous. But the timing left much to be desired.

 

Harry gave him a funny look. Analyzing, considering. "Nothing you need to worry about. Did you get your letter sent?"

 

That was not a natural transition at all, Draco decided. There was a hunted look in Harry's eye, and Draco most certainly did not have a good feeling about any of this. "I did. I nearly missed the post officer, I had to run after him with my letter. But it's sent now."

 

"Good," Harry said. It didn't sound like he thought it was good at all. He jerked his head toward the street and started off towards his flat. He seemed more distant than normal, and Draco didn't like it one bit. Then again, whenever something bad happened with Queenie, it put Harry in a mood. Still…

 

The back of his neck tingled with apprehension, but Draco ignored it as best he could. There was something…off about this situation. He had a gut feeling, though his gut was twisting itself into knots with anxiety at the moment, so perhaps it wasn't to be trusted. Draco was of the opinion that he ought to encourage any desire Harry had to spend less time at Cosmic Latte, but this was so abrupt. "It sounded like you were telling Queenie that you're leaving."

 

"I am," Harry said evenly. "We are."

 

There was a beat of silence while Draco waited for Harry to say something else, but when he didn't, Draco realized he was serious.  “…er, what?” 

 

“I walked out. I'm starting to think Phyllis was right about coffee fumes. At least, the ones at Cosmic Latte.”

 

“You just…walked out?” Draco asked, squeezing his hands together to stop him from reaching out and shaking Harry. Why today, of all days?

 

Harry beamed at Draco. “You’re damn right I did. Oh, that reminds me,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out Draco's green mug. "I nicked this for you."

 

Draco stopped walking, yanking on Harry's arm. So much for keeping his hands to himself. He glared indignantly. "You stole it?"

 

"It was broken," Harry said with a shrug. "I fixed it, and no one else uses it, anyway. I didn't think it was a good idea to leave behind anything closely attached to you. I probably should have done something with the sofa as well, but…well. You aren't the only one who sits there, so it should be alright."

 

"It was broken?" Draco repeated. He examined the cup carefully; it was most certainly not broken.

 

"It was, and I fixed it."

 

"How?"

 

Harry ignored him, starting anew his frenzied march to the flat.

 

"Harry, please talk to me, what's going on here?" 

 

"Well, I'm not entirely sure to be perfectly honest, the details are fuzzy on what she can do, but I don't want to leave behind anything she might use," Harry explained, with a negligent hand wave. "Not that she wants to keep you here. But she might do it out of spite."

 

"Was any of that supposed to make sense?" Draco mumbled. This all seemed very rushed to him, and while the results weren’t necessarily bad, it left him feeling off-balance. Something in the back of his mind was screaming at him to pay attention , for something was very wrong here.

 

"Not yet," Harry said cryptically. There was some massive realization just on the edge of his periphery, Draco was certain. If he could just have a moment to analyze, he knew he'd get there, but everything was happening all at once. He hadn't even had a latte today.

 

"But…we can't leave now!" Draco said, tone imploring. He knew he sounded petulant, but he was getting a little desperate. He'd just sent that bloody letter! Not to mention what would happen  to them if they walked across the wards—

 

“We have to get out of here,” Harry said resolutely. "Today."

 

Draco swallowed, throat thick, and all but forced himself to say, “But why? What made you decide that now?”

 

Harry smiled at him, but it was tight. Worried.“You did. You helped me decide. And it's Friday the 13th,” Harry shrugged as though that explained everything, though it most certainly did not. It was not Friday the 13th, or Friday at all. It was Saturday the 25th, just as he’d written on the letter. Merlin, Granger was going to think he’d gone mad, if she got his letter and they weren't even here! And when she saw Harry again, she'd wonder why he'd sent that letter to her parents. And he wouldn't even be able to tell her why! She’d never forgive him now, he was sure of it.

 

Oblivious to his inner turmoil, Harry explained,“ Mrs.Frond came in to Cosmic with a most dire warning for me, and I’ve decided to heed her advice.”

 

"Mrs. Frond?" Draco repeated dully. "What warning?"

 

Harry ignored him again. Or perhaps he hadn't heard him, since they'd arrived at Harry's flat and he was busying himself with getting the door unlocked. After a short struggle with his keys, Harry mumbled 'sod it all' and stuffed them in his pocket. He placed his hand on the doorknob and just…jiggled it open. “Magic,” he said brilliantly, and now Draco was wondering whether Harry had, unconsciously, used a spell to unlock the door. “Works every time.”

 

"Harry," Draco said cautiously as they entered the flat. Harry flew into a flurry of activity, stuffing books and blankets into a bag that he'd seemingly summoned from nowhere. Draco recognized it absently as an Auror-issue bag, charmed with featherweight spells to prevent fatigue. "Have you…remembered something?"

 

Harry stilled for a moment, packing his WORLD’S BEST AMNESIAC mug in his backpack. "Like what?"

 

"Oh, I don't know, like…Quidditch?" Harry was facing away from him, so Draco couldn't see his face, but the word didn't seem to get a reaction. "Or Shacklebolt?"

 

"That's a wicked name," he advised, disappearing into the bedroom. Draco heard the sibilant tones of parseltongue floating through the air. "Is Poppet in some place safe?” he called out to Draco over the sounds of rummaging in his closet.

 

Draco patted his pocket, where the tiny owl was snoozing. “He's safe, yes.”

 

“Good," Harry responded, sounding genuinely relieved. He emerged a short time later from the bedroom with Beatrix around his neck and his bag—now full to bursting—dangling from his shoulder. He’d changed clothing, now sporting a dark red jacket Draco recognized as the ‘muggle approved’ version of the auror uniform.

 

"What are you wearing?" Draco asked, halfway between amused and alarmed.

 

"My uniform," Harry said defensively.

 

He stared at Harry, almost certain now that he'd remembered something. "You're acting very strangely," he said at last.

 

"I've always been a bit of a tosser, I imagine." He hiked his bag up on his shoulder and crossed the room to Draco, though he was carefully not meeting his gaze. "Have you got everything packed up then?"

 

"Yes," Draco said sardonically, "it's all shrunk down and stuffed into my pocket."

 

"Good," Harry said for the third time that day, not at all questioning Draco's logic. It was, in fact, true. All his things were shrunk down and stuffed in his pocket. But as for why Harry wasn't questioning it…

 

Draco grabbed his arm again, forcing Harry to look at him. "Harry, please tell me what's going on," he pleaded. "Why must we leave right now? You don't have to go back to the shop, we don't even have to stay in town, but…I don't understand. I'm not sure if this will make sense to you, but…everything Mrs.Frond told me, I don't think we can leave."

 

"What did she tell you?" Harry asked, tone neutral. He certainly didn't sound surprised that Mrs.Frond had conveyed some matter of important intel to him.

 

Draco glanced at his feet, as though the answers might be written there. All the warnings Mrs. Frond had given him made it seem that leaving Gleyma was no ‘simple’ matter. Better to cut your losses and leave before it starts taking pieces of you, while you still can…there are no graves in Gleyma…

 

Draco shivered. "I think that if there's something you know and you're not sharing, I deserve to know about it before we go back out there. Back out into…there's bad things in the woods, Harry."

 

"I know," he said, finally looking at Draco. His expression was guarded, but Draco felt that pit of despair in his stomach get a little deeper. "Do you trust me?"

 

"I'd like to, but you aren't telling me anything!" Draco said crossly throwing his arms up in the air and averting his gaze. The truth was, he did trust Harry, in the ways that mattered. He trusted him to do the right thing, and such. But right now…right now he felt like they were back to where they'd been two weeks ago. Cageyness and secrets. Draco was keeping secrets, too, but he was doing it to protect Harry. Maybe Harry was doing the same in his own way, but… "Do you know what this is?" he pulled out his wand, balancing it on his palms in a neutral presentation.

 

Harry stared at it, eyes blown wide. He swallowed, face making a pained expression. "Yes."

 

It was an odd sensation, being both relieved and terrified at the same time. "Then—"

 

"I haven't remembered everything," Harry interrupted, turning away from Draco and his wand, which still rested on his palms. "But staying here isn't an option. We have to get out of Gleyma. Now. ”

 

Draco’s pulse spiked in panic. They couldn’t leave now.  Not yet, anyway. What had Mrs.Frond say that made him decide today was the day to leave? He hadn’t even wanted to talk about leaving before, and now he was all but running towards that end. “Why now?” he said, and before he could stop himself added, "I won't leave until you explain." He’d just sent the letter, and the wards hadn’t been taken down yet, if they left, they’d forget everything, and then where would they be?

 

"Malf—Drac—ugh, fuck this is confusing," Harry hissed under his breath. He pinched the bridge of his nose, and Draco tried to ignore the pang of hurt that he was back to being 'Malfoy' again. "We really don't have time for you to be dramatic right now."

 

"I'm dramatic? You're the one who just…up and quit his job, and is insisting we leave immediately, and has remembered enough but won't explain anything!"

 

Harry sighed. "Fine. We'll walk and talk, but it's all…scattered right now."

 

Draco figured that was the best he was going to get. "Merlin, you're stubborn. Your head isn't hurting, is it?" If Harry were remembering, where was the splitting headache? The agony? "Do you know what will happen if we leave?"

 

"Yes," Harry answered readily, pushing Draco steadily out the door. He didn't lock it behind him. "And it is preferable to staying."

 

"Even if…you forget everything?"

 

"Forgetting isn't so bad," Harry said easily, releasing Draco and walking towards the woods. "It's remembering that's the trick."

 

Draco hurried to catch up with him, the pace he set brutal. "Do you have a trick for that, then?"

 

"I happen to know someone who is very good at making people remember," he said evasively. 

 

Granger,  Draco filled in mentally. "Your future Minister for Magic friend, I assume? I sent her a letter, you know. So we can wait here for her, and get everything sorted out. Without having to lose our memories."

 

"I knew that letter wasn't for your mother," Harry mumbled under her breath. "I can't believe you sent a muggle letter. You do know it takes a few days to arrive, don't you?"

 

"I know that," Draco said hotly. "It should arrive…Monday?"

 

"Try Wednesday. At the earliest." Harry whacked a low hanging branch out of the way with a bit more force than was necessary.

 

Rather than admit he'd vastly overestimated the speed of muggle communication, Draco said, "So why can't we stay here until Wednesday?"

 

"We just can't. It will—something is coming. Tonight. So it has to be today." Harry charged ahead with newly revived determination.

 

Draco felt ill. "What's coming? You promised to talk. So start talking."

 

Harry huffed, likely annoyed at being bossed around, but Draco didn't have the patience to care. "How much about this…situation, are you aware of?"

 

"I know about the Net that's sucking everyone's memories away. And there are dementors here, apparently. As well as Amos Diggory's mother. None of that explains how you ended up here, or why we have to leave immediately. Especially since we're likely to forget everything once we leave!"

 

"And you'd like to remember?"

 

"They're my memories, Potter," Draco sneered. He didn't really want to sneer, nor did he want to call Harry by that old worn moniker, but since he was apparently back to being 'Malfoy' now, and since Harry seemed to doubt that he'd care to remember their…whatever together—

 

"I didn't mean—" Harry interrupted Draco's thoughts, sighing heavily. "Look, Draco, I didn't mean to upset you. Of course they're your memories. I don't want to forget, either," he added, shooting Draco a sincere look. "Only, even if we forget, we can become friends again. But if we stay…"

 

Friends. It stung, a bit. They were friends, Draco felt secure in that. But not just friends.

 

"What, we'll turn into dementors? Or worse—gossiping old birds?"

 

Maybe friendship was all they could have beyond Gleyma. Draco tried not to let that be disappointing. He'd always wanted to be friends with Harry Potter, after all. 

 

Harry glared at him. "There's a very real chance we'd have to stay forever."

 

"What is this, Brigadoon?" Draco mumbled, choosing not to comment on the fact that he was back to being 'Draco' again. If he didn't know Harry was too sanctimonious to resort to manipulation, he'd suspect he was being 'softened up' for something. "Why won't we be able to leave later? And what about you? You've been here much longer than I have."

 

"It's complicated, and I'm still…missing some pieces up here." He tapped his head. Harry didn’t say anything for a moment, considering. “There’s a saying people repeat here. ‘Gleyma requires sacrifices of us all.’”

 

“That’s incredibly disconcerting.”

 

"Then you understand why I'm so keen on leaving."

 

It was eerily quiet as they wound through the woods; the fog that’d rolled in around noon gave the quality that they were in an enormous room sealed off from the world rather than a seatown surrounded by forest. Draco desperately hoped they wouldn’t encounter more dementors, and the only thought that comforted him was that they were headed in the opposite direction of the last place he’d seen them. And that Harry could dispatch them much more easily in this state, even if he were only semi-lucid.

 

They walked along the almost-familiar path and arrived at the Bonfire Pit, much more quickly than Draco remembered it taking the first time they'd been there. They did not stop there, however, except for Harry to give Draco a speculative look. "You didn't really hide your stuff out here, did you."

 

"No," Draco admitted. Draco had almost forgotten about that particular lie. Draco still had a bad feeling about this, still wasn’t sure this was the right course of action. “Harry,” he began, pausing to think of a better way of phrasing it, but he came up empty. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

 

Harry looked back at him like he’d gone round the twist. “Have you got a better one?"

 

“Well,” Draco began, thinking quickly, “We don’t have to go back in to town,” he added quickly at Harry's panicked expression. “We could just…camp. Right here. I have a tent, you know.”

 

Harry smiled wanly. "The runes might protect us, but I don't know what they actually say. I don't really want to take any chances."

 

"How did you remember?" he asked quietly. Something about the forest demanded it, the fog around them like oppressive walls.

 

"I haven't remembered everything," Harry repeated quietly. "Just enough to know I needed to act."

 

"But how?" He looked down, noticing for the first time that Harry's was bandaged up. He reached for it, touching it lightly. Blood seeped through the plaster. “What happened there?”

 

“Oh,” Harry turned back to face Draco, grimacing a bit, “I had an accident at work. It was a bit fortunate, though, as accidents go.”

 

"Harry," Draco began, taking a deep breath to steady himself, "How did you remember?" Draco wouldn't let this go unanswered. He needed to know. He needed…

 

"I had a bit of help." Harry pulled a brooch out of his pocket. It was gold, dragonfly shaped. "Do you know what this is?"

 

"Octogenarian jewellery?"

 

Harry chuckled and handed the brooch over for inspection. "You're not wrong. It is old. Ancient, I reckon. A charmed amulet."

 

Draco examined the brooch and gasped softly as realization dawned. It was an anti-curse charm, specifically to ward off obliviate, confundus, and other mind-altering hexes. Now that he knew to look for it, he could see the softly glowing protective magic. "Where did you get this?" he marveled.

 

“Where else? Mrs. Frond.”

 

"That little minx," he said fondly, handing it back to Harry. "I didn't get to say goodbye to her…"

 

"She's the one who told me we both needed to leave. I think she'd be upset if we stayed to say goodbye."

 

They carried on, leaving the safety of the bonfire pit, all the while Draco desperately tried to think of reasons to stay. It was rather uncomfortable, being put in such a position. Leaving Gleyma was for the best, of course, but leaving in the right way was just as important. Then again…was he just being selfish? Wanting Harry to remember everything about their time in Gleyma together? If they left, they'd both forget, but…they'd be safer. Harry would remember everything about who he was—who'd he'd been before, anyway, at the cost of John Doe, Sometimes Stag. But surely if they'd managed to become friends and something more once, they could do it again, right? Harry said they could.

 

Don't be selfish, Draco told himself. If you’ve done it once, you can do it again.

 

He swallowed thickly, and convinced himself it was true. Unable to help himself, he reached out and grabbed Harry's hand, threading their fingers together. Harry looked surprised, but smiled at Draco warmly, giving his hand a squeeze. He hadn't been sure if he'd be allowed to do this, still, since Harry was…going through a re-identity crisis, or something. Harry didn't mind holding Draco's hand. Harry Potter, by contrast…well, it was unclear. Regardless, Draco cherished it, knowing now might be the only time he could do so, if he forgot everything…if Harry forgot…he might never look at Draco this way again. And Draco would be none the wiser.

 

Don’t be selfish, he told himself again, for all the good that it did. He was a selfish person at heart.

 

Harry stopped abruptly and swore loudly, dropping Draco’s hand. “Ah, fuck. Merlin's sagging balls.”

 

"Are you alright?" Draco asked, stepping in front of him. "Is it your head…?"

 

Harry rubbed his temples, eyes closed. “We’re there.”

 

Draco took a step towards Harry, putting an uncertain hand on his shoulder. “Where?”

 

“The border,” Harry replied. The silence between them was heavy, and Draco hardly dared breathe for a moment.

 

“How do you know?” He whispered.

 

Instead of giving him a real answer, Harry said, “I considered leaving it behind before, you know. A few times. I never got past this point.” He sighed as though utterly disgusted with himself and looked back towards Gleyma.

 

"Well, I'm here now. I'll help you." Draco wasn't as sure as he made himself sound, but he wanted to believe it. And he certainly intended to help to the best of his abilities.

 

Harry stopped rubbing his temples, fixing Draco with that green, unyielding stare. “It’s what’s in Gleyma that I couldn't leave behind. Then all of this would have been…pointless.”

 

"You mean…the reason you came here?"

 

Harry nodded. "Even when I couldn't remember, I knew it was important. Personally and…professionally, I suppose."

 

Draco didn't respond, giving Harry time to speak. It seemed he needed it, for whatever reason.

 

"It all goes back to third year, really. Not that I realized it at the start of all this."

 

A tiny smile formed on Harry’s lips. He reached a hand towards Draco, but hesitated and pulled it back. That hesitation hurt Draco more than he would have admitted to anyone had they asked, but there it was. “I never thought it would be you, you know. Maybe I should have. Your face is stitched into my sitting room wall. It's not a very good likeness, to be honest.”

 

Draco was struck with the impression that he and Harry were having two very different conversations right now. “I still have no idea what you're talking about,” he managed. He didn't know what else to say in this situation, let alone think about it all. "You can touch me, you know. I know it might be…different for you now, since you remember everything about our…difficult past. But I've known who you are from the beginning. And I don't mind."

 

As if permission were all he needed, Harry grabbed Draco’s hands gently, then dragged him into a hug. They sat there quietly together. Draco didn’t have many hugs to compare it to, but he didn’t think they should feel so hopeless. All Harry's drive to leave seemed to have evaporated, but Draco didn't mind. Harry pulled away from Draco and gazed into his eyes, placing his bandaged hand on Draco's cheek, brushing his cheekbone with his thumb.

 

"You really don't mind?"

 

Draco's cheeks flushed, but it didn't feel terrible. Vulnerable, yes, but in a good way, maybe. "Don't make me say it again, Potter. Once was embarrassing enough."

 

Harry chuckled, eyes crinkling up at the corners. Merlin, what this man did to Draco. “I don’t want to forget,” Harry said, leaning his head on Draco’s shoulder. There was nothing wrong with the words, not really, but that sense of foreboding was stronger than ever.  

 

"I don't either," Draco said quietly. "I don't want to forget this." Then, because he could only handle being maudlin for so long, he added, "Granger is going to murder me for sending her that letter. I won't even be able to defend myself, since I won't remember."

 

Harry made a strange noise in the back of his throat. "You might. I believe in you. And even if you don't, Hermione is more forgiving than you think."

 

"Are you certain you won't hex me when we turn up next to each other, memories wiped and very confused?"

 

He felt rather than saw Harry’s smile. He’d have preferred to see it. "I'm not as hex-happy as I was in sixth year," he replied. "I am sorry about that, by the way. I'll give you a better apology later."

 

Draco's mouth felt very dry. This was not at all how he'd imagined leaving Gleyma. Or having this conversation. "Alright."

 

"How do I know you won't hex me upon sight on the other side?" Harry asked, quirking his eyebrow at Draco in a way that was distinctly Malfoy. 

 

"I'll tell you on the other side."

 

Harry glared fondly at him, then asked, “Did you get what you came for here?”

 

Draco wasn't quite sure where Harry was going with this, but when had Harry Potter ever made sense? “I think I rather got more than I came for.”

 

“Good. This is the edge of Gleyma’s wards.” He nodded his head to some invisible line behind Draco. “I doubt we’ll be about to come back once we leave.”

 

“Why would we want to?” Draco scoffed.

 

“Why indeed.” There was a far-off look in Harry’s eye, and Draco didn’t like it at all. That feeling that Something was dreadfully wrong that he'd been trying to ignore was back in full force. 

 

“Did you get what you came here for?” Draco asked, realizing that finally, he could get some much-needed answers. Especially since the answers might be lost the second they cross over.

 

“I’ll tell you on the other side,” Harry echoed, a mysterious smile ghosting his lips. He sighed, and Draco was about to ask him what he was sighing about now, when Harry tugged Draco into a deep, desperate kiss. He didn't ask this time, which was different, and even though Draco had said he didn't need to ask, alarm bells were going off in Draco’s mind. Even though the kiss was everything he’d ever wanted. Harry Potter, willingly kissing him, about to include him in one of those grand adventures he was always having that Draco had always envied.

 

But it was wrong, somehow, and Draco knew it. A weight dropped into his pocket, a clinking sound like metal on glass, but before he could process that thought, Harry broke away, putting a tender hand on Draco’s face. “Draco Malfoy. It just had to be you, didn’t it? I wish there was time for more.

 

“If you remember," Harry paused to kiss Draco on the hand, "don't come back for me."

 

Time slowed down, enough that Draco had a terrifyingly clear picture of what was about to happen a second before it did, not that it mattered. He was powerless to stop it. Harry gave him one last heartbreaking smile, and pushed him. As he fell, Draco thought he heard Harry say something to him, and he was desperate to hear it again, to grab on to Harry; furious as well, but there was a rush of air and flash of cold, and he was falling, falling,—

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

.

 

Draco blinked. He was in a forest, lying in a grove of ash trees. That was odd. What was he doing on the ground? He sat up, brushing the dead leaves from his hair, and took in his surroundings. It was sunny here, but cold. There was a sea breeze rustling the trees around him, and he could hear the distant crashing of waves. It smelled of pine and decaying leaves and salt.

 

How did he get here? He couldn't for the life of him remember. In fact, where was here? He sat there for a good minute, trying to recall the details of the previous day. Given the position of the sun, he was somewhere in the west, on the coast…That’s right. Exmoor. He was in Exmoor. He smiled, pleased at having puzzled out that  mystery. He must have been on a walk here. It was meant to be a lovely place to take a walk. It was so close to the Manor, and yet he'd never been before. Perhaps he'd gotten drunk the night before and decided to rectify that?

 

He took quick stock of his body parts. Nothing had been splinched, to his relief. But it seemed too late in the day to only just be waking up. Alcohol always woke him early, with a dry mouth and a headache. He did have a bit of a headache, come to think of it, but that might be from his apparent fall onto the ground. Merlin, did he knock himself out by falling? It was too embarrassing to even consider. He quickly dismissed the thought. Even if it had happened—which it hadn't, but if it had—there was no one around to say otherwise.

 

Having decided he'd spent quite enough time on the ground for one day, he stood up, swaying slightly on his feet. Good grief, he was certainly in a state, wasn't he? He ought to be getting back to the Manor, but he'd gone to the trouble of coming here, hadn't he? Perhaps he ought to walk around a bit more. It was quite beautiful…

 

So decided, he took a step forward with every intention of carrying on, but something gave him pause him. Frowning, he looked back over his shoulder. There was nothing there except for more forest, and though it was a bit gloomier looking somehow, it was more or less exactly the same as what was before him. He didn't know why, but he had the feeling that what was behind him was rather unpleasant indeed. No matter; he was walking South, and South was where he’d continue. He turned back to continue on his way…but then, why was he walking around Exmoor?

 

He stood there and had himself another good think, when it came to him at last: that was right, he was looking for potions ingredients. Did he get them?

 

A quick check in his sack revealed he had, indeed, already collected ingredients. It looked like Fog Moss, and somehow he’d managed to collect an impressive amount. Blaise and Longbottom would be pleased. But then…where had he collected it from? He couldn't recall finding any, much less an impressive haul like this, but there it was, ecidently, in his bag.

 

Merlin and Salazar both, how much did he drink last night? He couldn't remember...well. Drinking at all. Perhaps someone slipped him some forgetfulness potion in a latte. But why would they do that? The most valuable thing with him were the plants. And he still had the plants, did he not? Besides, forgetfulness potion tasted like figs, and he was fairly sure he’d have noticed if his latte had tasted like figs…

 

Well, there was nothing for it. He’d have to catalogue his things to ensure nothing else was stolen.

 

He spent ten minutes taking inventory of all his items, being as thorough as he knew to be. He didn’t find he’d forgotten anything, but there were some…oddities. His tent was damaged, first of all, which was annoying even if it was simple to fix. The thing was, he’d never be so careless, which meant someone  else  must have done it. More inexplicably, he’d acquired several extra items, namely: a gaudy dragonfly brooch with some sort of charm worked into it; several letters addressed to one ‘John Doe’; a blue orchid that was in dire need of some water; a tiny, snoozing owl. A phial of a silvery mass of memories; And most puzzling of all: a wand that was not  his, and an unsigned a note that read, simply: Thank you, and I’m sorry. These are safer with you.

 

Well. This was all rather annoying, he thought. He’d have to sort all this out later. He knew from personal experience the discomfort of losing a wand. Perhaps it belonged to whomever was responsible for his lack of memories. Or, could it be the vial contained his memories?

 

He pulled at the stopper, but it wouldn't come loose. Must be charmed to open only for the memory holder, then, he decided. There were workarounds for that in his lab at the manor, were he so inclined. He'd always enjoyed a good challenge.

 

No matter. More important things needed to be addressed at the moment. The owl, for starters.

 

“Where’d you come from, poppet?” he cooed at it. It hooted back in its sleep, but showed no signs of waking. He shrugged. No use hanging around here, then, was there?

 

He was about to apparate away when something tugged at him. Stay, it pleaded. You can't leave yet!

 

Odd. He didn't want to stay here, in particular.

 

But there it was again, that nagging sense of something just beyond reach…ah, well. Whatever he’d forgotten, he could always replace it.

 

His heart panged at the thought of replacing it, crying 'some things can’t be replaced! Go back!'  There was no reason he could think of to go back, but…his intuition hadn’t let him astray thus far. So even though it didn't make sense, and even though he rarely did things without good reason or justification, he charmed a button with a tracking charm and buried it by an ash tree. For good measure, he conjured a green ribbon and tied it hidden among the branches. Just in case he forgot later which tree it was.

 

It seemed forgetting was something he’d struggled with recently.

 

Finally that pestering sense of the forgotten waned, but it didn't flee him completely. He felt distinctly uncomfortable and uneasy, but the best remedy for that, in his experience, was hot cocoa and a bath. Maybe he'd ask Slanket to add something different to the cocoa. Cinnamon, perhaps? No, that wasn't quite it…no matter. It would come to him later.

 

With one last look to the sun's afternoon light reflected on the sea, Draco turned on the spot and apparated home.

Notes:

I...am very sorry. But this story is not over yet! And I'll have you know that I am a big believer in happy endings. So...stay strong, it's not over til it's over! We've got a few chapters left!

(also real talk I have the highest respect for all medical professionals! Harry's just had worse medical experiences than most, amnesia or not)

if you want to chat on tumblr, find me @noir-renard

Chapter 13: Malfoy Means Bad Faith

Summary:

Draco tries to sort through his memories—or rather, the lack thereof.

Notes:

(warning: some slightly NSFW content herein)

Also: make sure you read the previous chapter! Ch 12 and Ch 13 were released very close together, you might have missed it!

Draco Malfoy was a miserable wretch. He was having a very bad week, indeed. The worst since the conclusion of the trials, and no, he was not just being melodramatic. Well, not overly so; an appreciation for the dramatic helped in times like these, he’d found.

 

It had all began when he'd woken up in that blasted forest in Exmoor, and it had only gone downhill from there. He should have known a little memory lapse wouldn’t be the end of it. When he’d arrived home, his mother had set upon him, hysterical, demanding he tell her where he’d been, what he’d been doing there, and why in Salazar’s name had all her owls been sent back? “Atlas returned nearly two weeks ago! And when you didn’t return with him, I didn’t know what to think. I've been worried sick.”

 

He’d thought her reaction strange at the time, yes. Of course he had. He had  remembered his ingredient foraging trip to the Bristol Coast (though only after she mentioned it), but his mother acted as though it had been a month since she’d last heard from him, yet he’d only been gone for a few days at most. When he’d realized he didn’t know what day it was, actually, he pulled out his pocketbook to confirm his mother was overreacting.

 

She wasn't, unfortunately. For upon opening said pocketbook and seeing what was written there, he’d promptly dropped the pocketbook. Something was very, very wrong. If anyone had asked him to guess the date, he would have said August 28th. He'd left home on the 23rd of August, and to his recollection it had not yet been a week.

 

But all dates in August were checked off. As was most of September.  He tried to believe he'd merely gotten drunk and decided to cross three weeks of dates off for a laugh. He wanted to believe it, and could have done, were it not for his mother’s reaction. And the fact that his pocketbook was charmed to cross itself off. And his own strange inability to recall anything since he'd said goodbye to his mother, including an out-of-character decision to get absolutely trollied for no reason whatsoever. If it weren't for those things, he just might have convinced himself.

 

In any case, he had not gotten drunk and crossed off all the dates, for a laugh or otherwise. And in his hands (or on the ground, as it were) was incontrovertible proof that he was missing a huge chunk of time, for the date was September 25th. It was almost October, but he couldn’t remember anything since he left Wiltshire for the coast nearly a month ago.

 

He’d needed to sit down after that.

 

His mother had pleaded with Draco to go to St.Mungo’s immediately when he'd described his state to her, but he’d refused. “They can’t be trusted to help us, mother, surely you know that.” They’d probably laugh, or call him a drunk, or say he’d accidentally ingested forgetfulness potion. Draco would have liked to believe that healers were duty bound to help whoever came through their doors, but that was just wishful thinking. He knew better.

 

Draco tried to beg off, claiming he just needed to rest, but his mother was determined to keep him in her sight until she'd satisfied herself in checking the state of his health. She made him sit and drink tea while she fussed over him, ran basic diagnostic charms, searched him for cursed objects. He was not cursed, and his health was fine (memory problems notwithstanding). She even made him drink a dose of the antidote to forgetfulness potion, just to be thorough. It did nothing for him but make him dizzy.

 

Reluctantly, Draco showed her the strange items he'd acquired at some point in the past month. She was particularly interested in the phial of memories, but it proved just as impossible for her to open as it had been for Draco. The charmed brooch and the ownerless wand also intrigued her, but short of taking the wand to Ollivander (a soundly terrible idea), they had little hope of identifying the owner. The brooch kept its secrets as well, though his mother determined it was not a dark object, at least.

 

When she exhausted her options for finding clues to what had happened to her son, his mother looked pale, frightened. Never weak—there was too much Black in her for weakness. But the war had taken much from everyone, and from his mother it had taken her peace of mind where Draco’s safety was concerned.

 

“I was so certain that this time, you weren’t coming back.” She spoke quietly, as though not entirely sure she wanted to admit it aloud.

 

“You didn’t file a missing person’s report, did you?” Dark humor and deflection were his go-to tools for dealing with the emotional honesty of others.

 

She sent him a quelling glare at that. If the Healers were unhelpful where Persons Malfoy were concerned, then the aurors were downright hostile. “I almost did, but I contacted Blaise first, and he assured me he had spoken with you recently.”

 

Like everything else, Draco did not remember this, but at least it was a start. She finally let him leave to get some rest when he promised he’d go see Blaise the next day.

 

———

 

In point of fact, Draco did not go to see Blaise the next day; instead he spent all of Sunday, Monday, and most of Tuesday in his room, leaving only for tea and meals with his mother. He read through his notes on experiments run during the past month (all failures) and research proposed (nothing promising). Even stranger than his work notes were the vague details he'd written in his pocketbook. On Tuesday the 14th, he’d written BWL: makes good lattes(???). On Sunday the 19th, he wrote down what appeared to be a recipe for lasagna.  In the margins, he wrote down: 'Reminder not to trust the little voice!!'. Inexplicably, the name AMOS DIGGORY was written on Thursday the 23rd, underlined and circled three times. He discovered his tent had been attacked on Wednesday the 22nd, which made him wonder why he had not repaired it sooner. Surely he hadn't been staying in a damaged tent? The Tent Day was unusual as well because it flashed shades of black and pink, indicating it had somehow been both a Very Good Day and a Disaster. He rarely used the ‘mood recording’ function of the pocketbook. Feelings were nothing but hindrances, and he certainly saw no reason to keep up with their fluctuations. He hardly acknowledged them at all, as much as he could help. But for some reason, Wednesday the 22nd of September had been such a day that he’d seen fit to record two highly contrasting emotions.

 

In any case, while his notes gave some insight to his forgotten days, he rather thought that it was what he hadn't written down that was more important. Merlin, what had he gotten up to on the coast? The only note of any use he’d discovered was: 'Hot Chocolate is better with Cinnamon and Cayenne'. He had Slanket make some for him to test past-Draco’s somewhat dubious notes, and it turned out to be true. It was an excellent addition, and he wondered why he’d never thought of it before.

 

Other useless details he’d written in margins were: 'archaeology?', 'P. Bathsheda?', and 'CONSPIRACY?'. It seemed past-Draco was only useful when it came to hot chocolate.

 

When searching through his notes didn’t provide the answers he hoped for, he tried sleeping. He had nightmares the first night, though he couldn’t remember what about, only that he awoke in the middle of the night to a very alarmed pygmy owl flapping and hooting around his room, and an apologetic house elf chasing the daft bird. “Slanket is very sorry, Master Draco! The feathered devil is not heeding Slanket’s call,” the inconsolable elf wailed. “Slanket is trying everything!”

 

“Nevermind, Slanket, I’ll deal with it. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

 

The elf nodded and disappeared with a suppressed cry of frustration, and all was quiet again. Well, quiet except for the incessant hooting of the tiny owl.

 

Draco was grateful for the end of the nightmares, in all honesty, though he was left with a haunted sense that they were important somehow. Eventually, he caught the bird, though he wasn’t able to calm it down much. “Where did you come from, poppet?” he’d asked it several times, but obviously it couldn’t respond. It did act like it knew him however, which wasn’t surprising as much as it was disturbing.

 

The owl’s response to Draco’s question was the same as always: a meaningful peck to Draco’s fingers.

 

“Ow, you daft thing! I’m trying to help you! Why don’t you go home to your real master already?”

 

The Daft Thing wriggled free and made itself at home on Draco’s headboard.

 

The second night, sleep had evaded him until sometime around 2 in the morning, when he nodded off to dreams of Harry Sodding Potter, much to his chagrin. They weren’t like his normal dreams of Potter—not that he’d ever admit even on pain of death that he regularly had dreams of the boy who sodding lived twice. But in said dreams he wasn’t acknowledging, usually Potter was fighting with him. Glaring at him. Deeming him unworthy. Sometimes they were memory based—escaping fiendfyre, kneeling in the ballroom, a lifeless body that seemed so small in giant hands, a fist fight on the Quidditch Pitch. Sometimes, the violence tuned salacious, Potter angrily shoving him against the wall until anger gave way to lust. It was a hateful lust, though, with ripping and biting and gripping and everything too fast to be gentle, just heat, sweat, and wanting, taking; selfish needs fulfilled by both parties. Pure desire, physical surfeit. A typical sex dream that was nothing more than wanton fantasy. Even if they always featured Harry Potter, it wasn’t as though that were odd. Surely all the Wizarding World had had at least one dream about the one who’d saved them all.

 

If he were being honest with himself (a practice Draco was trying to maintain, since he was trying this whole morally good lark), he prefered the fighting dreams to the sex dreams. Not because he liked fighting, and certainly not with Potter, but the sexual fantasies were as punishing as his memories. A lustful tryst of hateful fucking wasn’t what Draco wanted, not really. Because in spite of the heat, there was no warmth. They were only dreams, but upon waking the absence of the heat created a hole of frigid loneliness. He’d rather have nothing at all than that sort of emptiness.

 

But the dreams of Potter since his ill-advised foray into Exmoor were different. They weren’t memories of stupid fights, or torturous fantasies of carnal desire. They were…pleasant, for lack of a better word. The kind of sweet dream oft wished for but seldom received. But as much as they were lovely, they were painful, too, for the longing they inspired. In them, Potter was smiling at Draco. Laughing with Draco. Soft, domestic. Eating a meal. Drinking coffee. One might think they were boring, but nothing with Harry Potter could ever be boring. There was touching, but it hardly felt sexual. It was comforting, gentle. The kind of touch that said "I want to take care of you and fill you with love" rather than "I want to consume you for my own satisfaction". These fantasies were even more forbidden than his subconscious erotica. Because they were impossible, and worse than frustrated or angry, they left him brokenhearted.

 

In these new, hopeless dreams, his erstwhile enemy wasn’t Potter at all. He was Harry, and Draco was free to think of him as "mine", and himself as "his".

 

He hated them, because they sowed desperation and yearning for more, in spite of the pain.

 

He loved them, for even as torturous as the dreams were, for all that they showed something that could never be, in them, he was happy.

 

———

 

By Tuesday afternoon, some of Draco’s memories had returned, but they were fuzzy. They came to him slowly, like remembering a snippet of a conversation from childhood. He remembered starting in Ilfracombe and making his way up the coast. He had a vague memory of collecting moss from the cliffs as he got deeper into Exmoor. There were scenes of lattes and fires, but beyond that, there was nothing. Just a great gaping hole of two and a half weeks.

 

Whenever he deigned to emerge from his room, his mother never failed to remind him dutifully that he’d promised to go see Blaise. When he tired of hearing her ask, when the confusion was too much to bear, when he finally admitted he'd reached the end of what he could do for himself, he made good on his promise. Blaise had answers of some kind, surely.

 

Only, he didn’t.

 

Blaise paled when he saw Draco, the look on his face like he’d seen a boggart. “Draco! Merlin’s beard! Thank Salazar you’re alright!”

 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Draco asked, not yet ready to reveal that he was not exactly “ alright”.

 

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Blaise mumbled, fretting over Draco like a mother hen. “What was all that about asking me for Granger’s parents’ post address? Did you send them a letter? I told you that you owe me the best yarn of your life for that. I had to follow Granger around and come up with a legitimate reason to talk to her. She’s too sharp to fool, Draco. I had to pretend to be interested in house elf liberation. I’m a member of S.P.E.W. now, thanks to you. SPEW! So cough it up. What the hell happened to you?”

 

Draco knew the rambling was Blaise’s way of expressing how worried he’d been, which did very little for Draco’s peace of mind. He’d come to Blaise for answers, not more questions. Guess I’d better be honest, Salazar help me. “Blaise, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

 

There was silence, then cursing, then more desperate demands for an explanation. It took Longbottom bringing tea and a whispered something in Blaise's ear that made the man blush and say "Here I thought you were the patient one. My, how the tables have turned!" (Draco really didn't want to think too deeply about what that could mean) for Blaise to finally calm down. It was as good an opportunity as Draco could hope for to explain what had happened to him—as much as he was able.

 

Blaise’s expressions got increasingly grim as he listened, and by the end he was already running diagnostic checks on Draco’s mind. He was no healer, but Madam Zabini had seen to it that her son could always help himself when injured rather than rely on others. Especially since Slytherins were still pariahs after the war—even those who hadn’t played an active role.

 

Draco even agreed grudgingly to Blaise casting legilimens on him, which was as uncomfortable as it was necessary. Better Blaise than his mother, though.

 

“Well, you haven’t been obliviated, I can tell you that,” Blaise said at the end of his examination. “But I don’t know what is wrong. It’s like your mind is…full of fog.”

 

“I could’ve told you that,” Draco grumbled, because being tetchy felt more productive than being worried.

 

But he was very, very worried. A feeling that showed no signs of deserting him as Blaise filled him in on the sparse details he had from his communications with Draco over the past three or so weeks. "Everything was fine right up until Bideford. You said you were headed deeper into Exmoor."

 

"And then?"

 

"And then you were impossible to reach except by Patronus. You did send a blank letter to the Minister for Magic, though."

 

"I wrote a letter to Shacklebolt?" Draco all but shrieked. It was as impossible to understand as it was embarrassing.

 

"No, you didn't write a letter. You sent a blank sheet of parchment, with a tiny puff of an owl, or so the ministry employee said."

 

Well, at least he had an idea where the pygmy owl had come from. Sort of.

 

"And then you sent me a Patronus that said you urgently needed Granger's parents' muggle post address, which I got for you, and heard nothing about afterwards."

 

Draco gaped. "I sent you a Patronus ?"

 

"I was shocked, too. You must have been desperate."

 

"Was it—what did it look like?"

 

"A unicorn sneeze," Blaise said glibly.

 

Still incorporeal, then. Draco supposed the fact that it wasn't corporeal yet gave creedence to the verity that it had been his Patronus. But that something had been imperative enough that he'd resorted to sending a Patronus message did very little to comfort him. Somehow, the more details he learned, the worse he felt about the whole thing.

 

Blaise went on to say that his best explanation for what had happened to Draco's memories was that they'd been forcibly removed with a pensieve spell. That was alarming for many reasons, but mostly because the pensieve spell was meant to copy memories, not remove them entirely. Draco did not at all enjoy the thought of his memories sitting in a series of vials somewhere for someone else’s viewing pleasure. What the hell had he been doing the past month?

 

The talk of pensieve spells reminded him of the phial of someone else's memories that he possessed. Quite against his will, it should be noted. He showed the phial of memories to Blaise, who was just as unsuccessful at opening it. They’d even tried shattering the glass, to no avail. Blaise had no thoughts on the extra wand, either, except to ask whether Draco could cast from it. As it turned out, he could, but not easily. He had not won its loyalty, merely its hesitant trust. He had the feeling it was testing him somehow, that it wanted to work but needed something else. What that could be, however…well. He wasn't a master of wandlore, and he wasn't going to ask Ollivander any time soon, either.

 

He showed Blaise the note as well, hoping for some insight.

 

“Whoever they are, they have terrible handwriting. Maybe it’s the John Doe, whose letters you have?”

 

“I looked up the name. There are no magical ‘John Doe’s in any records. John Doe isn’t a real name. It’s like the muggle version of Magnus Magus. I could practically hear the archivist laughing at me through her letter.” He was still bitter over the dismal results of that particular inquiry. All he'd learned was that the name 'John Doe' was about as useful as leprechaun gold. And that archivists were nearly as disagreeable as librarians.

 

“A filler name? Odd. Still, whoever this ‘Magnus Magus’ or ‘John Doe’ really is, the wand might be his, as well as the memories.”

 

Draco had handed over the fog moss samples for safekeeping and departed, incredibly dissatisfied and deeply unsettled.

 

There was also the matter of the dragonfly brooch. After testing it in several solutions, the only conclusion Draco could draw was that it had been, at some point or points in its existence, covered in the blood of several witches and wizards. Even though his mother hadn't detected any dark magic from it, it was quite sinister, in spite of its whimsical shape. The green jewel eyes made him think of Potter, which only served to annoy him further.

 

Things hadn’t improved when Granger and Weasley arrived unannounced at the Manor on Thursday, demanding to speak with Draco.

 

Which was where he found himself currently. Sitting in the Seafoam Parlour, so named for its “charming” nautical theme and “calming” marine color palette. He’d always doubted that it could have such an effect, and here was the proof: he was most certainly not calm. Much more like a boat being battered by a stormy sea.

 

It was a very uncomfortable meeting for all of them, that much was clear. Even so, the duo had a fiery determination about them that historically meant bad news for Draco. His regret at finding himself in this situation only increased as the minutes ticked by and no one said anything beyond stilted greetings.

 

For once, he wished for the final member of their perfect little Golden Trio. At least he understood where he stood with Potter. Potter, who had spoken up for him at his trial. Had returned his wand to him, rather than let it get snapped. Had spoken out against the scurrilous tripe the media printed about Draco and his family during slow news weeks. He may not have seen the “saviour” in nearly half a decade, but Draco felt certain that if they should meet again, it would not be a spiteful encounter. Tense, perhaps. Likely awkward. Nothing more or less than the meeting of two individuals who used to be nemeses but had since saved each other’s life on multiple occasions. That kind of meeting.

 

Then again, thinking about Potter only reminded him of those stupid dreams he’d been having about the specky git. Any dreams about Potter were not something he wanted to think about in front of said saviour's two closest confidantes. Even if they were too noble to cast Legilimens or force it out of him with Veritaserum or something equally unscrupulous, he had a terrible feeling that somehow the Gryffindors would just know. They must all have an extra sense for rooting out things they found distasteful. Especially Granger.

 

With Granger and Weasley, it was less clear where he stood, but he was certain he’d never have cloyingly romantic dreams about either of them—and if he did, he’d be the first to check himself into Janus Thickey. That, at least, was one ward of Saint Mungo’s where they’d only be too happy to admit an ex-Death Eater.

 

And yet, in spite of the fact that the romantic contingency of the Golden Trio had no reason to speak with Draco, here they were. To speak to him. Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and former sworn enemy. He had a sinking feeling their presence here had something to do with whatever reason he had for asking Blaise to get Granger’s parents’ address and a letter he might have sent but had no memory of.

 

A letter he strongly suspected was the white muggle parchment clutched in Granger’s hands, wrinkled from being read multiple times, folded and unfolded. The only sliver of hope he had left was that he had never sent a muggle letter in his life. That sliver was significantly diminished by the fact that there were many things he might have done in the past month he didn’t remember.

 

Finally, it seemed the tense silence was too much for Weasley, who sighed in a defeated sort of way and said, “Right, Malfoy, I’ll give you one chance to come clean, right here and now, but first let me just say, what the actual fuck?”

 

Granger clucked disapprovingly and interrupted any response Draco might have had—which would have been Right back at you Weasel. “What Ron means, Draco, is…why did you send me this letter? Through the muggle post, no less? Through my parents? ” Granger was calmer than Weasley, to be sure, but her brown eyes were tense and wary. She might not be yelling like her paramour, but her feelings were likely just as strong.

 

Draco's suspicion this was bad news for him were confirmed. He swallowed. “Well, you see…”

 

But apparently, Weasley wasn’t finished. “How did you even find out their address? They’re not listed in the yellow parchment!”

 

“Yellow Pages, Ron.”

 

“Whatever! And then you tell us you’ve found Harry, sent us on a wild kneazle chase, but when we got to Lynmouth, there’s nothing there, no Harry—”

 

Draco held up a hand, casting a wordless lip-locking jinx at the ginger prat. Weasley looked furious, but was silent at last. “I apologize, Weasley. I was about to explain, before you interrupted, and I will do so if you’d still like me to.”

 

“Please,” said Granger, and though she was clearly angry—her dark skin flushed with emotion—there was also a hint of…what? Desperation? Sadness?

 

“This might be hard for you to believe, but please listen until the end.” He paused, looking to the both of them for some kind of agreement. Granger nodded, and Weasley fumed, but he couldn’t speak at the moment anyway. As long as one of them was listening, it was fine. “I don’t remember sending you that letter, though I see you have one. Blaise informs me I tasked him with finding your parents’ address. I don’t remember that either, unfortunately. I don’t remember anything from the past, oh, three or so weeks.”

 

He expected an outburst of some kind. An accusation that Draco was as much a liar as he’d ever been, that this was some cruel prank. Weasley was turning red in the face with the effort of saying nothing (or perhaps with the effort of trying to say something, and being unable), but Granger gave him a considering look.

 

Draco took that as an opportunity to continue. “Now, what’s this about finding Ha—…Potter?” He stumbled; the name felt foreign on his lips for some reason. He didn't think he’d ever referred to the boy wonder as “Harry”, but that was what had nearly slipped out.

 

Discomfiting, indeed.

 

He ended the jinx on Weasley, hoping to get some answers at last. But the deathly silence persisted. Without speaking, Granger stood up and handed the letter to Draco.

 

Puzzled, he read it. It was undeniably his handwriting, but there were several odd things about it. He was getting used to odd things in is life, though he’d never once hoped to have an occasion to do so. The first odd thing: it was written on muggle paper, not parchment. The second odd thing: the shape of his letters was off, as though he used a strange writing implement.

 

And, the oddest thing of all: he’d written the whole letter in code.

 

It wasn’t a very difficult code to break, but anyone who was not intimately familiar with their lives would have a hard time parsing out what the bloody hell he was talking about.

 

“So…Potter is missing, after all?” he said when he was done with the letter, levitating it back to Granger. He didn’t want to get any closer to Weasley than he had to, as it appeared it was taking all his inner strength not to walk over to Draco and punch him. “I thought sources close to Harry Potter were denying comment.”

 

Weasley snorted angrily, but Granger actually smiled at him, which was more disturbing than a sneer would have been. It was a small, rueful thing, but it was most certainly a smile. Merlin, what was the world coming to? “The truth is…we don’t know. Harry asked for time off from the aurors a number of months ago, and left a hastily scribbled note that he was ‘going to find a missing piece of the house’ before disappearing.”

 

“And he told us not to look for him, either,” Weasley mumbled petulantly. Something about that phrasing stirred Draco’s memory, but he couldn’t find anything specific to latch on to.

 

The sense of dread in the pit of his stomach only grew. “Are you sure he wasn’t kidnapped?”

 

“Weren’t you listening?” Weasley sneered. “We’re not bloody sure of anything, ferret.”

 

Draco heroically managed not to resurrect the hex he'd created in fourth year to remind everyone not to call him ferret, but it was a near thing.

 

“We used magical tracking spells, sent owls for him, even used the emergency portkey—”

 

“Oi, Hermione, that’s a Ministry secret!” the weasel interrupted. Draco wondered how they’d stayed friends, how they’d stayed married, as often as they talked over each other.

 

“Whatever, Ron!” Granger bit back. “The point is, Harry didn’t want to be found, and when he sets his mind to something…there’s no arguing with him.” She went quiet and abnormally still, eyes shining strangely. Draco hoped she wasn’t about to cry; he wasn’t very good at comforting others, even when he wanted to be. He doubted Granger would appreciate his efforts, anway. “There weren’t any more leads to follow…so we stopped looking.”

 

“You mean you and Kingsley did.” Weasley’s expression darkened. It didn’t suit him, the brooding look. That was Potter’s signature style, and had been for as long as Draco had known him.

 

“We searched for six months Ron!” Granger cried, face flushed. Draco had the distinct impression he was watching an argument play out much in the same way it had many times before. “But now we get this letter, you act like it’s a trap, and—”

 

“And nothing! He is lying to us—”

 

“Excuse me,” Draco interjected, sick of their domestic dispute. “I didn’t lie, and before you say it, even I wouldn’t do something like that as a joke. If you recall, I don’t remember the past three weeks, and based on what I read in that letter, it seems in line with whatever has happened with H—Potter.” There it was again; the urge to call Potter Harry. What in Salazar’s name was happening to him?

 

At the very least, Granger and Weasley were no longer bickering, but a miserable desperation had fallen over them instead. “Did you really find Harry, Draco?”

 

He bit back a sigh and nasty retort to 'please stop calling him Draco', even though he didn’t appreciate being called ‘Draco’ by Granger. They weren't that familiar, really, but it seemed petty to ask her to go back to calling him ‘Malfoy’. “Well, I said I did, did I not? In the letter,, that is.” He didn’t exactly want to share the details of the extent of the strangeness that had plagued him the past week, but he did want answers. He pulled out the phial, the brooch, and the wand. He’d taken to carrying them around with him, as though proximity to them might bring answers.

 

It hadn’t so far, but Granger had always been a know it all. Let her try to figure out what the items meant. “Do any of these mean anything to you?”

 

Granger and Weasley had both gone bloodless, and Granger was actually shaking as she reached out and took the wand. Draco felt a twinge of irritation that she just took it like that, but he was wary of upsetting either of them even more than they already were. “Where did you get this?” she whispered, holding the wand gently.

 

“We’ve been over this: I don’t know. It was in my pocket when I came home.” That wasn’t exactly the whole story, but he wasn’t about to tell them he woke up on the ground in the woods, alone. Not yet, anyhow. It was embarrassing just thinking about it. Still, Granger’s reaction had given him a pretty clear idea of who the wand belonged to. “It’s Potter’s, isn’t it?”

 

Weasley glared at him. “If you did anything to him, I swear…”

 

“Ron,” Granger interrupted him with a hand on his knee, stopping whatever threat he was about to make. She authorized herself to examine the phial, pulling on the stopper to no avail. It didn't seem to surprise her that it was stuck fast, however. “Whose memories are these?” 

 

Merlin and Salazar both. She did ask a lot of questions, considering she was meant to be ‘the brightest witch of their age’. “They’re not mine,” he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “At least, I don’t think they are. I can’t get the stopper out. The glass won’t break, either. Blaise thinks they belong to ‘John Doe’, and possibly the owner of the wand.”

 

So, Potter, then. Those were Harry Potter's memories that he'd been carrying around in his pocket for who knew how long. Merlin and Salazar, both.

 

“That’s auror issue,” Weasley said, plucking the phial from Granger’s hand. “It’s registered to the auror it belongs to. No one else can open it, unless they’ve been keyed in somehow…”

 

“Well, another point goes to the ‘I definitely met Harry Potter in Exmoor’ theory, then,” Draco drawled, feeling uneasy.

 

“What about this?” Granger said, picking up the brooch.

 

Draco sighed. “It’s charmed. With what, I can’t say, as it’s not activated, and I suspect only blood will do so. I wasn't too keen on testing it out with my own blood, you understand, so for now, it remains another mystery.”

 

Draco got only a second of warning when Poppet—as he’d dubbed the owl who wouldn't leave him—stirred from his slumber and shot out of Draco’s pocket. Straight into Weasley’s face.

 

Inexplicably, this didn’t seem to shock Weasley, and he caught the daft bird with a deftness Draco was surprised to see. “Pig? What’re you doing here?”

 

“That tiny menace is yours?” Draco asked, but the answer was obvious as the pygmy flew around Weasley’s head in a bizarre mixture of joy and alarm.

 

“What the hell are you doing with my owl? He’s been missing for almost two weeks!”

 

“He got that Owl summoning alert, remember?” Granger mused allowed. She turned her shrewd gaze back to Draco. “Did you send that?”

 

“Like I’ve said, several times now, I do not recall. But, for what it’s worth, I found the owl on my person when I…oh, how do I put it? Came back to my senses?” So much for preserving his dignity. "I did try to get the daft thing to return to wherever it came from, but it insisted on staying with me."

 

Weasley gave him a calculating expression. “I’m not saying I trust you…but I believe you. About not stealing my owl, I mean. Pig's loyalties are fickle, after all.”

 

“Oh, well call up the elves and let’s have a feast then! Weasley believes me!” He folded his arms and leaned back in his chair. It was beneath him to sulk, but this whole situation was ridiculous. One could argue he had actually been trying to help, even if he couldn't remember, and yet he was still being treated like a liar and a pariah. As if he should be the grateful one for being believed.

 

“Where were you?” Granger asked quietly. “When you woke up, I mean.”

 

This, at least, was something Draco knew the answer to. “In a forest next to the Bristol Channel. In Exmoor.”

 

Granger and Weasley shared a meaningful look. “That’s where we went yesterday. To Lynmouth, specifically. We didn’t find anything.”

 

“Not surprising,” Draco said, inspecting his nails. When he saw his guests’ incredulous expressions, he hastened to add, “Well, past-me told you to contact me via Patronus, and you didn’t do that, did you? If wherever H…Potter is is as warded as it seems to be, getting there is no simple matter. Gryffindor determination be damned.”

 

“We were going to, we just wanted to scope out the situation a bit first,” Granger said with a sheepish wince. “Only Neville said you’d been by their office yesterday, so obviously you weren’t in Exmoor anymore, so we thought the whole thing was a joke.”

 

Draco couldn't blame them, exactly. But it annoyed him on principle. “When did you get the letter?”

 

“Yesterday. It’s postmarked last Saturday, though.” Draco didn’t know what a ‘postmark’ was, but he supposed it didn’t really matter all that much, as long as someone in the room knew.

 

“That’s when I came home,” Draco said evenly. “At least I have something of an idea as to why I don’t remember anything, if that letter is to be believed.”

 

“I believe it,” Granger said resolutely. “I trust you, Draco.”

 

It was a strange thing, Draco mused, being extended this measure of good faith. By Granger, no less. Perhaps she was more forgiving than he thought, or perhaps it was a show of how desperate she was to find Potter. Would anyone go so far for him were he and Potter’s roles reversed? He’d rather not consider it, really.

 

In any case, he had somehow secured Granger’s cooperation, or something. Weasley on the other hand…

 

“How can you trust him?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Even if he did meet Harry, he left, knowing he’d forget, with Harry’s wand, and memory phial, and that weird brooch—”

 

“Well, something must have happened, obviously,” Draco interrupted, channelling his inner Severus Snape. He understood now why the man had found such delight in taking points from other houses. But there were no House Points here, just Draco and his odd intersection with the Golden Trio. He understood that Weasley was upset, and likely looking for an outlet to vent his frustration. Draco was a perfect venue for that, but he could only take so much. “I wrote that I had no intention of leaving until you arrived, and yet I did.”

 

Weasley fixed him with eyes full of righteous indignation, mistrust, suspicion. “How do you know that? I thought you forgot everything.”

 

“I don’t,” Draco replied with a negligent handwave. “I just.…t’s a gut feeling.”

 

“Well, you’ll forgive us if we don’t trust your guts, Malfoy. ”

 

“I trust him,” Granger repeated calmly. Weasley shot her a betrayed look. “Draco is the only lead we’ve got! And if Harry’s forgotten everything…he may never come back to us on his own. This whole thing stinks of dark magic.”

 

“I blame that bloody house,” Ron mumbled. “If it didn’t have pieces missing…”

 

“House?” Draco echoed. The Dynamic Duo don’t seem to hear him, already bickering about something else and conveniently forgetting Draco was there. Something tickled in the back of his mind, like a line from a long forgotten dream. “What about Potter’s house?” he interrupted, reminding them he was there.

 

“What do you know about it?” Weasley asked venomously.

 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, praying to Salazar for patience. “Nothing. Hence, the question.”

 

“He lives in the old Black Estate,” Granger explained, already proving herself to be a valuable ally. What their mission was, Draco wasn’t sure; he only wanted his memories back. If that meant working with Granger and Weasley, so be it. “He’s been trying to fix it up since the war, but…well, there’s something wrong with it. Something’s missing.”

 

“Harry Potter lives in the Ancient and Noble House of Black?” Draco barely bit back a scoff, indignant. “And how did that come to be?”

 

“He inherited it from Sirius,” Weasley said smugly, pleased to know something about Draco’s family—extended though it may be—that Draco did not.

 

“Sirius Black? The man who tried to murder Potter in our third year?” He’d always known there was more to the story when Aunt Bella gloated about killing Sirius Black, as well as an explanation for why his cousin's name was burned off their family tree.

 

“Sirius wasn’t trying to kill Harry, he was trying to—you know what, that’s not important right now,” Granger cut herself off, impatient. Draco rather thought it was important, but there would be time for explanations later. It seemed this all went back to third year, somehow.

 

Lacking anything relevant to add, he smiled with an elegant shrug and said, “Well, that explains what happened with that property, I suppose. Mother and I have been wondering.”

 

Weasley scowled at his failed attempt at getting a rise out of Draco. It seemed there was some merit to being the bigger man, after all.

 

“The house is falling apart. Something is leeching the magic.” Leave it to Granger to get them back to the point. He was rather curious about it, however, and how it related to his lost memories. “From what we’ve pieced together, Harry found out what it was, and went to find it.”

 

“Alone, the bastard. Could’ve invited us along!” Weasley griped.

 

Draco’s heart clenched at the thought of Har…Pot…oh, blast it. Potter. Potter alone, but he kept his face carefully neutral. What business did he have worrying about the specky git? This was about getting Draco’s memories back, nothing more. He didn’t know what, exactly, could have been missing from the house based on such vague diagnostics, but he knew enough about magical properties to have some theories. If he could just visit the place…

 

Then again, why couldn't he? “Can I see the house?”

 

Weasley and Granger looked at him like he’d asked for their first born child, which—no, no, he did not want to think about any progeny of those two, thanks very much.

 

He sighed heavily to cover his embarrassment, and continued, “I am also a Black, you know. I might be able to figure out what he went looking for if I take a look at what’s there and what isn’t.”

 

Granger made a face that said ‘why didn’t I think of that?’ and hopped to her feet, stalking over to the Floo with terrifying single mindedness.

 

“Going somewhere?” He drawled, choosing not to comment on the rudeness of leaving before tea. Not that he planned to offer any. But he might have gotten around to it eventually once he got over the shock of having unexpected Gryffindors in his house.

 

“You wanted to see the house, didn’t you? The only way in is through the Floo.”

 

“It’s not locked?” Draco was surprised that someone who valued their privacy as much as Potter wouldn’t have thought to block their Floo while they were gone. Unless he didn’t expect to be gone long.

 

“Ron and I have permanent access. And I suppose you do, also, being Blood.”

 

Draco was, begrudgingly, impressed that Granger knew that. He hadn’t meant he wanted to see it right now, but he didn't want to pass up the opportunity. He rose and joined Granger at the grate, where she stood expectantly and glared at Weasley, who was still sat on the settee with bloody Gryffindor stubbornness.

 

“Hermione, don’t you think we should discuss this?” Weasley whispered loudly, eyes flicking over to Draco. He’d always lacked subtlety. It was nice to see that some things never change.

 

“Ronald, we’ve talked for months and months. Now’s the time to do something about it.” She grabbed a handful of floo powder, but before she used it, she turned to Draco. “Harry Potter lives at Number 12 Grimmauld Place.” As memories of the grim London Victorian townhouse returned in a rush, Draco realized that he’d been there before. Potter must have put his house under the Fidelius Charm.

 

“Oh,” Draco said smartly. Granger gave him a satisfied nod, threw the silvery powder in and announced ‘Grimmauld Place’ before disappearing in a sea of green flames.

 

Draco and Weasley shared a tense but brief glaring match. “After you, Weasley,” he said finally, feeling like he’d lost somehow, but not wanting to leave his parlour unattended with a Weasley in it.

 

Grumbling, Weasley copied Granger’s actions, and disappeared in a flash of green.

 

Now it was Draco’s turn, and he spared a thought to grab the daft bird before announcing his destination: ‘Grimmauld Place’. He hoped the nausea was just from the floo and not a premonition that this was a very bad idea indeed.

 

———

 

Draco was deposited unceremoniously on a stone floor that must have been cleaned with a dirty sock, for all the half-hearted effort that had been put into it. It appeared he was in the kitchen, and he found himself being stared at by six eyes—two pairs human and one elven. “Kreacher is welcoming Master Draco back to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black,” the ancient and not-so-noble house elf droned, long nose touching the floor with the depth of his bow.

 

Realizing that he was still on the floor, Draco stood with as much dignity as he could, brushing the ash from his arms. That was twice this week he’d found himself on the ground. He hoped it wasn’t a sign that a new pattern was developing.

 

“Right. Shall I have a look around, then?”

 

Granger looked uneasy at that, and Weasley downright murderous, but Kreacher’s eyes lit up like Yule had come early, and was all too happy to give Draco the grand tour.

 

Although it was clear Potter had made attempts to spiffy up the place, the house was undeniably falling apart. There was a darkness and gloom about the place that felt disturbingly familiar. The plaster was crumbling, there was mold in the corners, the floorboards creaked in a way that sounded like bones. The walls groaned like a man being tortured, the windows were covered in a grimey layer that wouldn’t come off even with a strong cleaning charm—Draco checked. Twice.

 

The strange thing was, there weren’t any spiderwebs or dust. There wasn’t evidence of doxies, or even mice. It was as though all life had—sensibly—abandoned this place with prejudice.

 

At the end of the tour Draco was drained and, unfortunately, stumped. He'd seen everything from the cellar (still fully stocked) to a sitting room with the full Black family tree (including Draco, though it wasn't a very good likeness, in his opinion). He'd seen everything but the locked master bedroom, which was inaccessible even to Kreacher. He'd seen it all, and yet he didn’t know what was wrong with the house. But there was obviously something very wrong with it. He felt it down to his bones, something deeply unsettling and insidious.

 

“Kreacher, I don’t suppose Potter told you where he was going, did he?” Draco asked. He’d managed to get the verbal impulse to call Potter ‘Harry’ under control, but it still felt stiff and uncomfortable in his mouth.

 

He thought he heard Weasley mutter ‘we already asked him that, you smarmy git ,’ but Draco pretended not to notice.

 

“Kreacher is being humbled that Master Draco would think Kreacher is being important enough to share Master’s whereabouts.”

 

And that didn’t seem quite right; House Elves always knew where their masters were, regardless of whether they deigned to share their plans verbally. “Is there something blocking your link to Potter’s magic?”

 

A deep look of chagrin filled Kreacher’s whole being as he crumpled in on himself. “Kreacher is being ashamed, Kreacher can’t find Master.” He threw himself on the floor and started sobbing, beating his head against the ground. “Kreacher is a deplorable house elf not worthy of being mounted with the other elves of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black!”

 

Draco was shocked that Potter elicited such feelings of devotion from the elf, but then he remembered the final battle at Hogwarts, that all elves seem to love Potter, inexplicably.

 

In any case, this was deeply worrying, indeed, if Kreacher couldn't find his own master. There was very little capable of keeping House Elves away from their family. “Did Potter lock his bedroom so you couldn’t go in?”

 

Kreacher paused beating his head long enough to nod solemnly, too overcome with emotion to respond verbally.

 

“Kreacher, as a blood relative of the ancestors of this house, I’m going to open that door.” He didn’t ask permission, though perhaps he should have done; he was a guest here, after all. But he didn’t want to give the elf a chance to stop him.

 

A deepset panic had seeped into his core, and somehow his quest for reclaiming his memories had turned into something else entirely, quite without his permission or his being aware of when it had happened.

 

Kreacher looked up, dusty eyes meeting grey. His expression was conflicted, not wanting damage to come to the house, but not wanting to deny a blood relative either.

 

And also, perhaps, wanting to find his master, too.

 

“Kreacher is having no say in what Master Draco is doing,” Kreacher said at last, which was as good permission as Draco was going to get.

 

He swiftly climbed the stairs to the fifth floor landing and stopped in front of the door, Granger and Weasley close behind him. Anyone could blast it off its hinges, but Potter was an auror; if he didn’t want anyone entering, he’d find a clever way to keep someone from forcing their way in. “Granger. What have you tried already?”

 

She looked surprised at being addressed, but quickly recovered. “Nothing. Kreacher wouldn’t let us near the door, and threatened to banish us from the house forever if we tried. I didn’t think he could do that, but…I didn’t want to risk it.”

 

Draco nodded, and started his diagnostic. He remembered halfway through that diagnosing wards was not his forte, and tapping into his Slytherin resourcefulness, asked, “What kinds of charms do you think Potter is most likely to have used?”

 

Weasley sighed, scrubbing a hand through his obnoxious bright hair. “Knowing Harry…all of them.”

 

“All of them?” Draco repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Isn’t that a bit overkill?”

 

“Subtlety never was Harry’s forte.”

 

Granger made an aborted noise in her throat like she didn't quite agree, but didn't think it was worth the effort to argue over it.

 

Of all the words one could use to describe Harry Potter, Draco didn't think 'subtle' was one he would pick, but then again, he must have some grasp of the concept considering how much he got away with in school. In any case, Draco was sure that subtle or not, Potter wouldn’t have used any wards or charms that were harmful. Not on his friends—who were the most likely to try to get through the door. And if he was truly wanting to save the house, he wouldn’t have done anything that might harm it, either.

 

———

 

Weasley was right—Potter had put up nearly every non-lethal ward in the book. With their pooled knowledge they'd been able to disable of all but the last one. It had taken an hour to even understand the nature of the ward, let alone what to do about it. After poking and prodding and casting and reciting, shimmering gold letters appeared on the door.

 

THE ONLY WAY TO DESTROY AN ENEMY…

 

Weasley was convinced it was a reference to some muggle book about dwarves and elves and halflings and magic completely unlike the real thing, where there were only five wizards and Dragons could talk. Granger insisted it was an allusion to Harry's personal life that only a friend could know. Draco didn't know what to think, only that it reminded him of Luna's descriptions of how to enter the Ravenclaw common room. They tried all a manner of things to crack the code, from saying the phrase in made up languages (Weasley kept muttering 'speak friend and enter' under his breath). Granger tried phrasing the answer as a question ('What is a weapon?' and the like). Draco said nothing; he simply sat there and watched.

 

"It's rather philosophical, in a way," he mused aloud when one hour stretched into two. "Has Potter ever discussed queries of this nature with you?"

 

The simultaneous answers of 'yes' and 'of course not' came from Granger and Weasley, respectively, who glared at each other for daring to contradict their own 'superior' knowledge of Potter.

 

"Harry's been interested in philosophy lately," Granger explained. "He's read all sorts, and even suggested a few to me."

 

"I never took him for the philosophical type," Draco admitted.

 

"He never mentioned it to me," Weasley groused.

 

"That's because he knows you aren't interested in that stuff. Don't take it personally, Ron. He doesn't talk to me about quidditch or girls."

 

"Well he doesn't talk to me about philosophy or boys."

 

Draco choked. "Boys?"

 

"Harry's bi," Weasley said, bored. 

 

"Ronald!" Granger hissed. "You can't just out people like that!"

 

"What do you mean? Is that a muggle thing? Outing someone?"

 

Granger sighed. "It's Harry's business who he wants to tell about his sexuality."

 

"I thought everyone knew already. I mean, it's not like he was subtle about it," Weasley mumbled. "Besides, I told you. Wizards don't care about sexual preferences. Isn't that right Malfoy?"

 

Draco was still reeling over the fact that Potter liked men as well as women, and now Weasley was asking for his support in a discussion. Would wonders never cease? "Well, no one cares, but it's not really the…done thing to talk about. Especially when the relevant parties are absent."

 

Granger looked vindicated, though Weasley didn't seem to care all that much. "Told you so," was all he said. Merlin, did they agree on anything?

 

In the end, Granger suggested Draco’s blood might open the door, if he painted an unlocking rune with it. He was disturbed she knew enough about dark arts to suggest it, and wasn’t too keen on shedding his blood in front of former enemies, but…well, at last they got the door open, so he couldn’t really complain. "I see," she said as the door popped open. "the only way to destroy an enemy…"

 

"Is to make him cut his hand open to weaken himself?" Weasley suggested with a bit too much hope. Draco would have objected, but unfortunately he agreed.

 

"The only way to destroy an enemy is to make them your friend." She breezed past them into the bedroom, leaving a puzzled Weasley and troubled Draco in the hall. Finding there were an inordinate number of things Draco didn't want to think about where Potter was concerned, Draco followed her into the room. 

 

It was underwhelming, the door opening with a small creak, and not at all what Draco was expecting. Potter’s room seemed to be the only one in the house that wasn’t falling apart in some fashion, and Draco found it was actually quite appealing. The floors were stained a dark cherry that gleamed warmly in the fire—still lit, even though it’d been empty since January. The bed had white linens with charcoal and gold accents, which was more tasteful than Draco would have expected. He would have expected a Gryffindor themed room, like the one downstairs. Not this beautifully appointed master suite.

 

But what hit Draco most was not the tidiness, or the elegant design, or even the fact that this room alone was safe from the dilapidation cursing the rest of the house. What really shocked Draco was the scent, the overwhelming sense of ‘it smells like Harry’ and ‘Gods, he better be alright, the bastard’. It was a staggering thought, because first of all, where the hell did that come from? And second of all, why did the scent of pine and wood make him feel this…longing?

 

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the sentiment. It was nothing, he told himself. Nothing at all. He wouldn't think about what this meant, because he didn't know, did he?

 

A small part of him cried out that he did know, and he was being a coward, but what else was new?

 

He focused again on safer thoughts, and chose the design. The grey-gold-white palette was followed throughout the room, on the indian rug and the throw pillows. It was neat, which is also unexpected, with the exception of the desk, which was piled high with books, scrolls, and bits of paper so chaotic Draco thought this must be the real test of determination: did they want to find Potter badly enough to go through all that?

 

As it turned out: yes. They did. Well, Draco didn't exactly want to go through all those papers, but he’d become invested in this three-member manhunt for the boy who lived. He told himself he only cared because he was already involved, he’d invested his own blood in this literally. But deep down, he knew it was more than that.

 

Three hours later, Granger yelled ‘A-ha! ’ triumphantly and held a scrap of parchment over her head. Draco and Weasley crowded around to read it. It said:

 

So…things must’ve gone wrong, huh? Glad you proved me right and asked Draco to help; I told you he would agree. Ask Kreacher about the Net.

 

It was messy and hard to read, but Draco found himself feeling inexplicably fond. And if there had been any doubt before, he was certain now: Harry Potter wrote him the note, gave him the wand, the phial, and the brooch. He'd recognize that scratchy, nigh-illegible handwriting anywhere, given the hours he'd spent obsessing over the note.

 

In addition to the relief and fondness he wasn't going to think too deeply about, he was also curious. It seemed Potter anticipated needing Draco’s help to get through the wards. “Did he tell you to ask me for help?” He said without being quite aware he’d authorized his mouth to do so.

 

Granger looked contrite, offering a sheepish smile he didn't want. “Before he left...Harry was considering asking you for your input on what was wrong with the house. Ron and I talked him out of it.”

 

Draco wasn't sure whether he ought to feel touched that Potter wanted to ask or offended that he hadn't. “Why ?”

 

“We didn’t think he’d disappear, if that’s what you’re thinking!” Weasley interjected. “I told him he was being daft and that you’d rather chew your own fist off than help him save his house.”

 

“I guess you were wrong.” Draco sniffed, deciding offended was definitely the way to feel about this. “Kreacher!” he called out, and with a pop the ancient house elf was by his side. “Do you know anything about ‘The Net’?”

 

A dark look crossed Kreacher’s face. “Kreacher is not knowing where it is.”

 

“Nevermind that for now, Kreacher! What is it?” Granger demanded.

 

Kreacher looked uneasily to Draco for permission—Granger sighed, exasperated—but when Draco gave an encouraging nod, the house elf explained, “Kreacher is remembering 500 years ago, an undesirable was being born into the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Mistress couldn’t bear to be keeping him, or bearing to be getting rid of him, so Mistress is banishing him to the Nest.”

 

“The Nest?” Draco repeated.

 

Kreacher nodded solemnly. “The Nest is being where The Black Family buried their shame. It is being unfindable except by Blacks, and unleavable except those accepted by Blacks, or by making a great sacrifice. When Mistress banished Master Abnus, Master Abnus was not being very pleased about it. But Master Abnus could do no magic to prove his worth, so Master Abnus took something.”

 

“What did he take?” Granger asked, and Kreacher looked annoyed at being interrupted.

 

“No one is knowing, no one is noticing until Master Harry.”

 

“Harry?” Granger repeated, a look on her face indicating she was thinking through that very carefully, weighing thousands of interactions with Potter through her mind that might indicate when and how he discovered the missing piece of the Black Estate.

 

Draco had a feeling that could take a while, and suddenly he had a feeling he just couldn't wait. Wouldn't wait. “Why did Potter notice when no one else had?”

 

“No one else was wanting to make the house cheerful again,” Kreacher explained. “And Master Harry is magically a Black, but not Blood. His magic is not sustaining the house in the same way, it is needing the missing piece.”

 

“So Harry went to find it,” Granger finished. “Why didn’t you tell any of this to us before?”

 

“Master’s friends were not asking. It is the Black Family shame, Kreacher is not telling Black Family secrets to not Black Family members!”

 

“Did you tell Ha—Potter this story?”

 

Kreacher nodded, wobbly, then began banging his head on the floor again. “Kreacher was not knowing Master Harry would go looking! Kreacher was not telling Master where the Nest is! Kreacher is not even knowing where the Nest is!”

 

“He’s the head of the Black Family now,” Draco said quietly. He'd seen Potter's face on a new offshoot of the family tree, extending from Sirius Black. “Of course he’d know.” Not to mention how obsessive Potter could be. Draco had been on the receiving end of that obsession once. There was a reason people thought him unstoppable: he was, when he wanted to be.

 

“Well, that explains that,” Weasley scoffed. “Now we just need to find the unfindable cursed town! Wonderful.”

 

Draco tapped his fingers together, thinking quickly. “I think…I might have an idea.”

 

Notes:

I got this out as fast as I could, since I know the last chapter was upsetting. Thank you for reading, and for sticking with this story through the high points and the low!

come find me on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com

any guesses on what book Ron was referencing?

Chapter 14: If Memory Serves

Summary:

[Draco_Dormiens] has formed Party [Find Potter].
[Weasley_is_our_King] has joined the Party.
[Granger_Danger] has joined the Party.
[Famous_Amos] has joined the Party.

He remembered running, countless times before this. Physically, it felt the same, but this time was different. This time he was running away.

 

Well, maybe not quite.

 

He was running away as much as he was running towards; he realized even as it happened that in the end, they weren't all that different. There was a paradox fit for Zeno in there somewhere, he was sure. He didn't like running away; he was more the type to rush in. But in the grand scheme of things, he was rushing in, in a sense, he supposed. To run towards what he wanted would be to run away from his responsibility. If he had the ability to fix something, he would, and once again it seemed he was the only one who could fix this. It’d be nice for someone else to be chosen for once, but…but. If wishes were ponies, and all that rot. Magic might be real, but wishes were not.

 

The distance from the woods to his house was the same as it’d ever been, but it stretched out impossibly long before him with every step he took. With every step he took, he got a little further from regret, from warmth, from safety, from the choice he wished he could have chosen. But as always, the choices presented to him were illusions, because as always, there was only one choice he really had. This was all he had left, and he wouldn't get another chance. Not just for himself, or for those he'd lost, but for everyone who was still here, who he still cared about, in spite of everything. 

 

It was all so far away it felt as though he'd never get there. But he would get there; he always did.

 

The door to his flat was ajar, and he got inside and slammed it. Locked it. He knew it was a meaningless gesture. He did it anyway. It gave him a sense of security, false though it may be. Whispering endearments and consoling phrases to Beatrix—before he forgot what it meant to do so—he stole into his bedroom, piling blankets on top of the bed to stay warm. It might be warmer to sleep by the stove, but that wouldn only make it worse in the end. He shouldn't be able to prepare for this, and there were consequences for every transgression.

 

At midnight, he felt it. The rattling, shaking cold breath sweeping over him like blood seeping from a wound. He heard her voice again, begging please, not Harry, though he’d already forgetting who she was. It still gutted him to hear her voice. Cold fingers of dread stroked his core, choosing, assessing. It was an excruciating experience, and though he thought it every time, he thought again that he had never understood true misery before now. He wouldn't remember it at all in the morning—a curse, a blessing.

 

The Unnatural Chill and the horrors what brought it eventually faded away, Harry's debts paid. He had not been collected in full, not this time. Which meant it was someone else's turn. There were two obvious choices for who it could be, and he hated both possibilities. All possibilities. A part of him—the bleeding martyr part—wished it had been him this time. Then he wouldn't have to dread the eventuality. Maybe then the gaping maw whose appetite was never sated might be fulfilled. He knew it wasn't true, though, not in this case. But sacrifice was easier than living with the inability to do anything. He forgave himself his illusions, knowing he wouldn't remember thinking this tomorrow.

 

His best memories were safe, and he wouldn't forget the feelings behind them, not really. But he’d rather forget than have them taken, a thought that satisfied him even as the impulse behind it was shuffled away behind a curtain of blessed, silvery mist.

 

His last thought before plunging into the sweet reprieve of sleep was that at least he'd saved him. He’d be upset if he remembered, Harry was sure, but it was well worth the pain of pushing him away to spare him from this. He prayed to gods he didn't believe in to let him keep the memories, not under a veil but close to his heart. It would help him bear this, being here. Even as he wished, he felt it fade away. The memories were safe, preserved, somewhere beyond the invisible walls of Gleyma. He may never see them again, but just knowing they still existed was a balm on his grieving heart. He knew this may be the last time he was fully cognizant of the full impact of his choices, and that even if it weren't, he was a little more rooted here every time this happened. He shivered, wondering how much more of this he could take. He’d lived through worse—and he’d soon forget it again. He wondered if some souls were created for punishment. 

 

He prayed for love, forgiveness, for mercy, and grace. The debt had been collected, and he’d been spared, for now.

 

He was too valuable to use, like fine china locked away in a cupboard for a special occasion. No occasion would ever be worthy, and being too special was not so different from being not special enough.

 

He would know the difference, if there were one.

 

---

 

When Draco told Granger and Weasley about the charmed coin he'd left at the sight of his "Awakening" (Granger's word choice, not his), they'd been keen on going there immediately, sod any preparations and potential dangers.

 

"Has rushing in ever done you any favours?" Draco had asked. They never did answer the question—not that he'd expected them to—but the cowed look of guilt and regret on both their faces was enough of an answer for Draco. "We may only have one shot at this. Don't screw it up by going off half-cocked."

 

In the end, it was only by pointing out how late it was that convinced Granger and Weasley to wait at least until morning. They'd complained that they’d ‘waited long enough’, and wouldn’t hear a word about taking the time Draco wanted to prepare to his prefered specifications. His preferred specifications would have taken a week, so perhaps they had a point, but it didn't stop Draco from loudly bemoaning Gryffindors and their need to rush into danger and drag him along for the ride. He understood their anxiety to find Potter again (not that he'd be admitting that aloud any time soon), as he was just as keen on getting his memories back, but even so, he thought that a little more caution would behoove them.

 

But caution was, apparently, only good for throwing into the wind when it came to Gryffindors. 

 

At the very least, they accepted Draco’s condition that they tell someone where they were going and what should be done if they were gone for “too long”. It was all good fun, being listened to by Gryffindors, until Granger and Weasley announced that the person they were going to inform was no one less than the Minister for Magic himself.

 

"If we're going to wait until tomorrow to tell him, we might as well try to find out what Harry was working on when he disappeared," Granger had reasoned, sounding far too reasonable for Draco to find fault with her reason. He could have done it—he was certainly petty enough—but he didn't want to look petty. Or be petty. He wanted them to go back to accepting his superior planning.

 

"I thought you said H—Potter was on leave?"

 

Granger and Weasley shared a look that communicated more than Draco could ever hope to understand. Gryffindors. "Officially, he was, but…well, Kingsley is a personal friend. And he may have let slip that Harry was still working on something. Unofficially, as it were."

 

"He's always working on something," Weasley groused. "Did you know he missed Christmas dinner two years ago because he was working?"

 

"Why would I know that?" Draco asked. It was not as though he and Potter (not Harry) were friends, or sent each other Christmas cards, or exchanged pleasant greetings when they crossed paths. Because they didn't cross paths. They kept to their own worlds, even if Draco still desperately wanted to be an auror, and it had nothing to do with Potter. At all. "What was he working on, anyway, that made him miss Christmas?"

 

Weasley sighed, rolling his shoulders back until they clicked audibly. It was disgusting, but Draco was sympathetic; they'd spent hours going through all the papers on Potter's desk. "He was tracking down an escaped convict." Ever since dementors had stopped guarding Azkaban, it had become much easier to escape. Still a challenge, but not nearly as shocking as it had been back in the days of Sirius Black. "The bloke said he just wanted to see his family on Christmas, that he'd planned on turning himself in again on Boxing Day." Weasley got a daft smile on his face, which was completely incongruous with the story he was telling. "Harry felt bad for him, so he stayed with him and his family through their Christmas dinner then took the bugger back to Azkaban himself." Well, that explained the daft smile, then.

 

"He made it to the Burrow in time for pudding," Granger pointed out, smile equally as daft as her Weasel. 

 

"He'd never miss out on the chance to eat treacle tart. Still, he might have told me. We were partners at the time," he said to Draco, as if Draco were not obsessed with the Auror Department and didn't already know this. Just like he knew that Longbottom and Finnegan had been partners before Longbottom quit the aurors to return to his plants because 'at least you know which of them are trying to kill you'. "He's married to his job, he is. Reckon that's why he and Gin didn't work out."

 

Draco found himself intrigued, in spite of the fact that he had convinced himself he was thoroughly disinterested in Potter's personal affairs. Still, there wasn't a member of the magical community who wasn't at least a little curious as to why the Golden Couple had fallen through.

 

"Ginny was just as bad at taking time off as Harry, Ronald, and you know that. It's been years, let it go already. They have."

 

Well, perhaps it had been as amicable a mutual parting as they'd claimed. Draco was somewhat disappointed. Not that he wanted Potter and Girl Weasley to suffer a bad break-up—he was far past such childish notions—but to hear they'd just ended things because it wasn't working out was so mundane. So un-Potterish. Wasn't he one for grand gestures and dramatic proceedings?

 

Perhaps not, a small voice Draco liked to think of as his proto-conscience said. Perhaps you don't know him at all. Perhaps he didn't. Perhaps he'd like to.

 

Before that train of thought could run away with reckless abandon into dangerous territory, Kreacher apparated into the bedroom where they were still going through spare documents. "Would Master's friends be liking to be eating supper? Kreacher is making a small meal. Kreacher was thinking it is very late, and if Master Harry were being here, Master Harry would insist master's friends be staying to eat supper."

 

Draco thought it odd that Kreacher just 'happened' to have made a meal for three people, and just happened to have set the table for them, and happened to have wine and, apparently, all their favourite foods available. "Does he do this often?" Draco asked as he feigned reluctance to tuck into a good meal. His mother had been on a Mediterranean stint lately, and while Draco loved olive oil as much as the next person, there was still something to be said for butter.

 

"We used to eat dinner here once a week," Granger admitted, eating her cream of mushroom soup with far more melancholy than the situation required.

 

"I would have thought you'd be against it, what with your…S.P.E.W. business."

 

"I haven't done anything with S.P.E.W. in years," Granger said slyly.

 

Draco frowned. "But Blaise—"

 

"I was curious why he was following me around, and decided to test how far he'd go." She gave him a smile that was positively devious, and Draco found he was as impressed as he was dismayed. There was far more Slytherin in her than was healthy, he was sure.

 

"Blaise will be devastated he was played so thoroughly."

 

She ate her soup carefully, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I don't know. He got what he wanted in the end, didn't he?"  

 

Although Granger and Weasley had accused Potter in absentia of being a workaholic, it seemed neither of them were much better. They weren't even through the salad course when Granger insisted on reviewing all Draco’s notes, in particular his pocketbook. At the dinner table, for Merlin's sake.

 

"It's a bit personal," he said, trying to evade the proceedings. One does not simply hand out their pocketbook to suspiciously cunning ex-adversaries.

 

"I only want to see if there are any hints you might have missed," she said with a shrug, as though she had not just dismissed that Draco had been pouring over the blasted thing obsessively since last Saturday. 

 

"There might be things that have to do with Harry that you wouldn't recognize since you forgot all about him," Weasley pointed out, sounding far more reasonable than anyone with such an unreasonable shade of hair should sound. Granger must be wearing off on him.

 

Finding he didn't have any good reason to say no, other than possessiveness, and yet more pettiness, he handed it over. He stabbed miserably at his walnut salad while they read through it, making little sounds of interest that he was not going to admit pleased him.

 

"He shared his lasagne recipe with you!" Weasley said, sounding a mixture of hurt and impressed. "I've been asking for it for years."

 

"I've never had lasagne," Draco admitted. He'd found it strange that he'd written down a recipe when he wasn't sure he even liked lasagne, but knowing it was Potter's recipe did strange things to his stomach. Strange, tingly, warm things. Ugh.

 

Granger and Weasley shared a chuckle at his brilliant hot chocolate concoction, too. Only, it wasn't his idea, apparently. No. Apparently, cinnamon and cayenne hot chocolate was Potter's thing as well. “Cheer up," Granger said, perhaps sensing Draco's irritation. "It wasn't Harry's original idea, either. Lots of people do it. Only, ever since finding out cayenne is good with chocolate, Harry's insisted on adding spices to everything. To ‘make up for a spiceless childhood,' he says.”

 

“He adds way too much cayenne to everything," Weasley agreed. "Eggs, cake, hot chocolate. Chili. Nothing is safe.” Draco rather thought cayenne was supposed to go in chili. Not that he'd ever eaten any. But he didn't get the chance to say so; Granger and Weasley were on a roll, riffing on each other in the way they did that suggested they'd had this discussion before, many times.

 

“I rather like it. The food at Hogwarts was wonderful, of course, but it would have been nice if there had been more cultural diversity.”

 

“Cayenne is not culture! It’s taste bud abuse!”

 

“Only on your lily white tongue, Ronald.”

 

Granger took over reviewing the pocketbook after that, since "Ronald" refused to speak to her for making fun of his 'delicate palette' (again). Which meant he was free to talk to Draco, which was strange, since they were both trying very hard not to say anything too offensive to the other. In the end, they talked about quidditch, because that was the only subject where disagreements were not only allowed, but encouraged. Especially when the topic was whether or not the Cannons were a good team (they weren't; statistics were on Draco's side in this).

 

Finally, supper was finished, and it was late. Granger asked to keep Draco's notes, and if it were anyone else he would have refused. But this was Granger, and while he didn't particularly like her, he knew if anyone could make sense of his cryptically vague notes, it was her. "You better return it to me in mint condition, Granger," he warned, though he knew she would. Her name had been in every single book he'd ever checked out at the Hogwarts Library, proving she knew how to take care of the property of others.

 

"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Malfoy," Weasley said, clapping a hand on Draco's shoulder that was almost—he shuddered at the thought—friendly.

 

"We'll meet in the Ministry Atrium tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock sharp." With that, the three of them left Grimmauld Place behind. Draco was almost sorry to go.  It was old, decrepit, and falling apart, but being there he felt…closer to something important.

 

"Best not think on it, Draco," he mumbled to himself. He had a long day ahead of him. Perhaps several.

 

———

 

Draco had not exactly been optimistic about meeting with Minister Shacklebolt. Unlike the Golden Trio, Draco did not enjoy a friendship with the man. Draco's only real experience with him had been during his trial at the Wizengamot, over which Shacklebolt had presided. He'd been fair to Draco in his sentencing, no doubt because of Potter's testimony. He'd even politely agreed to overlook the fact that Draco was once again in possession of the wand Potter had claimed to have "lost". 

 

He was a fair man, yes. But he did not like Draco. He didn't hate him either, which perhaps was a blessing, but it was hard to be objective about anything when the man was staring you down with a steely glint to his eye and an air of general suspicion. Followed by a moment of extreme discomfort when Shacklebolt asked why "Draco Malfoy, of all people" was involved, and did this have something to do with that blank letter he’d sent a week ago with that "miserable wretch of a bird?"

 

"That's my owl you're insulting," Weasley mumbled, either not bothering or being unable to hide the hurt in his voice.

 

Granger didn't let them get off task talking about pathetic pygmy owls, though. “He found Harry, Kingsley,” she said, unexpectedly jumping to Draco’s defense. He was beginning to suspect she simply referred to everyone by their first name. "That's why he's involved."

 

“He also forgot about finding Harry,” Weasley pointed out. "On accident," he amended, with a hapless shrug. "Something about a curse…"

 

“The details are unclear,” Draco summarized, feeling very discomfited at being defended by Gryffindors. 

 

They gave Shacklebolt as coherent an explanation as they could, given how little they actually knew about the situation. He listened quietly, not so much as raising an inquisitive eyebrow during even the most outrageous parts of the story. They showed him the phial of memories, Potter's wand, the note, the brooch, the letter. Harry's note they'd found in his home. For all that had happened, there was very little in the way of concrete evidence, but what they had spelled out a gruesome picture. 

 

"We were hoping you could finally tell us what he was working on with the aurors," Granger said, seeming nervous for the first time since they'd began this mad plan. "Even if it's unrelated to what he was doing, looking for a net or a nest…"

 

"Both, according to Kreacher. That's Potter's house elf, if you didn't know," Draco said, trying not to sound too glib. It was difficult, given that callousness was his go-to defence. Especially in front of the man who held the power to make or break his life, career, and reputation.

 

Shacklebolt frowned. "Maybe it's not so unrelated," he replied, baritone voice silky even in his uncertainty. "Harry asked for time off, as you know, but as for why…" His frown deepened, but his explanation did not.

 

"I know you weren't allowed to tell us before, but we have proof now that something terrible has happened to him!" Granger said, losing her composure just a little bit. Well, a lot a bit.

 

"What you have," Shacklebolt began slowly, "is a letter from a known adversary of Harry—"

 

"Former adversary," Draco corrected, horrified at himself for interrupting the Minister. But it was true.

 

"Alright, former adversary," he allowed. "Regardless, you have a letter from someone who does not remember sending it, cannot tell you anything about the experience, who somehow has Harry's wand, memories, access to his heavily warded home, and a note, all of which could be interpreted as a last will and testament. Leaving everything to one Draco Malfoy. Rather convenient, isn't it?"

 

"…what?" Draco choked out.

 

"Harry took your wand, and now you have his. He inherited what would have been your family's property, and now it could be back in your possession. Even if we cannot open it yet, he gave you his memories, the only contact any of us have had from Harry in months. Forgive me for being skeptical."

 

Draco was speechless, but only for a moment. "Did you forget the part where we told you we want to go find him? That we're worried?"

 

A challenging spark glinted in Shacklebolt's eye, along with a twinkle of amusement, and Draco had the terrible sense he'd just admitted something deeply personal. "I thought you only wanted to regain your memories."

 

"I do!" Draco insisted. "But…well, I don't want to be blamed if something's happened to Potter. This isn't my fault, for once. I'm not the spoiled prick I used to be."

 

"Perhaps," Shacklebolt said, tone neutral. Draco was sure he'd just been played somehow, but he was far too embarrassed at his emotional honesty to figure out how exactly he'd messed up this time.

 

Granger was looking at him with a mixture of pride and intrigue. He hated it. Draco huffed, irritated, closing his eyes briefly to steal some sense of control, then continued, "Even if I don't remember it, I clearly tried to get Granger and Weasley's assistance. And yours as well, even if the letter was blank. I care far too much about my image to send the Minister for Magic a blank letter just to get my jollies."

 

"A wiped memory is an excellent alibi," the minister said smoothly, "but if not your altruism, I believe in your sincerity at protecting your image."

 

Draco knew he'd just been subtly insulted, but he was too strung out to care at the moment. "Thank you."

 

"However, I'm afraid I can't simply tell you what Harry—or rather, Auror Potter, was up to."

 

“Why not?” Draco asked impatiently. "I thought you believed us."

 

Weasley and Granger sighed, and in tandem said, “Ministry secrets can’t be shared without administrative documentation."

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Meaning?"

 

“Meaning you’ll have to get the permission of the heads of both departments he was working with," Shacklebolt clarified.

 

Weasley and Granger sat up straighter at that, as if something important had been revealed.

 

"Both departments?" Weasley asked, narrowing his eyes. "Are you saying you've been giving us the run around the past few months, insisting we had to talk to Gawain and only Gawain—"

 

Shacklebolt blinked at Weasley, uncowed and unapologetic. "I was protecting Ministry secrets."

 

Granger grabbed Weasley's shoulder in another demonstration of wordless Gryffindor communication. "Who do we need to talk to?"

 

Shacklebolt grimaced. "DMLE and DRCMC."

 

"What was Harry doing working with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures?" Granger demanded. 

 

It was a good question, Draco thought, but there was a better one, as far as he was concerned. “You’re the Minister for Magic. Surely your word supersedes theirs.” 

 

“You have my permission, but part of getting rid of corruption in the Ministry means putting in checks and balances. Which means running things through multiple departments.” With a wave of his wand, a scroll appeared in his hand. "This is form WR-C 119." He pulled out a green quill, filling out the document and signing it with an elegant flourish. Draco had never appreciated that the Minister might be a stylish person. He'd always been too intimidated to even consider it.

 

"We're familiar," Granger said, sounding a little beleaguered already. "You've only given it to us every time we've been here."

 

"But I've never told you before who you needed to sign it, either. Take it as a sign of good faith."

 

“More like bureaucratic pettiness,” Draco mumbled, but not quietly enough if Granger's sharp look was any indication. But there was no use belaboring the point. If they wanted the particulars of what Harry Potter had been working on, they had two more signatures to receive. And if Draco knew anything about how the Ministry functioned—or rather, dysfunctioned—that could take quite a bit of time. Time they didn't have. "Well, best get on with it then," he said, ushering the two Gryffindors out of the office. They had a strange look about them that said they were ready to fight. Then again, Gryffindors were always ready to fight, weren't they?

 

"This bullshit is why I left the Ministry," Weasley groused as the office door shut behind them.

 

"No it isn't," Granger said evenly. “We needed to see Amos, anyway,” she added in conciliatory tones that Draco didn’t quite believe she was committed to.

 

"What's Diggory got to do with form WR-C 119?" Draco asked, at the same time Weasley said, “Why?” through a mouthful of rainbow popcorn. Draco was certain that in the twenty-four hours he’d been reluctantly cavorting with the two Gryffindors, Weasley had been eating for twenty of them. Stress eating, perhaps, but eating nonetheless.

 

“Because he's the head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And his name is written in Draco’s schedule. Very emphatically.”

 

She had a point, Draco had to admit. That didn’t mean he was particularly looking forward to the meeting—Diggory, like most of the Wizarding World, did not appreciate Draco's continued participation in the Wizarding World. But Draco had neither seen nor interacted with Diggory since the end of the war. Perhaps he had changed; he was an unknown variable. Robards, on the other hand, Draco had spoken with. Once a year, every year, when he applied to the aurors and was summarily rejected from the aurors. Robards didn't like him much either, but Draco understood Robards, at least. “We should see Robards first,” he declared. “He’s going to be a harder sell on cooperation. Diggory will be more likely to agree if we’ve already earned his approval.”

 

Weasley and Granger shared another one of their Silent Communication Looks, and Draco hated it a little more each time. Whatever it was they’d silently agreed upon, Granger took the responsibility to explain. “You clearly don’t know much about Hufflepuffs if you think Amos will be easier to convince, but I agree we should see him last.”

 

Draco narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Why?” He was starting to think it had been just a little too easy to convince them. Were they up to something? Of course they were. They were Gryffindors. Two thirds of the Golden Trio. They were always up to something.

 

"It doesn't make sense to go to level four only to come back up again to visit level two," she said evenly, pushing the lift button with more force than was necessary. Draco decided not to point out they'd have to come back up anyway, unless they planned on moving in to the Ministry of Magic on a permanent basis.

 

“Robards will keep us there for ages otherwise,” Weasley said cheerfully. “‘Sides, he might try to run away if he hears you’re coming.”

 

Before Draco could ask why—again, sweet Merlin—Granger explained, “Harry’s told us Robards is worried one of these days you’ll show up and demand to be admitted into the Auror Program, threatening all kinds of legal action for discrimination.”

 

“Do I have a case for that? Cheers, Granger. I’ll take your advice into consideration.”

 

She flushed a bit, seeming equally pleased at the compliment and alarmed at the idea she'd encouraged Draco to challenge the head of the DMLE with legal action. “I didn’t mean you should threaten him!”

 

“I thought you were all for the rights of the oppressed?”

 

She pressed her mouth into a thin line at that, and didn't reply. Which was for the best, really. What with all the time they'd spent together in the past day, they were almost becoming, dare he say it, "chummy".  Change was necessary, but uncomfortable in large doses. He wasn't sure how to feel about it, but the fact that he wasn't entirely opposed to being friendly with Granger and Weasley was…well. Different.

 

The three of them didn’t speak again until they were outside Robards’ office, each of them mulling over their own troubles. Well, perhaps Weasley wasn't; he was still snacking on popcorn. They knocked, and a gruff, exhausted voice bid them entry. Exactly as Granger and Weasley had predicted, the portly man paled and looked like he’d rather be anywhere but where he was. His eyes kept darting to the door, as though assessing if he could make a dash for it. “Weasley, Granger. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“I’m here, too,” Draco drawled, delighted to see the man’s face pale just a little more.

 

“So you are," he said weakly. "I wasn’t aware the two of you were…associating with his sort.”

 

The wrong sort, Draco mentally filled in. “We’re here to get your signature,” Granger said, interrupting whatever strange power play Robards was attempting to enact. She produced the scroll from somewhere in her bag, and slid it over to him. He looked at it as though it were a venomous snake. “We’ve already gotten Kingsley’s permission.”

 

“Dawlish is Head Auror,” he said evasively, ignoring the document. “Ask him.”

 

“And you’re his boss. We need the Department heads to sign off.”

 

“That means you, the Head of the DMLE,” Weasley said happily, popping another piece of popcorn in his mouth. "As you know from the last few times we were here." Draco was beginning to wonder just how many times Granger and Weasley had been through this song and dance.

 

Robards sighed disdainfully, pulling the parchment closer with a single finger. “WR-C 119 again, I see. You're still harping on about wanting to know what Potter was up to?” he said once he finished reading the document. He had a doubtful expression, which Draco had the impression was aimed at him even if Robards was refusing to meet his gaze. “I’m afraid my answer hasn’t changed since the last time you visited. Regardless of the…additions to your search party. I understand Potter's absence is hard for you, but unless something has changed since July, I’m afraid the information is still classified. Just as it was in February, and March, and every month after that. Even after you resigned to pursue a non-case non-stop, Weasley. So unless you have new evidence something is amiss—”

 

“We do have new evidence, which you'll see the form outlines. If you'd actually read it,” Granger said smugly. “Draco brought it to us.” Draco hadn’t been aware the reason Weasley quit was because of Potter. He supposed it shouldn't come as a surprise, but it did. Draco had read the press release of course; Weasley had said he was retiring to ‘focus on his family life’. Apparently, Potter was family to him.

 

Robards’ eyes wandered in Draco's direction without actually landing on Draco, looking somewhere around his left shoulder rather than his face or, Merlin forbid, his eyes. “He found new evidence for Potter’s disappearance?”

 

“He is standing right here,” Draco replied, “And yes I did. I have excellent investigative skills, you see," he added pointedly. Nevermind that he hadn't actually been looking for Potter.

 

Robards turned an interesting shade of red. “I still don’t think that justifies going after him on some half-arsed—”

 

“We’re not asking for your permission,” Weasley said. “Whether you sign that form or not, we’re going. But we’d like to know as much about what we’re getting into as we can. You don’t plan to fail, after all.”

 

“You fail to plan,” Robards allowed, albeit begrudgingly. Draco had the impression it must be something oft repeated in the auror office.

 

No one said anything for what felt like a very long time, though it was probably not even a minute. “Kingsley is alright with this…arrangement?”

 

Draco took that to mean ‘why does Malfoy have to be involved’, but elected not to comment.

 

“He signed the form, didn’t he?” Weasley challenged.

 

There was another brief but intense staring match between the Dynamic Duo and Robards, but it was clear (to Draco at least) that the man was already defeated in this particular battle of wills. “Fine,” he said at last. “Fine. Let it be on Shacklebolt’s head if this goes pear-shaped.”

 

“I rather think it already has,” Granger said quietly. “We’d just like to fix it.”

 

“I still don't see what Malfoy has to do with all this,” he grumbled, signing the parchment reluctantly.

 

“If only you had some kind of vocational jurisdiction over me, then maybe I could tell you,” Draco said with a wistful sigh, choosing to ignore that Robards was still refusing to acknowledge his presence. Robards grimaced, though he had a thoughtful expression as he shooed them all out of his office.

 

“You should apply again to the department,” Weasley said as they clambered back into the lift. His tone was serious, and his face sincere. Draco was sure he'd never seen Weasley make such an expression in any matters related to him. It was unsettling, to say the least. Then Weasley destroyed any warm feelings Draco might have cultivated by popping another piece of rainbow popcorn in his mouth. Gods, but that was annoying. Leave it to Weasley not to know how uncouth it was to eat and walk at the same time.

 

“I intend to, even if I’ve been rejected five times." Draco sniffed, grasping for his lost dignity. He wasn't aware his failure to be admitted to the aurors was public knowledge. "Perhaps that makes me a fool, but they can only reject me so many times before they come to their senses.”

 

Weasley snorted. “That’s not what makes you a fool." Granger hissed 'Ronald!' under her breath, eyes darting nervously over to Draco. Draco bristled, gearing up for a diatribe on being called a fool by Weasley, of all people, but Granger interrupted him.

 

"Harry told us about the number of times you’ve applied,” she explained, somewhat apologetically. 

 

Draco flushed, think about Potter delighting in Draco’s failures, gleefully mocking him with his friends. "I suppose he told you about the number of times I've been rejected then. He must think me an idiot."

 

“He thinks it’s rubbish, actually, for your information,” she told him, pushing the button for the lift perfunctorily. “He’s been advocating for giving you a chance for the past three years.”

 

“Why would he do that?” Draco asked, though he was having a hard time believing it was true to begin with.

 

The lift rang as the doors opened. It was, thankfully, empty. “You’ll have to ask him when we see him.”

 

“Anyway," Weasley said glibly as they stepped into the lift, "Robards loves gossip almost as much as he loves justice. He’ll be desperate to find out the full story about this, even if it means giving up on finding stupid reasons to reject your application.”

 

“I’m rather desperate as well. About the truth, that is,” Draco admitted, secretly pleased to have his long-held suspicions confirmed that the reasons for his rejections were bogus. “By all accounts, none of this makes sense.”

 

Weasley and Granger said nothing, which he understood to mean they agreed, but were too polite to say out loud.

 

———

 

Draco had never been to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures before. His father had been during that unpleasant business with the hippogriff during third year, but Draco himself had never had the occasion to visit. He'd never hoped to have one either, but his life was spiralling out of control into a series of experiences he'd rather not have, but was having anyway. Might as well add this one to the ever-growing list.

 

As was customary when Draco, ex-death eater extraordinaire, walked into a ministry office, a hushed silence greeted him, followed by furious whispers and furtive glances. It was a relatively small department—at least, the office in the ministry was. Most work conducted by the DRCMC occurred out in the field (from what Draco understood), and as such there was little need for large office space. Draco wished now it were a bit larger, if only to delay what was sure to be an uncomfortable meeting with Amos Diggory. Granger and Weasley didn’t look too thrilled about it either, which was as surprising as it was disconcerting. If brave lions were afraid to face a meek badger, what chance did Draco have?

 

Still, he wanted his memories back. And something else he still hadn’t quite accepted that he'd admitted aloud in Shacklebolt's office. If he denied it long enough, perhaps he could forget it ever happened. 

 

They knocked on the door, and a polite voice invited them to enter.

 

Amos Diggory was sat at a modest walnut desk, stacked high with papers that were as organized as they were numerous. Such was the life of a department head, it seemed. His chair creaked dangerously as he shifted in it, standing to greet them. He didn't seem surprised, which put Draco immediately on edge. “Ms.Granger, Mr. Weasley,” he said cordially. “Malfoy,” he added, voice hard and frosty. “Gawain told me to expect you.”

 

“I wasn’t aware the interdepartmental memos could travel so quickly,” Granger said mildly. “We’ve only just come from level 2 ourselves."

 

“Apologies,” he said, sounding genuinely contrite, then added, “I was informed via Patronus,” sounding anything but apologetic. He sat down in his chair again, but he maintained command of their attention. "I hear you have a form for me to sign. I don't know how you found out about Harry's involvement with my department, but I'm afraid that unless you have an incredibly compelling argument, I can't tell you what he's up to. It's for your own good, you understand."

 

Well, Merlin's Beard. It seemed that Hufflepuffs had teeth after all.

 

“Robards signed it,” Weasley said firmly. If that was his idea of a compelling argument, he was sorely mistaken.

 

“We think we know how to find Harry,” Granger rushed to say. There was an unexpected friction in the room that Draco didn't quite know what to make of. “We just want to know what he was doing so we aren’t going in there blind.”

 

Diggory read through the document calmly, though the tension in his jaw belied his distaste. Whether it was merely due to Draco’s presence in his office or something else entirely, Draco wasn't sure, but he was beginning to suspect there was more to the picture than it seemed. In the silence of the office—no one dared speak, it seemed—Draco looked closely. He did have excellent investigative skills, after all. 

 

Diggory looked tired, that much was evident. Dark, baggy circles lined his eyes, his shoulders sloped with invisible weight. His hair was even thinner than the last time Draco had seen him, and rapidly losing color. It was pulled back in a half-hearted tie, hanging limply down his neck. Draco had never thought Cedric much resembled his father—Cedric had been one of the fittest wizards in Hogwarts, even if he were a Hufflepuff. Amos was soft where Cedric was strong, clean lines. But there was something familiar about the man that Draco couldn’t quite put his finger on. Like a face seen in a dream…

 

“You have new evidence?” Diggory asked, cutting off Draco’s attempts to place the resemblance.

 

Granger nodded, pulling the items out of her bottomless bag. How she came to be the one responsible for holding on to them, Draco couldn't say. It was probably for the best in this situation; everyone trusted Granger and whatever she might pull out of her deep pockets. No one trusted Draco, or his deep pockets. Not anymore. “Draco sent us a letter saying he’d found Harry. And he had Harry’s wand, and some of his memories in a charmed auror phial—”

 

“Memories?” Diggory interrupted, showing the first real interest since they’d walked in to his office. “Are you certain they’re Harry's?”

 

“We can only assume," Granger said. "It's certainly his phial, and none of us can open it,” she added meaningfully. 

 

“He doesn’t have anyone else keyed in? What about his partner?”

 

Weasley made a choking sound that could have been an attempt at a polite cough. “I was his partner, if you recall.” The tension in his voice indicated he was holding back tears, and Draco was instantly uncomfortable. He couldn't deal with weepy individuals even on the best of days. “I quit after he disappeared, so no one else would be keyed in.”

 

“But what about his emergency contingency plan—”

 

“Only in death,” Granger said quietly. “Harry’s always been private. Even with us.”

 

Diggory stared at them speculatively. “Well, at least you know he isn’t dead.”

 

There was nothing any of them could say to that. Not to Cedric Diggory’s father. So they said nothing.

 

He broke the silence himself, with an awkward cough to clear his throat. “So Harry gave you his wand and Last Will Phial.”

 

“I beg your pardon?” Draco said softly. Something Shacklebolt had said was worming its way to the fore of his brain, but it was stalled somewhere between knowing and understanding.

 

Weasley and Granger looked at him uncomfortably. Apparently, they’d failed to share the full story with him. “The Phial…when aurors are sent out on difficult missions where they might not…come back, they put their memories of their will in the phial. It won’t open unless they die. Or their partner opens it.”

 

“You were his partner,” Draco said, turning sharply to Weasley. “Why can’t you open it?”

 

“I’d’ve had to have been there when it was sealed,” Weasley said bitterly.

 

Draco didn’t know how to feel about the fact that this was kept from him. He certainly didn’t want to find out like this, in front of Amos fucking Diggory, who already hated him for his son’s death (which Draco wasn't actually even a little bit responsible for, he'd like to remind everyone), and now might hold him responsible for Harry Potter’s death as well (which he also wasn't responsible for, ta ever so). Fan-fucking-tastic.

 

“It won’t open, so Harry’s fine,” Granger said with false confidence, taking Draco's stony silence for worry rather than the anger it was. Well, he couldn't blame her for that. He had admitted he was worried about Potter.

 

“It’s the fact he gave it to me at all that troubles me," he said softly, "since I’ve just been made aware that they’re only for missions you might not return from.”

 

“What do you care, Malfoy?” Diggory's eyes burned with grief and fury. “If you found Harry, where is he now? Why did you not return with him?”

 

“Maybe you can tell me,” Draco said coldly. He was responsible for many things, but Potter’s absence was not one of them. “I’ve forgotten everything about the experience, you see. But your name was written in my pocketbook.”

 

A flicker of interest crossed the man’s face, but it was gone as quickly as it came. “My name?”

 

Granger—who’d held onto it in the interest of flipping through it when she had the chance—produced Draco’s pocketbook from her bottomless bag. “Here.”

 

Diggory looked at the book, what was written there, but if it meant anything to him, he gave nothing away. “Is there anything else you came back with?”

 

“Only a green mug, a pygmy owl, and a charmed brooch.” And some letters, and an orchid, and fog moss…but those weren't important, surely. 

 

“A brooch?” His fist tightened for a moment, and there was unconcealed curiosity on his face now. “Do you have it with you?”

 

Draco clenched his jaw. “Yes.”

 

There was a beat, then, “May I see it?”

 

Reluctantly, he pulled it from his pocket and placed it on the desk. The reaction was immediate. Diggory paled, hands trembling as he picked up the ugly dragonfly. “I know this,” he said quietly.

 

Weasley and Granger looked at Draco, deciding to include him for once in their Meaningful Stare. Not that he knew what they meant by it, except perhaps, 'Well, that’s interesting, innit it?’ or maybe even, ‘See, there was a reason for his name being written down.’ or, possibly,'Can you believe how bad his taste in jewelry is?'

 

“What is it?” Granger said, voicing the question they were all asking themselves.

 

“It’s the objectification of a memory charm. It protects against mental influence spells.”

 

“Such as?” If Draco had been curious before, he was deeply invested now. All he could think was Harry Potter gave me a memory charm. Why? 

 

“Obliviate, confundus, anything meant to mess with your mind. It can even help you resist imperio, though I've never tested it myself…it has to be calibrated, though.”

 

“With blood,” Draco supplied, the pieces falling into place. “That explains some things.”

 

Diggory examined the brooch, eyes filled with sadness and wonder. “You’re going after Harry no matter what I say, aren’t you?”

 

“We are Gryffindors,” Weasley said proudly.

 

"And a Slytherin,” Draco added, rather unnecessarily.

 

“I’ll sign the form,” Diggory said decisively, eyes clear for the first time since they'd entered his office. “I’ll tell you all I know, on one condition.” He fixed them all equally with a stare of steely determination. “Take me with you.”

 

Well, that was certainly not an expected turn of events. “I don’t mind, one way or the other,” Draco said, since he was the only one likely to have a negative opinion on it anyway, “But why do you want to? What’s Harry to you?”

 

He mentally cursed himself—he'd let 'Harry' slip out. He hoped no one had noticed, but if the speculative look Granger was any indication, it had not gone unnoticed. Blast.

 

“I could ask you the same, Malfoy,” Diggory growled, “though I assume your participation has more to do with wanting your memories back.”

 

Draco lifted an elegant shoulder. He had no obligation to share his motivations with a Hufflepuff. Even if he had already admitted it to the bloody Minister for Magic. Once a day was quite enough. 

 

“I respect Harry, but I don’t want to go for him," Diggory said, ignoring Draco's non-answer. "This brooch…it belonged to my mother.”

 

“Your mother?” Granger repeated, eyebrows scrunched.

 

“If this is what I think it is, you’ll be needing my help.” He scrubbed a weary hand down his long, aging face. “Does the name ‘Gleyma’ mean anything to you?”

 

———

 

“I haven’t seen my mother in over ten years,” Diggory admitted quietly. “My father died before my seventh year at Hogwarts, and my mother…she’d loved him dearly. She didn’t leave the house again for nearly a decade after his death. Too bereaved. But one day, she declared that Nigel wouldn’t have wanted this for her, and she booked herself a long trip for the summer: a walking tour of Exmoor, to process things. The fresh air would do her good, she said.  Nothing like rolling hills, bogs, and sea to do the trick. But while on tour, she became…fascinated with something, then enamoured with someone. And with little to no warning, she was married, and moved to a remote muggle town called…”

 

“Gleyma,” Granger provided.

 

Diggory nodded. “It’s…difficult to think of the name.”

 

“Painful memories?”

 

“Not in the way you'd think. It’s not a normal town. It’s…sick. I only visited my mother there three times. It was all I could bear. She didn’t want me to come. And the last time I saw her…she banished me. Said it would be better if I just forgot all about it. And I nearly did."

 

“She banished you?” Draco repeated, horrified. Being banished was worse than being disowned. He wanted to ask why, but one couldn't simply ask a man why his own mother had banished him. “Why didn't you forget sooner?"

 

He held up the dragonfly brooch, shaking it in his fingers. “This is a family heirloom. It’s been passed down through my mother’s side for generations. It was a gift from Merlin, or so my mother always said.”

 

“That would explain the green,” Weasley murmured.

 

"She gave it to me when I turned seventeen, along with my father's watch. I was able to remember just enough about the town while using it to get back, but I wrote down everything when I returned from my visits. I knew it was only a matter of time until something happened. And then it did. She asked if she could have the brooch back, to help her keep her senses, make up her mind to leave." He paused, sighing deeply. "And like a fool, I gave it to her. Then she banished me."

 

“How did you remember the name of the town after that?” Draco pressed. Jewelry from Merlin was nice and everything, but they had more important matters to deal with. Even now that he knew the name again, it made him feel a bit nauseated if he thought about it for too long. 

 

Diggory grimaced, then began unbuttoning his robes. “I knew something was wrong with the place, and her letters to me begging me not to come…I knew I had to resort to drastic actions.” He rolled up his left sleeve, and there carved into his upper arm was the word GLEYMA, written in far more beautiful a script than such a gruesome scar deserved. “None of my owls got through, and mother only contacted me through the muggle post. She still sends letters on occasion, but they’re nonsense. Sometimes I forget what ‘Gleyma’ means to me, why it’s carved into my arm. It’s hard to look at for too long—it makes me dizzy, nauseated, disorientated. I never imagined Harry would go there. I wouldn’t have signed off on his request if I’d known.”

 

Weasley and Granger looked crestfallen, ill. Draco couldn't blame them. He was feeling the same, though he wasn't sure he had any right to. “What was Harry working on?” Granger asked in a small voice. Draco hated it; small didn't suit her, no matter what he thought about her personally.

 

Diggory grimaced, obviously not looking forward to disclosing the information. “He found the breeding grounds of last dementors in Britain, and was working on eradicating them.”

 

“Alone?!” Weasley yelled. “That daft bugger. I’ll kill him myself once we’ve found him.”

 

“He intended to put a team together once he found their nest," Diggory explained, eyes tight with regret. "He was still looking for them the last time we spoke.”

 

"And when was that?"

 

"Early December."

 

"And you didn't think to tell us?" Weasley demanded. "You didn't think it was important that you haven't heard from Harry in ten months when he went off alone in search of a dementor's nest?"

 

"Kingsley, Gawain, and I decided not to say anything. Dementors were supposed to be gone, eradicated, but if there were more out there, and Harry Potter had fallen victim to them—" he patted the sweat from his forehead with a dingy handkerchief "—we didn't even know if he'd found the nest or not."  

 

"You still should have told us," Granger said, voice warring with anger and hurt.

 

Something tickled at the back of Draco’s mind, a sensation he was becoming increasingly familiar with as his memories danced around his periphery. “I’d say he found the nest. In my letter, I said we’d been attacked by dementors.”

 

“Well, you implied it,” said Granger.

 

Weasley scrubbed a hand down his face. “Dementors. Merlin’s beard. I knew he’d been unusually fixated on them in the past few years, but…bloody hell.”

 

Now that they were talking about it, Draco recalled that Potter had led the Dementor Purge after the war. There had been some who disagreed with the notion, who wanted to research what they actually were, but Potter prevailed, as usual. As such, dementors no longer guarded Azkaban, and there was very little need to worry about running across one in the countryside, either. The Ministry had, for the most part, eradicated them. Or rather, Potter and his team had done it. Every now and again one would pop up, but most chalked that up to the fact that it was impossible to account for the naturally occuring dementors.

 

When he asked about it, Diggory's shoulders slumped. “Harry thinks that there are no naturally occuring dementors. He believed nature could be cruel, but not inherently evil, and that evil was the only word for dementors. He was so certain that they were being made somehow, by someone. Or something.”

 

“So he went after them?” Granger supplied, eyes wide with horror. “Why didn’t he tell us…”

 

“He probably knew you’d try to stop him,” Draco said, inspecting his nails to hide the fact that his hands were shaking. He knew Potter was foolhardy, but going after a nest of dementors alone was a new level of unfathomable idiocy.

 

“Of course we would have!” Weasley insisted. “It’s bloody barmy, is what it is!”

 

“Who would ever want to make dementors? It would have to be several someones, considering that the first documented dementor sighting was in the eleventh century…”

 

“Isn't it obvious?" Draco drawled. He tried not to, but it came so naturally when he was feeling defensive. When he was met with blank stares, he realized it was not obvious. Perhaps because they had not grown up in dark families. "Don't you think,” Draco began slowly, “it probably has something to do with ‘the Black Family shame’?”

 

Granger and Weasley paled. “It couldn’t be…”

 

“It's the most logical explanation,” Draco said evenly. “The Black Family were as dark as they come. You met my dear Aunt Bella, after all. Her personality was on-brand for the Blacks.”

 

“It’s not very self-preserving though, is it?” Granger said thoughtfully. “Why make a dark creature you can't control? The Blacks weren't impervious to the effects of dementors. What happened to Sirius and Bellatrix is proof enough of that.”

 

“They tried to bury their shame, according to Kreacher. Perhaps it was a mistake, a failed experiment.” Draco shrugged. It wouldn't be the first time someone in his family had failed spectacularly. "And one could argue they did have some kind of control. The Dark Lord controlled them, after all. Maybe Aunt Bella told him how."

 

A heavy silence fell over their group as they thought about the implications. “That still leaves the question of what they are, and how they’re made. Assuming that’s why they exist…”

 

“All the more reason to go to ‘Gleyma’, then," Draco said in false cheer. "Though I warn you, I'm rubbish at the Patronus charm. Somehow I missed my invitation to Potter's club in fifth year. So it'll be up to the three of you to deal with it if we find any dementors."

 

Weasley and Granger gave him a look of shared incredulity that he would bring up their stupid guerilla resistance, or whatever it was, considering how badly it had ended. Because of Draco. Not for the first time, he cursed his childhood bigotry, if for no other reason than he missed the chance to actually do well during their Defense OWLs because of said bigotry. 

 

“About that,” Diggory said with a polite cough, “I can’t actually enter the town. I was banished. But you need someone on the outside taking down the wards anyway, don’t you? That's what your letter said."

 

Draco rather thought he might have been banished as well, but no one could tell a Malfoy where they could and could not go. 

 

Draco held out his hand, offering a handshake. “I know you don’t like me, Mr. Diggory, but I think we both know you’ve lost enough. That place has taken something from you, hasn’t it? You can take it back. We can all take back what we've lost to Gleyma.”

 

There was a look of hard determination in the man’s eye, a resolve Draco doesn’t normally associate with Hufflepuffs. Then again, there was nothing normal about their little band in the first place, was there?

 

Amos Diggory grabbed Draco’s hand, firmly, but respectfully. "Very well."

 

Draco smiled. “Your assistance is most welcome. I hear Hufflepuffs are excellent finders.”

Notes:

bureaucracy at its finest, ladies and gents.

There will be more Harry POV in the next chapter, I promise!

Come chat with me on tumblr @noir-renard

Chapter 15: Set Yourself on Fire: The World Stays Warm

Summary:

You get a codename! You get a codename! Everyone gets a codename!

And Harry gets his real name.

Notes:

cw: mentions of death and dying, and some gross, fishy implications

Harry woke with a start from yet another nightmare, tears streaming down his face. Beatrix was curled up on his stomach, but he felt the way he always did when he woke up: haunted and alone.

 

It was not as though it were impossible to be happy in Gleyma, but lately he’d felt that ‘happiness’ was more of a theoretical concept than something he’d ever really experienced in full.

 

He stroked Beatrix absentmindedly, and tried—again—to remember what he’d dreamed about. Blonde hair, grey eyes, a kiss, a push.

 

Draco Him, he thought.

 

But Harry didn’t remember.

 

It had only been a few days since he’d collapsed in the woods. At least, that was the story they'd told him this time. He hadn't bothered counting the days since his incident had supposedly happened. What would be the point? Cyril had found him, apparently. In the woods, that was. Soaked to the bone, confused, possibly concussed.

 

 

A likely story.

 

 

But Harry didn't remember. He did find it was suspicious that whenever he had a bout of memory lapse, the reason was that he'd passed out somewhere in nature.

 

 

The first thing he actually remembered was waking up in that blasted clinic with Queenie and Cyril and Doctor Whatever-his-name was watching him anxiously. He'd had a terrible headache, and felt chilled to the bone.

 

“Where’s...?” he'd asked. He couldn't remember the name, but there was someone else who was supposed to be there, he’d been sure. Still was sure, though he kept that to himself, given the reactions he'd gotten when he'd brought it up.

 

“Who?” they’d asked. “There’s no one, you’re confused.”

 

That didn't sound right, but Harry didn't remember.

 

Draco He was an impression, a ‘something important’ and ‘please let me keep this’.

 

But Harry didn’t remember who Draco he was, not really. Not in the ways that mattered. The town insisted Harry was imagining things, that it was a ghost of a memory, something elsewhere. Unlike you, unlike us. Whatever you're thinking of , it's not here, but you are, they said, and so are we. You’re just like us, aren’t you? Stay here.

 

So he did. As if he had anywhere else to go.

 

He'd remembered one thing, though: his own name—his real name—was Harry. Harry…something. People still called him John, though, even if he'd told them it was Harry, actually. Then again, it’d only been a week, and even if his green apron had John scratched out like a bad memory, written over with the name ‘Harry’, he didn't expect them to remember. He didn't expect much at all. Not really. Why should they remember? He'd been John for the seven months they'd known him, why change now?

 

As it turned out, his apparent 'incident' in the woods was not the most dramatic thing to happen on Saturday, nor was it the most important. For after they'd told him about his incident, and after they told him he wasn't missing anyone, they told him about someone who was. Murph.

 

They told him: Loretta Moretti had died.

 

The same day Harry was found in the woods, Loretta was found dead in her home. There was no relationship there, but sometimes they looked at him like there was. You're alive, and she isn't. You could have died, but you didn't. Funny, how that happens.

 

It was a painless death, Loretta's, they’d said. Not counting the months of cancer and chemo and the chance that she was getting better, only to have hope dashed by waking up dead. Painless.

 

There had been a memorial service—or was it a funeral? Harry didn’t know the difference—and Harry had gone, because he'd known he ought to, even if he’d never met Loretta; she'd already been sick by the time Harry had started working at Cosmic Latte all those months ago. Even so, it felt like he’d known her; he’d heard so many stories about Murph’s attempts to confess to her over the years, about how he’d finally managed it on New Year’s Eve 1999.

 

The story went: Murph said he didn’t want to leave ‘the old millennium’ behind without sharing his feelings. So he confessed, and she told him “took you long enough, Scruffy”.

 

They’d married, had two daughters. They were happy for four years, and then she got cancer. Just up and out of nowhere. It came seemingly for the sole purpose of destroying their lives, as though too much happiness were a sin that needed to be punished. Murph had confessed to Harry—on the rare occasion he was up to sharing his feelings on the matter—that he knew cancer wasn’t evil. It was like an earthquake, or a plague. It had no thought, no will. It just took indiscriminately, not for any particular reason. Cancer didn’t benefit from what it did. Cancer killed its host, and killed itself too. Good people got cancer the same as bad people. It wasn’t a punishment, or a trial. It just happened. But Murph still hated cancer, hated that there was nothing to do but wait and see who won—the cancer, or Loretta.

 

Loretta was a winner in every sense of the word, until she wasn't. An artist, a mother, a lover of life. Those were the kinds of things one said about someone at their funeral. Or memorial service. Harry hadn’t known her well enough to say whether it was true or not, but she’d made Murph happy, and that was enough.

 

He'd dressed in his best suit—his only suit, and it wasn't even a suit, as such. It was what he'd been found in on the beaches of Gleyma in January. But it was warm, and tailored to him, and it seemed oddly fitting to wear to the funeral, given that it was being held on the beach, as all funerals in Gleyma were by necessity. Memorial Beach, they called it. A fitting name, really.

 

Loretta's body was laid out on a stone platform that always sat on Memorial Beach, though it was only ever visible during low tide. It had been covered in a black sheet, for the occasion, and the weather was suitably grim. The Librarian gave Loretta's eulogy, while Murph and his daughters listened silently, the whole town watching their solemn backs.

 

Harry wasn’t really feeling up to a funeral, or a memorial service, especially not one conducted in typical Gleyma fashion. But Murph was his friend, and now Murph's wife was dead. There wasn't a cemetery in Gleyma; the soil wasn't right for it, or it was against the law to bury someone in a national park, or something equally nonsensical but that everyone in Gleyma was too used to to question. They came up with their own solution, a way to 'return dust to dust' and 'give back to nature' and 'cut down on funeral costs'.

 

What they did  with the bodies of the dead instead of burying them had become normalized in Gleyma, a revered right of passage. Harry found it deeply disturbing. 

 

At the end of the service, Loretta’s body was taken out on a boat rowed by Murph, Cyril, and the Old Man, while Queenie and Murph's daughters sat in the bow. They folded her in the black silk sheet, laden with rocks, and after some ceremonial bit Harry couldn't quite see, that involved fire, chemicals, and the ringing of a silver bell, they lowered her body into the sea.

 

There was a reason no one ate fish from Gleyma.

 

After, everyone at the funeral (everyone in Gleyma) was ushered quickly off the beach for a reception in the old stone chapel. It was cold and musty inside, no matter the weather or time of year; it was rarely used these days, except for weddings and funerals (or were they memorial services?). Harry thought it was a terribly depressing venue considering they were supposed to be celebrating someone’s life. There was nothing lively about the place. The bare stone walls seemed to suck any happy thoughts right from your chest, and Harry was fairly sure he could see his breath fogging with every short exhale. There were braziers lit, completing the thoroughly medieval decor, but even standing right next to it Harry couldn’t get warm. It was the tallest building in Gleyma, but Harry always had the impression the ceiling was pressing down on him. Even so, the dim light never reached the top of the church. There were no windows, either. It felt like being buried, some unspeakable oppression about the place demanding silence.

 

After an indeterminate amount of time passed in gripping silence, the wooden doors opened and released them. Harry knew it was rude to run away, but he walked briskly, not stopping to spare a word for anyone. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

 

Later that same day, as he'd sat by the stove, curled up under blankets he didn’t remember buying, Harry was struck with the impression he might not ever be warm again. The hot chocolate helped some, but the mental images from the funeral haunted him. That could be me someday, he thought. That nearly was me, he realized anew.

 

He suspected the psychological trauma of knowing the same thing could have happened to him had he drowned on the beach all those months ago is what haunted him, whether awake or asleep. It featured heavily in his dreams—the ones he could remember, at least. His subconscious had warped it into something sick and horrifying, or something worse than the reality, at least.  A grey, scabby hand, slimy and waterlogged, reaching towards the surface of the sea, grabbing for the fading sunlight. Please don’t leave me down here. It’s dark, and cold. I’m not gone, I’m still here.

 

 

Sometimes Harry imagined he was the one tied down with rocks and tossed overboard to rot on the seafloor and get picked apart by fish, conscious all the while. Sometimes a pale hand reached out to him and was jerked away. Sometimes it was just Harry alone, reaching and reaching into inky blackness, slowly fading away…

 

Harry wasn’t sure he understood death, not really. One moment you were there, the next you weren't. He didn't fear it, though. He didn't fear death anymore than he feared falling asleep. One day, he’d close his eyes, and they wouldn't open again. And when that happened, he’d never have to worry again, to feel lonely, or hurt. He wouldn't have to wonder about what he’d forgotten, or if he’d remember one day. Whether or not he’d remember his old life was much less certain than death, and the thought that he might not ever remember scared him more than the prospect of going to sleep and not waking up. Uncertainty was terrifying, and since death was the most certain thing of all, there was no meaning in fearing it. It was actually a comfort for Harry. One day, this would all be over, and that was just fine. As long as they never tossed him overboard to decompose on the ocean floor. Even if he wouldn't be alive to think anything about it, he'd much rather spend eternity in the forest, really.

 

The funeral passed, as did Loretta, and Murph wasn’t going to come in to work for a while. Which meant Harry was the one at Cosmic Latte, running the show from morning until night. He didn't mind terribly; he'd gotten a pay raise for it, and what else would he be doing? The finance course had sent him a letter, claiming they'd never received his last assignment. It had been an important assignment, and now he wasn't doing well enough to pass, and since he couldn't remember the past three weeks of courses, he decided to give it up. He didn't like finance, anyway. Maybe he could take up a new hobby now. Knitting, or something. Anything to pass the time not spent at work, little now though it was.

 

It wasn't as though it were impossible to be happy in Gleyma. Harry was sure he might have been happy here, once. But all happiness in Gleyma was fleeting, whether you were a mother, a son, a widow, or alone. Harry wondered if one could experience true happiness, knowing it would leave you sooner rather than later. A philosophical question for the ages, surely.

 

It was not as though it were impossible to be happy in Gleyma. But it wasn't bloody likely, either.

 

---

 

The Plan was simple, if not quickly thrown together. But there was a certain beauty about a plan coming together. “Is this what it was like for the three of you? With all your…hijinks . At Hogwarts.” Draco was sure he didn’t know the half of what they’d got up at school, but they were certainly always up to something.

 

Weasley snorted, and Granger smiled wanly. “We could have done with a bit more planning. Usually Harry just rushed right in to danger, and we went along for the ride.”

 

“Damage control,” Weasley said, popping a brightly colored candy in his mouth. Draco knew it was chocolate, even if it didn’t look like chocolate—they’d studied this particular candy in his Muggle Culture class. Apparently, they didn’t melt in your pocket. Draco wondered to this day whether that sort of thing was a big problem for Muggles.

 

With Diggory’s (admittedly meagre) knowledge of Gleyma, and some of the more obvious notes Draco had made, they were able to come up with some precautionary measures. They only had the one memory charm brooch, which Draco had been begrudgingly allowed to keep. Apparently, gifting the thing was important for using it. “Mother always told me one of our ancestors received it from Merlin.”

 

“We know,” Draco said with an exasperated sigh. “You’ve told us. Thrice, now.”

 

“Well, my apologies. My memories surrounding anything with that godforsaken town are a little hard to hold on to. I thought you of all people would understand. I had to carve the name into my body in order not to forget it.”

 

Draco was almost mildly impressed that a Hufflepuff, of all creatures, had had the wherewithal to give himself a curse scar just to remember a name. Hufflepuffs were supposed to be allergic to darkness, or something.

 

Not that he’d ever share the modicum of respect Diggory had won from him. “How does it work, then? The brooch.”

 

“You just need to give it some of your blood. If it’s been gifted to you, it’ll accept the attunement to a new master.”

 

Draco still found shedding his blood amongst erstwhile enemies distasteful. Diggory still hated Draco, and made no attempts to hide it. Their temporary detente was merely a means to an end for the both of them. As soon as they found Har—Potter, and Diggory’s mother, things would likely go back to how they’d been before.

 

But he did want his memories back, and wondered whether the brooch could assist with that. Diggory was not optimistic, though. “I was able to retain memories of the town because I used the brooch before I entered the wards. It might help a bit, but the charm only responds to active threats against your mind. Whatever happened to your memories, it’s already been done.”

 

It didn’t stop Draco from attuning the thing to his magic, anyway. In the bathroom. Where no one could get any clever ideas about stealing some of his blood.

 

Granger and Weasley, for all that they claimed to appreciate in-depth planning, didn’t want to spend the necessary time to develop a flawless plan. They didn’t want to try to gather more mind amulets, or other such items. They were confident they could solve the memory problem by getting rid of the wards. The source of this confidence came from the Black Family Library, where they were conducting their motley crew meeting. “Assuming the wards were set up by a Black Family member, they must have recorded it, or at least the research for setting up the wards must be here.”

 

There were certainly volume upon volume of books concerning different kinds of wards for smiting, crushing, stretching, wrenching, and otherwise annihilating an enemy, but since none of those things had happened to Draco and Diggory—likely to both be considered ‘enemies of the town’—Draco rather thought it was a pointless venture.

 

It was rather enlightening for future reference, however. Not that Draco was much in the business of annihilation these days. But one never knew when the next war might break out.

 

Because of Draco’s notes on—or rather brief mention of—their old ancient runes professor, they deemed there must be something to do with runes in the vicinity of Gleyma. Granger seemed delighted by the prospect, for which Draco was grateful. It had been years since he’d even so much as thought of the subject—one did not need ancient runes for auror work, after all—and he was loathe to admit he was a bit rusty on the material.

 

After that, there was very little left to do. It was late, and though Granger and Weasley (and to some extent, Diggory) were practically foaming at the mouth with eagerness to get on with rescuing their golden boy and mother, respectively, Draco somehow managed to talk some sense into them. “It’s already late, and I for one don’t want to encounter a nest of dementors in pitch darkness. Surely you have…people? You need to inform? About your plans?”

 

“Mum’s been watching Rose all week.”

 

Ah. So they had…procreated. Lovely.

 

Draco didn’t feel the need to share that his own mother would flay him alive if he disappeared on her again without explaining exactly where he was going and what he was doing. Instead, he made an excuse about ‘securing provisions’ and ‘getting their lodging handled’. He did need to mend his tent if he intended to stay in it again, and he had no intention of staying in any shelter provided by Weasley. It would probably be much too Gryffindor for his tastes. And wouldn’t have any decent coffee, either.

 

They agreed to meet the next morning in front of King’s Cross, and finally Draco was able to go home and get some reprieve from the scrutiny of his so called partners in crime. Or rescue, as it were.

 

———

 

Much to Draco’s surprise and pleasure, everyone was early to their meeting at the station, and they were able to set off for the outskirts of Gleyma much sooner than anticipated. The only downside was that Draco hadn’t been able to finish his large muggle latte before they all arrived. Granger eyed the merfolk-branded paper cup curiously, but thankfully said nothing. It was too early for disparaging comments on his drink choices. Weasley and Diggory didn’t seem to notice, and that was fine with Draco.

 

Thoroughly caffeinated, their rag-tag group made their way to the apparition point inside King’s Cross, and from there Draco side-alonged them all to his providential charmed coin. It wasn’t even half seven, and already they were off to a terrific start.

 

Regrettably, their good fortune stopped almost right where it began.

 

The plan was this: Draco would take them to his specially marked coin, and from there they should be able to get to Gleyma by common sense. He was, after all, a Black, and had almost certainly been to the town before. Between himself and Diggory, it should have been simple.

 

Should being the key operative.

 

Getting in to the town was, unfortunately, much more difficult than they’d anticipated. For even once they got to the charmed coin under the Ash tree, no amount of walking around got them anywhere. They were covering quite a lot of distance—more than a ten minute walk should have allowed them, even if they were magic. After half an hour of this, Granger got impatient with their lack of progress and pulled a strange device out of her bag (which Draco was beginning to suspect might really be bottomless). The device was a “GPS tracker”, a muggle device to show their precise location, or so Granger said. Draco couldn’t deny its usefulness, for without it they would never have discovered that they seemed to be jumping several kilometers up and down the coast when they tried to walk towards a specific set of coordinates—the ones they seemed unable to reach.

 

So they knew, technically, where Gleyma was. But getting there was another question altogether.

 

Diggory was the next to come up with a great idea. Rather, his journals gave him the idea, and he had to keep reading it over and over again to not forget about it. Something about the deflection magic making it difficult to hold in his mind or something. “I don’t think Gleyma can be reached by anyone who wants to go there,” was his brilliant conclusion.

 

Draco sighed impatiently. “What do you suggest then? We can’t very well stop ourselves from wanting to get there.” Diggory gave him a withering glare for that comment, or perhaps for the sarcastic tone, but Draco was too weary to care what a Hufflepuff thought of him. He was desperate to get back to Gleyma now that he was so close, and he couldn’t put his finger on why, but there it was. It made him short tempered and testy…well, more than usual.

 

“I’m implying that to get there, we have to just sort of…let it happen. Wander in, if you will.”

 

Draco—heroically—managed to not sigh dismissively at that. Wander in, if you will. Merlin’s Beard.

 

“Is that how you used to do it?” Granger asked. She was proving to be far more sanguine about all this than Draco might have expected.

 

Diggory had to read through all five of his journals (again) before he determined the answer. The whole ‘can’t keep the details of this place straight’ lark was rather trying.  “Ah ha! Eureka ! I used to follow the postal workers in from Lynmouth. Says so right here, volume three.”

 

“You named them?” Draco said, unable to keep the disdain out of his voice. 

 

Everyone ignored him.

 

“Why don’t we just do that, then?” Weasley mumbled snarkily.

 

“The post has already come and gone,” Granger explained, staring at her watch disapprovingly as though frowning at it could make time rewind.

 

“So we’d have to wait until tomorrow if we want to use my old method?” Diggory asked.

 

"No, we'd have to wait until Monday," Draco supplied. "There's no post on Sundays."

 

Granger looked at him proudly. He couldn't imagine why.

 

Unsurprisingly, none of them wanted to wait. And so they’d taken to wandering, putting Granger’s GPS away and walking through the forest, up and down the cliffs, and every which way around the blasted town, doing anything but thinking about how very much they wanted to get to Gleyma.

 

After two hours of this, Amos stopped them all with a defeated groan. “I think I’m the problem, here. I was banished, so the wards won't even let us get close. I need to get away from you lot.”

 

Granger made an alarmed noise at this development. “But the wards—”

 

“I can get back close enough to take them down, once you lot figure out how to do it,” he said with a tired grin, flipping a coin in the air and catching it. “Charmed coins come in handy.” Granger and Weasley objected, but Draco agreed with him.

 

“If we still can’t get in after he leaves us, then we can call him back and start anew.”

 

It took more convincing (and thus, more time they didn’t have) for Weasley and Granger to accept it, but Draco had a gut feeling it was the right decision. It didn’t stop Granger from handing Diggory a series of charmed items that would (or should) allow them to communicate past the wards, including: a protean charmed coin, a charmed piece of twin parchment, and a muggle mobile phone.

 

It was a bit overkill, really. If nothing else, it showed that she’d anticipated that they all might have to split up at some point, anyway, making her objections rather curious. In any case, it was nice to see that he wasn’t the only one who’d made contingency plans.

 

When Diggory had charmed his coin to their location and apparated away, Draco pulled out his secret weapon. Or rather, his last resort, as it were. He’d rather hoped it wouldn’t be necessary, since keeping it a secret made him look like an arse, but if it got the results they wanted, it didn’t much matter how bad it made him look.

 

He roused the dozing owl from his slumber. The daft bird had stayed with him even after reuniting with Weasley, since he seemed to have gotten attached to Draco. Or at least, his silk lined pockets. He’d thought up the idea to use Poppet—or, rather, Pigwidgeon, which was the worst name Draco had ever heard—late the previous evening when he was trying (and failing) to fall asleep. He figured that even if they couldn’t use him to send letters, they could, plausibly, follow the owl to get to the town.

 

It wasn’t the strongest of plans, he knew. But nothing else they’d tried had worked.

 

“I think I have the solution to our problem,” he said, presenting the ruffled thing.

 

Granger and Weasley looked at Poppet dubiously. “How can Pig help us? We can’t very well send Harry a letter.”

 

“We don’t need to send him a letter; we just need to know where he is. Since we’re close, we can follow your owl right into town. He’s a smart little bugger, I’m sure he’ll understand what we require.”

 

“Why didn’t you mention earlier you brought Ron’s owl?” Granger said, sniffing slightly. Perhaps she didn’t like being shown up, or perhaps she was annoyed that she hadn’t thought of it first.

 

Draco decided honesty was the best course of action, for once. “Because I didn’t think we’d be able to get into town while Diggory was with us, anyway.”

 

Weasley scowled. “You might have mentioned it earlier, then!”

 

“It had to be his idea, otherwise he’d think I was just trying to get rid of him.” Draco was impressed with how calmly he was able to explain it, especially in the face of at least one Gryffindor who constantly wanted to challenge him. “Surely you’re capable of understanding that, Weasley?” he added, just for good measure.

 

Weasley didn’t respond, but he didn’t say no, either. Perhaps he really was as good at strategy as Longbottom claimed him to be.

 

Sensing no further complaints, Draco pulled out a small strip of muggle paper and scribbled ‘Harry’ on it, nothing more. He pretended not to notice either Gryffindor’s intrigued expression at his choice in parchment. “Take this to Harry, Poppet,” he cooed gently, “and fly slowly so we can follow behind.”

 

Poppet hooted once—as if to say ‘you can count on me!'—and then he was off, flapping sporadically in a direction that Draco hadn’t been able to consider before. He followed it, and the rest of his strange company with him.

 

“You do know his name is Pigwidgeon and not Poppet, right?” Weasley said, noticeably sulking.

 

Draco shrugged. “Consider it a nickname.”

 

They followed the owl in silence, all three pairs of eyes trained on the grey puff. The clear, warm cliffs soon gave way to cold, foggy forest. Draco’s head started to ache a bit, and the deeper they got into the woods, the more it throbbed.

 

He kept it to himself, until he came across a grove of trees that gave him a flash of deja vu. He stopped and stared at it long enough for Granger and Weasley to notice, and eye him curiously. He raised a shaking hand to his hair, wanting to grip something concrete. He felt the sensation of falling—no, being pushed, though he was standing firmly on his feet. A kiss, a hug, a hesitation, a choice.

 

His memories were returning.

 

He remembered Mrs. Frond first, her home, their conversation. He remembered names in the forest, stags, dementors, a revelation forgotten. He remembered Beatrix, and beaches, and hot chocolate, and lasagne.

 

And he remembered John Doe-Sometimes-Stag—Harry. And everything about him. How hopelessly in love he was with the git. He hadn’t been able to admit it before, not even to himself, but after a week away from his stupid face and his stupid glasses and his stupid hair and stupid scar, it was undeniable that he, Draco Malfoy, was stupidly in love with Harry sodding Potter. Figures.

 

He remembered Harry pushing him over the boundary, banishing him from gloomy, cursed, Gleyma, and sealing his own fate here.

 

“That selfless bastard, ” he cursed under his breath, smiling in spite of how rotten he felt. He couldn’t help it; he’d made it back, against all odds and expectations. His smile deepened as they stepped out into the runic circle at the bonfire pit. Granger and Weasley shared a look that implied they thought him certifiable. The runic circle looked the same as it had the first few times he’d been there, charred circle the focus of this ring of mystery.

 

“Who’s a bastard, now?” Weasley piped up, sounding interested for the first time since they began this admittedly ill-advised trek into forests unknown.

 

“Harry Potter, the absolute wanker,” Draco mumbled fondly under his breath, in part to answer Weasley’s question, but mostly because it felt wonderful to be able to say that name again and have it mean something.

 

He turned to Granger and Weasley, both looking at him with expectantly, with a healthy dose of caution. “Well, I’ve remembered everything. Welcome to Gleyma, rescue team.”

 

———

 

They spent what was left of the morning applying disillusionment charms to their campsite—Granger knew quite a few that allowed them to pass completely undetected. “Not even a werewolf could find us, even if he were standing right in front of us, and we were covered in blood,” Granger said with alarming confidence. He wondered at the odd specificity of her phrasing, and decided he was better off not knowing.

 

“Our last camping trip was the actual worst,” Weasley said, voice chipper in spite of his words. “We couldn’t leave the wards, or we’d lose track of the tent and campsite.”

 

“That certainly didn’t stop you,” Granger mumbled. Weasley shot her a hurt look at that, and they proceeded to give each other the silent treatment, which meant using Draco as a means of passive aggressive communication. They set up Draco’s tent along the periphery of the bonfire pit because the runes there protected them from the wind and rain. It helped that it was a good landmark so they wouldn’t get lost in the woods.

 

Draco expected them to bombard him with questions now that he’d remembered everything, and the fact that they didn’t made him unaccountably uneasy. The awkward tension was already bone weary, and it wasn’t even lunch time yet. He considered summoning Slanket to ask her to make them something, but then he remembered that the wards here blocked house-elf magic. “I don’t suppose either of you knows how to cook?” he asked cautiously. Conversation had been thin that morning, even before the wonder duo got in a snit.

 

“Harry’s the cook,” Weasley said, collapsing heavily on Draco’s sofa with of wumpf sound. Draco narrowed his eyes. It might be camping furniture, but he didn’t like it being handled so roughly. “I've gotten better the past few months, but I can really only make toast and baby food.”

 

“Well, I’m not going to cook. I refuse to fall into gender roles,” Granger sniffed.

 

Draco wondered what gender had to do with cooking, but based on the venomous glare Granger was shooting at both himself and Weasley, it seemed now was not the time to ask. “I can make soup, I suppose.” He was too tired, really, but he wanted food more than he wanted sleep.

 

Weasley sneered. “You think we’ll eat anything you serve us?”

 

Draco sighed, standing up and shuffling towards the kitchen. It just wasn’t worth the effort, and yet… “Eat it, don’t eat it. It’s up to you. But I'm not too keen on baby food, if it's all the same to you.”

 

He made carrot ginger soup, because it made him think of Harry, and because the dash of star anise made him feel alert. In the end, Weasley and Granger both ate it, with varying levels of gratitude. Granger seemed surprised at the taste, whereas Weasley seemed surprised it wasn’t poisoned. Insulting on both counts, really.

 

“I suppose you’ll have questions,” he offered weakly once they’d talked about the soup for as long as was comfortable, and then some. “About this place. What happened here.”

 

“You’re bloody right we do,” Weasley mumbled around a piece of toast (that he’d made himself). He said it just loud enough to be heard. Granger glared at him.

 

“We want to see Harry,” she said.

 

“Obviously. We all do.” Draco waved dismissively. “We can’t just rush in there without a plan, though.”

 

Weasley snorted. “Why do you want to see him?”

 

Draco didn’t dignify that with a response. He wasn’t exactly ready to declare his…feelings for Harry in front of them. He hadn’t even told Harry yet, after all, and it seemed that Harry ought to be the first to know. “We can’t just go charging in there without a plan,”  he repeated.

 

“We’ve got a plan,” Weasley said. “Find Harry, grab ‘im, and get the hell out of here.”

 

“Oh, well done Weaselbee, full marks on your strategy. You might find it difficult, though, since he doesn’t want to leave.”

 

“What?!” Granger and Weasley shouted. Well, Weasley shouted. Granger…exclaimed. Emphatically.

 

“I didn’t leave him here because I wanted to. He pushed me away.”

 

“He does that,” Granger said softly. He wasn’t sure if it was in response to what he’d said, or if she were talking to herself.

 

"I mean that literally. He pushed me over the boundary." They stared at him blankly, and he suppressed the urge to sigh. Instead, he granted them a wan smile. "Right. Explanations, then?" 

 

He set a kettle to boil and pulled out three mugs for instant coffee. His latte this morning felt like ages ago, and in a sense it was. There was no possibility of having this conversation without fortifying himself with caffeine.

 

“Right," he said again, a stalling tactic if ever he saw one. He placed their coffee in front of them, along with cream and sugar. “Here’s what I’ve remembered.”

 

He told them everything, from seeing Harry for the first time and his belief that the Boy Wonder was on an undercover mission, and the subsequent legilimens that revealed that Harry was not merely pretending. Weasley objected noisily at that, saying it was a violation of privacy and such.

 

“I thought he’d be able to occlude, I didn’t expect to see anything!” Draco protested. He still felt a bit guilty about reading Harry’s thoughts, but since it gave him the insight he'd needed to realize something was very wrong with Harry, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

 

He described their conversations, Draco’s failed attempts to contact someone about finding Harry. They were rightly horrified (though unsurprised, considering what they now knew about Harry’s mission here) when Draco told them about the Dementors, and intrigued when he disclosed his doubts that they were sent to harm; he still thought they were there to discourage them from searching deeper into the woods.

 

He did not tell them about kissing Harry, or staying at Harry’s flat, or falling in love with Harry. That was a piece he wanted to hold on to for himself, just a little while longer.

 

He told them instead about Mrs.Frond, about her dire warnings.

 

Finally, he told them about Harry gathering all his things and telling Draco they were leaving, apparently because Mrs.Frond told him they had to. He described Harry’s strange argument with his boss ‘Queenie’ that Draco had only caught the tail end of. He told them how Harry had remembered a bit about himself—due to the brooch—and his strange behavior up until they were deep in the woods.

 

He told them also of his suspicions that Queenie was the one behind all this.

 

“She tried to stop us—well, stop Harry. She was all too happy to see me go. But Harry told her essentially to go fuck herself, and we left. And then he said we wouldn’t be able to return if we crossed the border, and then he pushed me over it. I forgot all about Gleyma and went home, and now you’re all caught up.”

 

“Why do you remember all this now?” Weasley asked, raising a dubious, offensively ginger eyebrow. “You’ve had the brooch all along, and you activated it yesterday.”

 

Draco was suitably impressed that Weasley had realized that. He hadn’t told them. He wasn’t even wearing the brooch anywhere visible.

 

“It must be the net Mrs.Frond mentioned,” Granger interjected. “Your memories are tied here, but as long as you’re here with the memory charm, you can access them.”

 

“For now,” Draco said darkly. “She has forgotten a lot, and I suspect this memory brooch was the only thing helping her hold on to what few memories she had left.”

 

Weasley glared at Draco. “So it’s your fault she’s forgotten.”

 

“She gave it to Harry,” Granger said, jumping to Draco’s defense.

 

“And Harry gave it to me,” Draco concluded. “I suppose he knew he was going to stay…”

 

“Wouldn’t he need it more than you, then?” Weasley demanded, and there was that anger.

 

Draco ignored this comment, mostly because he agreed, and agreeing with a Weasley was surely a portender of the end times. “I think Harry’s magic is protecting his memories from being taken by the Net. They’re suppressed, though, so he can’t remember, but he won’t lose them, either.”

 

Granger nodded sagely at Draco’s deduction, as though she had had the same thought, and wasn't he just precious for being able to come up with that on his own? Of course, she didn't actually say this, and Draco was perhaps ever so slightly sensitive, but he courageously decided not to be offended by the things she might or might not have been thinking. He was second only to her at school, thanks ever so, and didn't need to feel threatened by her intellect. Not anymore. “That would explain why he remembered after the Patronus…” she mused.

 

“His magic couldn’t maintain the barrier after being forcefully expulsed,” Draco concluded, forcing himself to feel pleased they were on the same wavelength.

 

“He knew you’d come back for him,” Granger said with a tight smile. “That’s why he gave you the brooch.” Draco's heart clenched painfully. If she were going to be all supportive like this, maybe they could get along, after all.

 

“I still think he should have let Harry keep it,” Weasley mumbled.

 

“I didn’t much get the chance to refuse it, did I? I hadn’t even been aware I had it until it was too late."

 

“Ronald Weasley, you of all people should understand the value of being given a way to come back,” Granger said furiously. He had the grace to look cowed at that, and mumbled something that could be ‘yeah, fine, you’re right’ or ‘erumpants love cheese’ for all that Draco could hear. It didn't matter, though; it wasn’t meant for him.

 

“So, where should we go from here, then?” Granger asked, though the look in her eye implied she already had several plans in mind.

 

Draco desperately wanted to see Harry. But part of him was afraid that Queenie might have done something to him, that he wouldn't remember Draco anymore…he didn’t think he could stand apathy from Harry, not now.

 

But he’d have to find out eventually. “There are a couple of ways we can approach this,” Draco explained. “But I fear you will only get one shot to see Harry and assess his mental state.”

 

Weasley frowned. “Why?”

 

Draco bit back a sigh. Had he even been listening to Draco's story? “I cannot stress enough how few outsiders come here during the ‘off season’. And if you come back more than once, or stick around where people see you investigating, Queenie is sure to be suspicious.”

 

“I still don’t see why we can’t just grab Harry and go.”

 

Draco couldn’t stop himself from sighing this time. “I understand the impulse, but if we rush in there, this whole thing will go pear-shaped very quickly. I’ve been gone a week, now. I don’t know what might have changed, what kind of additional wards have been set up at the shop since our ill-advised escape attempt. Mrs.Frond made it sound like…well. That after a period of time, one might not be able to leave.”

 

“Because of the wards,” Granger summarized succinctly. “Well, our plan is fairly simple then, isn’t it? We need to investigate the wards from the inside, tell Amos about them, and wait for him to take them down. If there’s nothing trying to pull Harry’s memories, he should be able to remember, and then he can get whatever’s been taken from his house, and we can put this whole thing behind us.”

 

Draco recognized, on some level, that Granger was probably the sort to be comforted by clear action plans and lists, but she made it sound like their task was a simple matter of just taking down wards that had been up for centuries. Not to mention the fact that someone might try to stop them; presumably, that's why his tent had been attacked. “You’re forgetting the problem of the dementors. What if the wards are the only thing protecting the town from them?”

 

“That’s just a risk we’ll have to take. Once Harry gets his memories back, he can cast a patronus that gets rid of them. With us helping, of course.”

 

“It seems you are forgetting how much we still don’t know about this situation. Why Harry wanted me to leave, for example, and why he gave me his wand, his memories. We don’t even know whether he’ll remember me or not.”

 

“Well, I think we’ve spent enough time talking about it,” Granger said in a no-nonsense tone. “We need to see what’s happened to Harry and we need to investigate the wards. All of that is in town, yes? So let’s go.”

 

Draco wasn’t quite sure he agreed, but he had a feeling his co-conspirators were not going to listen to reason until they’d seen Harry, and would overrule any plea for caution. Loathe as he was to admit it, he understood the sentiment. “You should brace yourselves for the fact that he might not remember or recognize you,” he said cautiously. “He used to get…upset when people called him Harry Potter. If he doesn’t seem to know who you are, you should treat him like a stranger as well.”

 

Weasley looked particularly affronted at that. “He’s my best mate! You think I can just pretend not to know him?”

 

“You must,” Draco insisted, “if not for Harry’s sake, then do it because you don’t want anyone else in town cottoning on to the fact that you’re here to take him away. I don’t trust a single person in Gleyma other than Harry and Mrs.Frond. It’s impossible to know who might be in on the secret of what this town really is.”

 

The matching grim expressions on Granger and Weasley’s face lead him to believe his point had been heard and—hopefully—accepted. “He remembered you,” Granger said, looking forlorn. “You really think he won’t remember us? ”

 

Deep breaths, Draco. Harry won’t be very impressed if you strangle his friends. “I’m certain that I don’t have any idea what will happen. He didn’t remember who I was before I got to know him here, but I suspect there was some…recognition. The same might happen for you, it might not. You should prepare for both possibilities.”

 

She pinned Draco with a knowing look. “What about you? Are you prepared?”

 

He swallowed dryly. “I…am not so sure it’s a good idea for anyone to see me here.”

 

“Fine. But do you want to go with us?”

 

He did. He really, really did, but somehow he doubted casting a disillusionment charm will be good enough. “It doesn’t matter. If people see me, the jig will be up, so to speak.” And he wasn’t sure what he would do if Harry didn’t recognize him at all.

 

“Good thing I brought this along,” Granger said, and whipped out a silvery cloak.

 

“Merlin’s Beard, is that what I think it is?” Even as he asked, he knew: it was an invisibility cloak. Harry’s invisibility cloak. “Where did you get that?”

 

“I borrowed it before Harry disappeared. I never got to give it back…”

 

Draco made a scandalized noise in his throat. “He just let you have it?” Draco certainly wouldn’t have let his friends borrow his invisibility cloak if he had one. He’d never see the thing again.

 

“Yeah, Malfoy, it’s what friends do.”

 

“He lets us use it as long as no ‘freaky sex games’ are involved.”

 

“That is entirely more information than I needed, Granger.”

 

She smiled at him warmly. “Call me Jean. It’s my incognito name. Hermione is a bit too…known , I think.”

 

“Well, Jean. That is a good idea, but I don’t think Queenie has any idea who Harry Potter or his cohorts actually are. She just knows he’s a powerful wizard.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Weasley demanded.

 

“Kreacher said it’s a land of banishment. Queenie all but admitted she can’t leave. Owls don’t come through with messages, so how could she possibly know who you are, let alone The Boy Who Lived?”

 

Granger shrugged. “Better safe than sorry.”

 

“Guess I’ll be Bill then,” Weasly said gamely.

 

“Not Bilius? Billy? William?”

 

Ron looked queasy at that. “Just Bill, thanks.”

 

They turned expectantly to Draco, and he realized what they wanted. He'd caught on to the theme of their names, as well. “I don’t think either ‘Lucius’ or ‘Abraxas’ is any less distinct than ‘Draco’. Besides, if all goes well, no one will even know I’m there.”

 

“It’s the spirit of the thing. You’re with us, aren’t you?” Granger said, entirely too genuine to be denied. Draco nodded miserably. “Then pick a goddamn code name.”

 

He sighed. “Call me...Landon, then. That’s suitably muggle.”

 

“Suitably random.”

 

It wasn’t, in fact. It was based on Ladon, the snake his constellation was named after. It was also the muggle name he’d picked for the assignments he’d been given during his muggle education course. For the times he’d had to venture out into the muggle world.

 

But they didn’t need to know that.

 

“Well, now that that’s settled!” Hermione cheered. “That reminds me…” she whipped out her wand and cast three cheering charms. Draco instantly felt better, and a bit more optimistic about their chances of success.

 

It didn't hurt to know that he was on his way to see Harry. Finally.

 

---

 

October the first dawned cold and grey and rainy as ever. It was the first october Harry had ever experienced. He had never experienced autumn before at all, and though technically autumn had started nearly two weeks ago, it hadn't really felt any different from summer until now. So far his impressions were that he liked everything about it: the changing leaves, the wind in the trees, the faint musky scent of decay that hung in the air. He liked everything except how dark it was in the morning and the evenings. He knew it’d been getting darker since June, but he hadn't fully noticed until now, when it seemed darkness was the bookend to every morning and night. It was dark when he left the house each morning, and dark before he got home again in the evening. And it would only get darker.

 

He heard a bell jingle; someone had come in. He didn’t look up. Why should he? It won’t be Draco anyone who mattered.

 

“Welcome to Cosmic Latte,” he said dully, quietly. Did they hear him? He couldn’t be sure. Nor did he particularly care; he was focusing on the crossword. It was last Saturday’s, and was right difficult. Particularly since he couldn't remember a good chunk of pop culture from the past twenty or so years.

 

The weather notwithstanding, Harry was not enjoying October. There were the nightmares, of course. The lack of any discernible direction in his life. And, of course, the company. 

 

“Hiya, John. Er, Harry,” Cyril said, sounding devastatingly chipper. “I was wondering if you’d given my proposal any thought?”

 

The worst thing about passing out in the woods, Harry decided, was that Cyril seemed to think he had a chance now, since he “saved” Harry. But Harry didn’t remember that, and even if he did—if it really happened at all, and he had doubts—the answer would always be ‘no’. Queenie was keeping her distance. Harry didn’t mind. He was fairly sure he was annoyed with her for something, but he didn’t know what. Not anymore.

 

“Your proposal?” Harry repeated laconically. He didn’t look up from his crossword, nor did he remember any proposal. Then again, he probably hadn't been paying attention when said proposal was proposed.

 

“Yeah! My proposal to go to the cliffs this afternoon? Together? For a picnic?”

 

Harry glanced out the window. It was pouring rain, like it usually was. “You want to go on a picnic today?”

 

“Yes! With you!” Cyril nodded.

 

He was a like a golden retriever, Harry thought. If golden retrievers were narcissistic, that is. Did he not pick up on social cues, Harry wondered, or was he simply so convinced of his success that any negative response just didn’t compute?

 

Cyril's hair was blonde, and his eyes were blue, almost grey in the low light of Cosmic Latte. But it wasn’t right.

 

Still, Harry thought, maybe it would be better than being alone…

 

No.

 

“I think if you check outside, you’ll find it’s not good weather for a picnic,” Harry advised, returning to his crossword. Four down, A tragedian who rejected the notion that death is evil. Hmm. Known letters: S. Six spaces. Difficult…

 

“It could clear up!” Cyril chirupped.

 

It wouldn’t, Harry was sure. It never did.

 

“And if it doesn’t I have a back-up plan. Do you know what that is?”

 

Harry had stopped listening, more interested in his crossword. If he completed it, he’d get…kudos, or something. Sartre didn't fit. And he was tragic, but not a tragedian. Maybe Sorrel? But if there was only one ‘r’, it wouldn't fit. Harry wasn’t sure.…and Sorel (Sorrel?) was not particularly tragic.

 

Oh, Seneca, of course. How did he miss that?

 

“Indoor picnic!” Cyril cheered. “Always wanted to try that. We could go to my place…or yours, I guess.”

 

“Cyril,” Harry began, writing the clue in to his crossword, “I am going to say this very slowly, so pay attention: I am not interested in a picnic, either indoors or outdoors.”

 

“Oh." Cyril deflated a bit. If Harry had known being direct and blunt was the way to go, he’d have tried it ages ago. “Well, we could play board games in—”

 

Scratch that. Nothing would discourage the wanker. “Let me clarify: I want to go home, read a book, and feed Beatrix. Alone.”

 

Cyril didn’t like snakes, and the look on his face said so even if Harry didn’t already know it. Harry hated the fact he knew anything personal about Cyril, but there it was. “Well, I could come over after—”

 

“No, you can’t. I have plans.”

 

Something that looked suspiciously like jealousy flashed in Cyril’s eyes. “Plans? With who?”

 

“With Beatrix. And myself.”

 

Cyril frowned, like those words didn’t make sense.

 

“Do I have to spell it out for you? I want to be alone, Cyril.”

 

“My sister says it’s not healthy to be alone in times like this.”

 

Harry wanted to say Cyril’s sister could sod off, but since Cyril’s sister was Harry’s boss and landlord, he didn’t think that would go over well. The only thing worse than living in Gleyma was being homeless in Gleyma. “Did you want something to drink, Cyril, or are you just here to pester me?”

 

“Pester is a rude word,” Cyril opined, the chipper demeanor melting for the first time.

 

“Pestering is a rude thing to do,” Harry agreed. Before Cyril could attempt to engage him in more banal conversation, he turned on the espresso machine—it made an obnoxiously loud noise, but it was preferable to Cyril. Harry knew he was being rude, but he didn’t particularly care. The next clue on the crossword read: She makes a living through meddling. Harry wished he could do that. It might be more interesting than making a living through coffee.

 

Cyril all but sneered and left without ordering anything, as per usual. He was his sister’s brother after all, it seemed. He half suspected Queenie put him up to this meddlesome flirting, though why he agreed was beyond Harry’s ability to comprehend. Why Queenie would want him to was another question altogether, and Harry really didn’t want to think about it too much; he didn't think he’d like the conclusions he’d draw.

 

The rest of the day passed without incident, at least where Cyril was concerned, and Harry hoped in vain that today would be the last time he’d have to deal with such nonsense.

 

Somehow, he doubted it.

 

He went to sleep and another dull day in Gleyma came to an end, none too soon.

 

———

 

The next day began as it always did—nightmares, fear, loneliness. Harry went to work. Cyril tried to flirt.

 

But then, something different happened. Two strangers walked in to Cosmic Latte, reading a guide book on Exmoor, looking terribly bedraggled. “Excuse me,” the woman asked. “Can you give us directions? We’re a bit lost?” She had warm brown eyes, brown frizzy hair, and brown skin almost the same shade as Harry’s. She looked kind, Harry thought, and he wished he knew her.

 

“Well, I can try to help you,” he said, beckoning her to come closer, “but I’m afraid I’m shite at directions.”

 

“So are we, apparently,” the woman’s partner joked. He was tall—alarmingly so—with bright orange hair, freckles, and eyes as blue as the sea. He looked like the kind of man you could drink a pint with, share all your troubles with, and who’d offer tea, sympathy, and to help you bury the body.

 

“What are you doing out in this weather, anyway?” he asked, because it was once again—or perhaps, still—raining buckets.

 

“We’re backpacking the coast for our honeymoon,” the woman said, smiling brilliantly.

 

“Oh, congratulations.” Harry meant it genuinely, but it still came out sounding a little hollow.

 

“We’ve been married a while, mate,” the ginger man said with an easy smile. “Just never got around to celebrating it, if you know what I mean.” He gave Harry a saucy eyebrow wiggle, and yes, Harry knew exactly what the man meant. It seemed a bit personal to share such details with a complete stranger, but maybe that was just how people were outside Gleyma. Harry wouldn’t know.

 

“R—Bill, please,” the woman admonished, blushing. “Forgive him, he’s tactless.”

 

The man—Bill, apparently—grinned widely, unbothered by this assessment. “I thought I was ‘affably daft’, Jean?”

 

Jean sighed, giving up her chastising as a bad job, apparently. “Can we get some coffee while we try to make sense of this blasted map?”

 

“Coffee I can give you, yes.” Harry smiled, relieved he could be of use. It felt like it’d been a while since he smiled, so he wasn’t sure if it came out quite right. But he just felt natural around these two. Relaxed. “What size? What type? How many shots? Take away or in a reusable cup?”

 

Bill blinked, expression solemn. “That’s a lot of questions…”

 

“It’s standard fare at coffee shops, Bill,” Jean scolded. It seemed their dynamic was one of playful bickering and banter, and Harry’s heart filled with longing for grey eyes and blonde hair. Not that he remembered why or who or when. “We’ll have two pumpkin spice lattes in mugs, please.”

 

Harry smiled and completed the transaction. He liked people who chose sustainable, even if it was an inconvenience for them.

 

“You must be from the city if you know about Pumpkin Spice,” he said, heart panging a bit for reasons unknown.

 

“We are,” Jean agreed, handing over payment for the drinks. “Do you get visitors often out here?”

 

Harry’s smile faded. A flash of blonde, silver, a green and gold mug. “Not often, no,” he said softly. “But recently…there’s a lot for the off season, or so I’m told.”

 

“So you’re told?” Bill pressed, frowning.

 

“I’m not from around here, either. I’ve got some mental…problems.”

 

“Oh,” Jean said, looking uncomfortable. Harry had forgotten being blunt about his condition made people uneasy, but it was too late to take it back. “If you’re not from here, where are you from?” she continued, brushing past the awkward with grace.

 

“Nowhere,” Harry said, and left the couple to make their pumpkin spice lattes. His mood hadn’t been particularly good before, but now he was in a right foul mood.

 

He watched the couple spread out their sodden maps on the table, taking up the spot on the old sofa, in front of the fire. He frowned, silently thinking that’s his spot,

 

But who was he?

 

Harry shook his head, trying to dislodge the thoughts. They only caused him pain, and he had a coffee shop to run.

 

The couple drank their hot beverages and discussed their plan in hushed whispers. Harry watched them, feeling a swirl of contradictory emotions: jealous of their intimacy, worried about their safety, curious about their story, afraid of who they might really be.

 

Overall, though, he pitied them a bit, bedraggled and soaked through the bone as they were. Moreover, the sun was setting, and there wasn’t a place to stay within walking distance.

 

He supposed he could offer them his sofa, but…

 

A small voice whispered in his mind. He thought it could be his conscience. Perhaps it was common sense. You don’t know them, it told him. You have no obligation to these people. They got lost on their own, they can get themselves out of this situation. On. Their. Own.

 

Did he need a reason to want to help people, Harry asked himself. He didn’t think he did; he wanted to help people, he thought. It was a part of him, he was pretty sure, like black hair, tan skin, green eyes, and an unfortunate scar. Even amnesia couldn’t erase the natural impulses of who a person was, Harry hoped. Even if he couldn’t remember what he used to be like, it would be devastating to find out he was completely different in every way.

 

Do you believe every sob story that walks in this place? The voice asked him again. Look where that got you last time.

 

But Harry didn't remember last time, only that if it left him feeling like this…

 

The couple was looking at Harry now, concern etched into their features. Harry realized he’d been staring at them, muttering to himself. He shot them an apologetic smile and resumed cleaning the pastry hut. He’d already cleaned it three times just that morning, but he needed a distraction. Bread crumbs were an excellent distraction.

 

They left an hour later, suspiciously dry, handing their mugs back to Harry and going on their merry way. Well, maybe not their merry way. They still look worried. “Did you figure out where you are?” Harry asked, unable to help himself.

 

“We’ve got enough of an idea to go off for now,” the woman, Jean, was it? said. She pulled a travel mug out of her purse, and Harry thought that there shouldn’t be enough space in there for that, but what did he know about purses? “Can we get one more pumpkin spice latte for the road?”

 

Harry smiled, but he suspected it came out as more of a grimace. “Of course.”

 

He saw Jean and Bill exchange anxious glances, but he supposed they had plenty of reason to worry. They were lost in a strange town in terrible weather with only their wits and a latte to protect them, after all.

 

He bid them farewell and good luck, they’d need it. “Take care of yourself,” said Jean wistfully.

 

It was an odd thing for a stranger to say to him, Harry thought. But then again, they were kind people, weren't they? Just a little lost, a little rained on.

 

And weren't they all that way in Gleyma?

 

Harry felt a bit lonely, seeing them leave. The bell above the door jingle jangled pleasantly, but the sound was anything but pleasant for Harry.

 

It was the sound of goodbyes.

 

That evening, after work, he went to see Mrs. Frond. He knew it wouldn’t make him feel better, but in her company he could pretend he wasn’t as alone as he knew himself to be. Mrs. Frond was alone, too, but at least in her mind she was on her way somewhere grand.

 

Mrs.Frond didn't remember him at all, but she was always happy to see him. Perhaps because she was under the impression that Harry was her late husband Nigel. At least, that’s what he had to assume; she called him Nigel without fail. Never Roger, or Amos, or John, or Harry. She was permanently settled now, comfortable in the assertion that she was going to a War Memorial Ball, every night for the rest of her life. He was almost a little envious of her, as horrible as it was to admit that even to himself. Her reality, even if a falsely remembered one, was full of joy and peace. Harry's reality was full of rain and headaches.

 

Harry stayed for an hour, but it was all he could bear. So he went home, told Beatrix all about the terrible day he’d had; she was a great listener. Sympathetic, as much as she could be. Where’s the other gone?   She asked.

 

What other?

 

Lemony. Scared. Clever. Determined. The other one.

 

Harry didn’t know what she was talking about. He knew she wasn’t really talking, it was just wishful thinking on his behalf, and possibly the sign of a developing neurosis. But he knew it wasn’t real, so it wasn’t as though he needed to worry about it. But usually his fake conversations with Beatrix made sense. This was just…

 

I’ve finally lost the plot, haven’t I?

 

He went to sleep, knowing he would have nightmares he wouldn't remember about slimy, scabby hands, dragging him down, down, down into darkness, despair, and cold.

 

But Harry didn’t remember much of anything these days.

Notes:

thank you for all your wonderful comments! I turn into a little pile of mush every time I hear from you all. Happy Halloweekend, too!

feel free to chat me up on tumblr at noir-renard.tumblr.com ^w^

Chapter 16: Memoriam In Absentia

Summary:

Don't let them tell you that some things are best forgotten; it is in memory that the past survives.

Notes:

cw: mentions of blood (non-graphic). angst. fighting.

The mood was subdued as the unlikely trio made their way back to the tent. No one said a word until the flap whipped shut behind them, when Weasley let out a hissed expletive that would have made Mad-Eye himself blush.

 

Things were much worse than they’d expected, to say the least.

 

Looking back, things had started off poorly when they stepped out of the tent into a sudden downpour. They were soaked before they had the chance to cast impervius charms, and nothing soured Draco’s mood like being rained on.

 

“Well, at least this will give us a good cover story,” Granger said, trying for optimism but falling flat.

 

Draco sent her a withering glare and pulled on the invisibility cloak.

 

“Now Dr—er, Landon, you’ll need to look at everything carefully, alright? Catalogue everything you see,  especially any differences you notice.”

 

“I was going to do that anyway,” he mumbled under his breath. Even if they were on the same team now, he didn’t particularly like being told what to do, especially since he rather saw himself as the one in charge, here.

 

“Good. We’ll need to look at it later. I don’t imagine Ron—er, Bill and I will be able to investigate as thoroughly as we’d like, so it’s up to you.”

 

“Look at it later?” Draco repeated. Draco was not at all comfortable with the thought of Granger casting legilimens on him. It wasn’t that he dis-trusted her, as such, but his thoughts were private. And yes, fine, he had cast the same spell on Harry several times, but that was only in desperation. Then again, given how affronted she and Weasley had been that he had sifted through Harry’s mind, surely she wouldn’t turn around and suggest he submit to the same treatment under her wand. “How do you mean?” he said at last, when the silence bordered on uncomfortable.

 

She looked nervous at that, which didn’t bode well for his ‘Granger Wouldn’t Do That’ hypothesis. “If you intend to peruse and gambol about in my mind, Granger, I’ll have you know—”

 

“Typical that mind invasion is the first thing you’d think of,” Weasley interrupted. “You’ll just have to describe it to us.”

 

“Um,” Granger said, looking at Weasley nervously and hunching her shoulders. “Well, I wasn’t thinking of Legilimens, but…I did bring a pensieve.”

 

“A pensieve?” Draco scoffed to hide his relief. “Really Granger? Had a spare one lying around, did you? And you just chucked that in your bag?" he shook his head, even though neither of his companions could see him. "Do you even know how rare those are?”

 

“Yes,” she said evenly. “I had to borrow it from someone.”

 

“Borrowed it,” Draco repeated, dubious. “From whom?”

 

Granger stared at her feet and mumbled something.

 

“Come again?”

 

“McGonagall, alright? I borrowed it from her office.”

 

That was an unnatural way of phrasing the sentiment, Draco rather thought. “Does she know you borrowed it?”

 

“Do you really think I’d just take it without her knowing?”

 

“I think you are avoiding a clear answer to the question. It’s yes or no, Granger.”

 

She flushed and averted her gaze, which was all the response Draco needed. “Merlin's Beard, Granger! I didn’t think you had it in you!”

 

Draco wasn’t sure what expression he was making—delighted, scandalized, impressed—but Weasley cut off any further praise he might have given Granger, halting his progression and spinning around to stare at her face in incredulity. Draco nearly ran into them, and it was only thanks to his quick reflexes that he didn’t. “‘Mione! You told me she said you could use it, but that you had to use it there —”

 

Granger coloured, embarrassed and angry. “She hasn’t even noticed it’s missing! And hopefully never will.”

 

Draco hoped they weren’t about to start bickering again. It had been rather exhausting the first time.

 

“How do you even know that—”

 

“Because I transfigured a regular mortar to look just like her pensieve and left it there with an alarm ward in case she tries to use it.”

 

“Why bother?” Draco interrupted. He'd decided impressed was the way to feel about this. Here he thought Gryffindors were too noble to do something like steal.  Or 'borrow without express permission', as it were.

 

“Well, if she doesn’t notice, I see no reason to tell her that it ever was missing.”

 

“And if she does notice?”

 

Granger drew herself up proudly and stared in Draco’s general direction. She was staring past his left shoulder, so the effect was probably less effective than she intended it to be. “I am prepared to face whatever consequences she deems fitting.”

 

Weasley was quiet for a moment, apparently processing. “Why didn’t you tell me, at least?”

 

“I did,” she insisted, pulling away and starting down the path to Gleyma again. “Just now.”

 

“No, you told Malfoy, and I happened to hear it.”

 

Granger huffed and walked a bit faster. “Honestly? I didn’t tell you so you’d have culpable deniability.”

 

Weasley had no trouble keeping up, given his freakishly long legs. “I don’t want culpable deniability, Hermione, I want you to be honest with me. Always. We’re in this together!” Weasley sighed, as though consciously deciding to let it go, this time. Draco rather wondered what the point of coming up with code-names was if they weren’t going to use them. “Why did you take it, ‘Mione? McGonagall'll have kneazles if she finds out.”

 

“Because I’m desperate, alright? No one else thinks there’s anything necessarily wrong. Just the three of us. Four, if you count Amos.”

 

“Kingsley believed us,” Weasley pointed out.

 

Draco was tempted to point out that the Minister was at least partially responsible for this, since he’d signed off on allowing Harry to search for a nest of dementors on his own, but as he was supposed to be invisible and quiet, he kept it to himself.

 

No one said anything for the remainder of their trip to Cosmic Latte, except when Granger stopped them at the edge of the woods to pull out two transfigured muggle backpacks large enough to fit a small child. “For our cover story,” she said tersely, shouldering her bag and handing the other to Weasley.

 

And then they were there.

 

It was already past lunch, so there was a chance that Harry wouldn’t even be working, Draco reminded himself, mindful of not getting his hopes up. But even if Harry weren’t at work, they could still investigate the wards inside the shop.

 

The bell rang thrice as they stepped over the threshold, just as it always did, and the effect filled Draco with longing. Well, it wasn’t just the bell. It was Harry, standing behind the counter, looking bored and vacant. His eyes turned to take in the newcomers, but no look of recognition crossed his features. Perhaps there was interest at apparent strangers, but other than that, nothing.

 

Draco’s heart sank, his hopes quashed that Harry had perhaps held onto the memories he’d briefly regained. As for whether he’d remember Draco, Draco couldn’t be sure, and he was afraid to find out. It was that fear more than the knowledge of Weasley and Granger’s disapproval that kept him from attempting to peek into Harry’s mind. Whatever he saw there would surely hurt him, and he was hurting enough as it was without adding Harry’s pain to his own.

 

Even so, he wanted nothing more than to go up to the counter, to hear Harry’s voice, to be in pseudo-companionship with Harry. But he had a mission, so he ignored what his heart said and set to work, examining the wards and charms around Cosmic Latte, mindful of changes that had been made in his absence.

 

The first thing he noticed was the sofa. It had not ever truly been his sofa, even if he had come to think of it as such during the time he’d spent there, but regardless of what he thought of it, the chocolate corduroy sectional was gone, replaced with a yellow etoile monstrosity that had mysterious grey stains all over it.

 

The other notable difference was a memorial to one “Loretta Moretti”, featuring a dried out wreath of white roses, a faded muggle photograph of a woman, perhaps in her forties, smiling thinly. The dates 1962-2004 were printed beneath it, along with the words May she be missed and remembered fondly. He was sure he’d never met anyone named Loretta here, or heard Harry mention her, so it seemed unlikely she was a regular. There was something familiar about her, however, and Draco could only assume she had passed sometime after his departure.

 

The wards, as far as he could tell, were more or less of the same variety, but they held some quality that was distinctly different about them from before. He couldn’t quite place his finger on it, though, and it irritated him like a scratch he couldn’t quite reach.

 

They stayed at Cosmic Latte long enough to see that Murph, Harry’s co-worker, wasn’t coming, and long enough to tell that Harry was profoundly unhappy, if the hollow, forlorn way Harry stared at Granger and Weasley were anything to go by. When Draco couldn’t take it anymore, he tapped Granger and Weasley on the shoulder twice, their agreed-upon signal that he was ready to leave, and so they did.

 

He’d asked Granger to get him a latte, but he regretted it from the first sip. One sip of the latte was enough to know it wasn’t the same. It was still delicious, of course—sugar and coffee and milk would never fail to satisfy—but it lacked an undefinable something. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that Harry had made it, but not for him specifically. Perhaps it was just because he couldn’t see it as anything but a symbol of Harry’s imprisonment.

 

They stopped only once on the way back to the tent, to investigate the wards surrounding all of Gleyma. Once again Draco was struck with the sense that there was something different about them, but what it was evaded him. They still resembled the inside of a pensive to him, and they still lacked the inherent dark nature he expected of a town that stole your memories. Granger and Weasley weren’t speaking, either to Draco or each other, so he wasn’t sure what they thought of it. He didn’t blame them, really; he wasn’t much for talking at the moment, either, and would much rather have gone home and curled up in bed, with a glass of Harry’s hot chocolate, or perhaps something stronger. Like Ogden’s.

 

———

 

It occurred to Draco at some point between leaving the shop and entering the tent that it was easy to make a promise, to say you were fine with something, to think about ‘after’, when you knew that very shortly the person to whom you had made said promise would not remember it. That you might never see them again. That you yourself would forget making the promise, and thus could not feel guilty about breaking the promise.

 

In brief, the more he thought about his parting words with Harry, the more he doubted that Harry had meant the things he’d said. He had not expected to feel anger, not like this. Or the hurt of wondering whether Harry had meant a word of it, or if it had all been a ploy to get Draco out of Gleyma, and if so, why.

 

Draco had never been very good at identifying his feelings, or accepting them. But every step he took away from the shop was another step on the mill through a barrage of uncomfortable emotion. Doubt, anger, doubt, hurt. Doubt, hope, doubt, pain. Doubt, shame, doubt, doubt, doubt.

 

He’d been a right fool, hadn’t he?

 

It had been so easy to believe Harry’s words, because he wanted them to be true. It had been easy to interpret Harry’s actions in a light favourable to himself. It had been easy, yes. Too easy. Harry had given Draco his wand, yes, but so what? Perhaps it was meant to be passed on to Granger and Weasley, to give them closure. They hadn’t given it back since he’d handed it over for inspection. It hadn’t much bothered him until now.

 

And yes, Harry had also given Draco the memory brooch, but what if that was merely so he himself would forget, not so Draco would remember? He gave Draco his last will phial, but Draco couldn’t open it, could he? Clearly those memories weren’t for Draco. The phial would pop open when the one who sealed it died, and Harry saw his opportunity for his will to be delivered, and he took it. The note had said Thank you, and I’m sorry. Not I want you to have these.

 

If Draco looked at the evidence objectively, it seemed Harry expected he might die from whatever had happened on Saturday the 25th. Perhaps he’d pushed Draco away because he didn’t want Draco to die, but that was nothing new. Harry had saved Draco from fiendfyre once, after all. That was what Harry did; he saved people. There was nothing personal about it.

 

He couldn’t even see the kiss, the hug, the gentle way Harry had touched Draco, or the declaration that he didn’t want to forget as anything but tainted. He would have said and done anything to get Draco away. Because while Harry hadn’t expected Draco to remember—in spite of the brooch—he recognized that Draco might remember. And what had he done with that information? He hadn’t explained, or said anything helpful. No, what he’d said was: “If you remember, don’t come back for me.”

 

All told, it was damning, as evidence went.

 

Somewhere in the back of his mind Draco registered the faint buzzing in his ears, the tremble of his hands, the dryness of his mouth; the way his eyes stubbornly refused to focus and leaving the world as a blurry impressionistic mess; the numbness of his whole being; that he felt as thin and invisible as Harry’s cloak rendered him.

 

Draco had not been prepared for what seeing Harry again would do to him, to say the least. What it would make him feel. Remembering you had certain feelings was very different from experiencing them, both again and anew, he'd discovered. The conflicting desires of want and relief tempered by hurt and fury. Perhaps they’d rushed in, and given the Gryffindor to Slytherin ratio it did seem likely; then again, he’d been just as anxious to see Harry as his companions, for all the good it did him.

 

Being in front of Harry again, but undetectable, had rattled Draco more than he expected. Because Harry had looked right at him, and seen nothing. Looked right through him as though he weren't there. It was stupid to be upset about it, Draco knew, because as far as Harry was concerned Draco wasn’t there. Being invisible and passing by unseen had rather been the point. But somehow he’d hoped that Harry would still see him; not physically, but that he would see Draco wasn’t there, and would see what was missing. And he was clearly missing something—Draco didn’t need to use legilimency  to know that. But what was missing from Harry was Harry himself. And it hurt. Because no matter what Harry Potter had been forced to endure—dark lords, wars, kitten-obsessed terrorists, amnesia—he’d always known who he was. It was evident in the way he carried himself, the way he spoke, the keen look in his eyes, how he always did the right thing, Harry knew who he was. Even if he didn’t know his name, where he came from, or that he was a fucking wizard, his core identity was immutable.

 

Or so Draco had thought. He’d once experienced what it was like to meet a Potter who was not Harry, during the seven years of schooling where he’d never really known the man. He’d met Potter who was not Potter, but John Doe. Harry’s personality without a war, without dead parents, without the weight of the wizarding world on his shoulders. The man who had stood before him in Cosmic Latte today was neither Potter, nor Harry, nor even John Doe, in spite of the fact that his apron now had his actual name on it. Because the man who worked at Cosmic Latte, with Harry across his chest, with Harry’s eyes, and hair, and scar, was Harry without hope. Was Harry with the light in his eyes dimmed, replaced with a haunted despair. Was Harry with a stilted, stiff smile, so unlike the one as bright and sharp as his wit. The Harry who stood before him was a shell of the man Draco had gotten to know these past weeks, had known since he was eleven.

 

And far worse than being forgotten was seeing the man he loved lose himself.

 

Granger hunched her shoulders and paced in front of the stove, eyes wide and bright, muttering incomprehensible gibberish under her breath. Weasley stood by the tent flap, jaw and fists clenched as though he’d like very much to hit something.

 

Draco held his latte, sipping it off and on without tasting it. He should pull Harry’s cloak off, probably. But he wanted to hide, to process in solitude, to wrap his head around the situation. But there was no time for that. Already filled with dread, he pulled off the cloak and draped it over his arm, feeling raw and exposed.

 

Two pairs of eyes swiveled to him, full of hurt and accusation. He regretted being visible already.

 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Weasley said, rounding on Draco. “Why didn’t you tell us he was this bad off?”

 

“He wasn’t,” Draco started, going for defiant but falling short, what with his voice cracking unattractively. He swallowed, tried again. “He wasn’t like this when I left.”

 

Weasley narrowed his eyes. “When you left him here, you mean?”

 

Draco understood on some level that Weasley was tired. Emotionally frayed. Terrified at what he’d seen. But Draco didn’t have the energy to babysit an angry Gryffindor who’d never much liked him while simultaneously trying to process his own feelings.

 

“I didn’t mean to.” Draco’s voice was cold, the reins on his temper wearing thin. “If you recall, Harry pushed me over the boundary.”

 

“So you say,” Weasley growled, gesturing wildly in Draco’s direction. “How do we know you’re not in on this?”

 

“Are you honestly that stupid, or—” Draco cut off the thought, wearily bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. Draco, while capable of being patient when the situation called for it, was not by nature a patient person. “I know it’s hard for you, Weasel, but do you suppose you can learn to think before opening your mouth?”

 

Weasley snorted. “I don’t hear you denying it! Here’s an auror tip for you: that makes you look guilty as fuck!”

 

“Ronald!” Granger said softly, reaching out to touch Weasley’s arm. He wrenched it away. She looked at Draco, expression more anxious than sympathetic. Surely she didn’t agree with Weasley? She was supposed to be the sensible one. “You aren’t…involved in this, are you, Draco?” Granger asked, tone unreadable.

 

Draco sighed, willing himself to not exacerbate the turmoil. He didn't think it was working. “I called you here, asking for your help. I came back here, knowing what it did to my mind. Do you really think I lured Harry here, ensnaring him for months, only to get the two of you and the Ministry involved?” Draco seethed quietly and tried to calm down, but short of downing several shots of calming draught or Ogden’s, peace didn’t see forthcoming. “What do you imagine I could possibly gain from all this?” 

 

“You get to be the hero,"  Weasley sneered. “Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

 

Rain cascaded down the tent, a puddle forming in the entrance. It annoyed Draco, the unnatural line forming where the water pressed entry, but couldn’t cross the threshold. The rain had picked up from the drizzle of this morning to a steady downpour. Typical, the way things always seemed to go from bad to worse.

 

Weasley wasn’t right; this had nothing to do with heroism, or recognition. But he wasn’t exactly wrong, either. Draco had wanted to prove himself, to show he’d changed. That’s how all this had begun—a bid to do the right thing, in spite of the fact that he was sure he wouldn’t know the right thing from Merlin if he came across it. It had become so much more over the past few weeks, yes. But would anyone care to see it that way, when all they would notice was Draco Malfoy acting in his best interests again?

 

“I never wanted this,” he said instead of the truth, because they wouldn’t hear it. “I didn’t mean to be involved at all. I was minding my own business, and there he was. I was uniquely positioned to help him, so I did. Can you fault me for that?”

 

 “I can if it’s all bullshit," Weasley scoffed. "Which it is!”

 

“How? It’s not my fault he idiotically decided to come looking for a nest of dementors on his own!”

 

“So you think he’s an idiot!” Weasley crowed triumphantly.

 

“That’s not what I meant—”

 

“But it’s what you said, and I always knew you thought it!”

 

“Ron—” Granger hedged, eyes dashing about nervously.

 

“I won’t listen to damn word he has to say,” Weasley said, turning to Granger now. He bared his teeth, eyes wild. “I can’t believe you talked me into this! We know what he’s like! We should have expected this. I should have expected this!”

 

“Yes, but we don’t have a choice, Ron! It’s Draco, or nothing!”

 

Draco blinked heavily, stung that Granger, his supposed ally in this unfair Weasel Outburst, apparently only trusted him because she had no choice but to do so. Draco knew what kind of trust that was. He’d been on the receiving end and giving end of it too many times not to.

 

It was a weak trust, and would not hold up under scrutiny or the presentation of a better option.

 

“If you think I’m going to trust him, you’re barking,” Weasley continued.

 

“Honestly, Ron! I’m not asking you to put your life in his hands!”

 

“No, just Harry’s.”

 

“You were fine before we got here! What’s gotten into you?" Granger threw her hands up in the air, bewildered. "It’s like the forest of Dean all over again.”

 

Weasley glared at her, too angry to respond.

 

Draco swallowed, mouth dry, and tried again to defend himself. “Just because I think Harry's done something stupid—and it was stupid, we can all agree—doesn’t mean I don’t care about him.”

 

“You think you care?” Weasley croaked, eyes blown wide with incredulity. “How can you? You spend two weeks with him, and suddenly you’re bosom buddies?”

 

Draco was tempted, oh so tempted, to tell Weasley exactly what had transpired between himself and Harry, but couldn’t bring himself to say it. That was private. It was his. And even worse, he wasn’t sure if it were still true. “Harry and I—”

 

“And since when do you call him Harry?” the smarmy git cut in.

 

Draco snapped, the last thread of patience gone. “Since I realized I’m in love with him!”

 

Silence rang out in the tent, no one daring or able to say a word in the magnitude of what Draco had revealed.

 

Fuck. Fuck. He hadn’t wanted to tell them at all, and certainly not before he told Harry.

 

He couldn’t stand to be in this tent a moment longer. So he turned around and fled, finding refuge in the storm outside the tent.

 

———

 

He walked and walked, until at last he found himself at the cliff next to his former campsite. Just below rested a forest of fog moss, protected by the rage of a roiling sea. He rather sympathized at the moment.

 

Draco wasn’t sure how long he stood there with nothing but a tempermental impervius and several poorly cast heating charms to comfort him, muttering choice epithets about ‘stupid gryffindors’ and ‘idiot weasels’. The thing was, he really didn’t want to fight with Weasley. Or Granger. He wasn’t impressed with himself for losing his temper and cursing. Or for confessing his feelings to the two people who least needed to hear it. The only one he wanted to tell, the only one who deserved to hear it, was Harry.

 

Because he knew that even if Harry had lied, had said whatever was necessary to get Draco out of Gleyma, it didn’t matter. It didn’t change the way Draco felt about Harry, and if his feelings were unrequited, so be it. He’d just have to win Harry over properly once this nightmare was over. And even if he didn’t want anything more than friendship, that would be enough for Draco. As long as he could have Harry in his life, that was enough.

 

He’d thought a lot about The Argument, too, as he was referring to it for the moment. With distance, he recognized that it had come out of nowhere, which was as perplexing as it was worrying. Yes, they were all stressed and depressed and feeling things, but he rather agreed with Granger’s assessment of the Weasel’s behaviour; he had been cordial if not friendly with Draco since this whole debacle began, even up to and through this morning. In fact, things had been fine, up until they saw Harry, and inspected the wards. Well, mostly fine. Yes, there had been petty squabbles, and Weasley had gotten rather more upset than was warranted about the pensieve. He’d gotten more upset than was warranted about a lot of things. Almost as if he’d forgotten about all the progress they’d made while putting this together, and—

 

Merlin and Salazar both.

 

“It’s Gleyma,” Draco said, standing up so quickly his head spun. How hadn’t he noticed before? This confusion, doubt, anger, was nothing new. He’d fought it off before, though it had been much easier with Harry as a motivating factor. Still. This was just like what happened when he went to Harry’s flat, only there were no little voices whispering pernicious doubts into Draco’s mind. Instead, there were angry Gryffindors yelling it into his face.

 

He thought of that dark tendril he’d seen in Harry’s mind, the one influencing his thoughts, manipulating his feelings. Making him doubt Draco, fear hope. The same influence, no doubt, that had nearly made Draco leave Harry’s apartment, that had plagued him from the moment he’d decided to stay and help Harry. The doubt that always lurked in the back of Draco’s mind since the war, that he was morally deficit and couldn’t change for the better.

 

It took a conscious effort to combat, but combat it Draco had. And did, and would continue to push back against. In that context, The Argument made sense. Granger and Weasley weren’t trying to be contrary; it was the effect of Gleyma’s wards, this negativity. Trusting him was not something that came easily to them, and it would only take the slightest push to revoke that trust.

 

Was that all, though? They hadn't been like this before, this…negative. Wards couldn't change a mentality. Draco pressed himself to think, to consider, to push through the wall of uncertainty. Wards couldn't do this, certainly not. 

 

But potions could.

 

The idea rended him like a lightning bolt. He gaped at the latte in his hands. Could it be? Surely not…

      

“Circe’s Tits,” he muttered, turning back toward the tent. If he had it his way, he would’ve stood out in the rain like a bedraggled krup until one of them—probably Granger, as she was the sensible one—came to find him, apologized, and asked if they could start anew.

 

But this couldn’t wait, even if it wounded his ego to be the first to concede. Not that this was a competition, of course. This was a rescue mission. And even if it rankled, he’d have to console himself with the knowledge that surely they’d thank him later for coming back to help them.

 

He stormed back into the tent, flicking his wand once to rid himself of any lingering raindrops.

 

“Back so soon?” Weasley said snidely. “Thought you’d abandoned Harry here. Again.” Granger didn’t say anything, but she did send Draco a baleful glare.

 

Draco grit his teeth. He reminded himself that it wasn't their fault, and mentally chided himself to pull it together. “We’ve been cursed,” he said by way of explanation, making his way over to his potions cupboard. “Thought you’d like to know.”

 

“Somebody cursed us!?”

 

“Curse?”

 

Weasley and Granger spoke at the same time, one with incredulity and the other with doubt. Draco chanted to himself that it wasn’t their fault, they didn’t really mean it, all while ignoring the pernicious thoughts that they were right to suspect him, that he deserved nothing less.

 

That’s not who I am anymore, he said, as much to convince himself as to reaffirm the truth of the statement.

 

“You can think of it as a poison, if you prefer,” Draco said, sifting through his ingredients. It technically wasn’t a poison. Or at least, he didn’t think it was. “It was administered orally, you see, though I doubt it will kill you.”

 

“You poisoned us?” Weasley cried, face coloring in fury.

 

Ah. Perhaps he should have expected this. “I didn’t,” Draco hastened to say, “it was Queenie, in all likelihood, but—”

 

Draco cut off the rest of his statement as Weasley put a heavy hand on his shoulder and yanked him back. Before he was aware of making a conscious decision, Draco had drawn his wand, pointing it at Weasley’s throat. “Unhand me,” he said with a calm he didn’t feel.

 

“Or you’ll do what? Poison me again? Curse me again?”

 

Draco willed himself to remember that this wasn’t Weasley’s fault, really. “I don’t want to fight with you over this.” It just wasn’t worth it. And more importantly, Harry wouldn’t want them fighting. “I’m trying to help you, if you’ll let me.”

 

Draco winced as Weasley’s grip on his arm tightened. “You think I’ll actually—”

 

“Yes, yes, you don’t trust me, I understand. You don’t have to believe my intentions are altruistic. Just accept that I want the same thing you do: to save Harry.”

 

Weasley clenched his jaw, but didn’t respond.

 

“You’re better than this, Weasley,” Draco continued, emboldened by the positive response. “I may not know you well, but this isn’t you. It’s Gleyma .”

 

Granger took a step closer, eyes narrowed in suspicion. A quick glance at her revealed she had her wand drawn, and pointed at Draco. Lovely. “What are you talking about? Curse? Potion?”  

 

“Am I wrong in saying that you feel angry, violent, out of control?” Something shifted in Weasley’s eyes, and his grip relaxed infinitesimally, but Draco couldn’t step away just yet. “It’s not your fault. You’ve been cursed. We all have,“ he clarified. “All this…negativity is unnatural.” Especially for Gryffindors, he added mentally, for his own amusement.

 

“How do you know?” asked Granger, taking another tentative step.

 

“Because I’ve experienced it before. Gleyma does this to you. Changes you. Makes you feel anxious, depressed, pessimistic, hateful. It brings out the worst in people, to drive them away. To make them miserable while they’re here.” It hadn't set in this quickly last time, but who knew what had changed in a week?

 

“I assumed it all has something to do with the existence of a nest of dementors closeby,” Granger said, expression cool.

 

“That might have something to do with it,” Draco allowed, “But I’m certain a potion is behind this. And if you would release me, I’d be more than happy to show you. And help you.”

 

With a hint of lingering reluctance, Weasley released him. Draco nodded once—he doubted his gratitude would get him far at this point—and returned to the potions cupboard. He rapidly considered ingredients, their effects, and what potion might have been used. More and more he was certain that someone—Queenie, he had to assume—had somehow procured a potions text. And a cauldron. And ingredients, somehow. He felt weary just thinking about how, and where, and who, but really, it only made sense. Mrs.Frond had lost her wand somehow; it could very well have been taken. Perhaps that was why Harry handed his own wand over to Draco; so it wouldn’t be taken.

 

He squeezed his eyes shut, his heart aching dully at thoughts of Harry. He had to put that aside for now. He couldn’t be distracted. Whatever had been done to them—was being done to them—needed to be dealt with. One could only fend off internalized negativity for so long. Whatever potion it was, it probably wasn’t a poison, he decided, no matter what he’d said. It was mostly for shock factor and to drive how the severity of their situation. It could be a subtle influencer, like the liquid imperio Snape had supposedly been working on before his death…but that didn’t seem likely, and he couldn’t afford to guess. Or be wrong; if he didn’t counteract the ingredients specifically, not only might he fail to counteract the potion, but he could exacerbate the problem. If only there were some way to neutralize the effects without knowing the ingredients…

 

Then it hit him. “Neutralizer,” he whispered, mostly to himself. Something tickled in the back of his mind. Hadn’t he just read about this? He racked his brains, surely he had something? Not a bezoar, not nettle paste…

 

He froze. Of course. “Cinnamon and Cayenne,” he said with a wry smile. He darted to the kitchen, shooting a preservation charm at the latte. He’d need to analyze it later to see what, specifically, had been done to it. If anything; there was still a very real possibility he was being paranoid. But paranoia had kept generations of Malfoys alive through persnickety predicaments.

 

With a rueful smile, he whipped up a batch of Harry’s superior hot chocolate, passing around mugs to his companions. He kept the green and gold mug for himself. “Drink this, then we’ll talk.” He wasn’t sure if he needed it; he’d only had one sip of the poison latte. But then again, he’d been exposed to weeks of Gleyma's poison before he'd left Gleyma.

 

Granger and Weasley eyed him and the hot chocolate with skepticism, but it would take a stronger witch and wizard than Draco knew to deny themselves hot chocolate.

 

“Taste just like Harry’s,” Granger said forlornly.

 

“I think you’ll find he’s saving us even in absentia, ” Draco mused.

 

It was hard to gauge how long it would take to neutralize whatever had been done to Granger and Weasley, but slowly the suspicion eyes cleared and their tempers calmed, at least as much as the situation allowed.

 

“Blimey, I feel like I’ve been through the wringer,” Weasley groused. “What happened?”

 

“Like I said, we were dosed with something,” Draco said with a simple shrug. “It’s in the coffee, I’m sure. Fairly sure, anyway.”

 

“I think we’d've noticed if a potion had been slipped to us,” Weasley scoffed.

 

Granger, on the other hand, looked thoughtful. “If I were going to slip someone a potion, a beverage shop would be just the place.”

 

“Yeah, but we tried Harry’s lattes, and they didn’t taste like newt eyes or aconite or gillyweed or anything except milk, sugar, and coffee.”

 

Draco managed not to roll his eyes, but only just. Common sense said it wasn't possible to make foul potions taste like lattes. “It’s possible to mask noxious flavors. Difficult,” he said when Granger looked ripe to argue with him, “But possible.”

 

“How can you be sure?”

 

He wanted to deny it was possible that someone —Queenie, in all likelihood—was using fog moss to feed everyone in town and who passed through some kind of potion, that she’d been able to find a way to incorporate it when Draco had failed time and again. But he’d long since learned that he rarely got his way. “I know because I came here looking for an ingredient that does just that. And I found it. In abundance. ”

 

———

 

They didn’t have time for it, not really, but after their draining argument they all needed a brief recess to settle their nerves. Draco heard Granger speaking softly to Weasley in the kitchen, rubbing small comforting circles on his back. He nodded every so often, head in his hands. Draco burned with envy, and he was certain the feeling was only slightly exacerbated by the effects of Gleyma.  

 

That can be yours, too, someday, he told himself lamely. It wasn’t very persuasive. If you can get Harry out of here, at least you’ll have the chance to try. Harry Potter kissed you for real, don’t forget.

 

But what if it was just a ploy to convince me to leave?

 

If he didn’t care about you, he wouldn’t have made you leave in the first place.

 

He could have asked. Maybe I would rather have stayed here with him, consequences be damned.

 

And what about now? What if this fails, and you can’t get him out? Would you still stay, knowing what this place is? Not very Slytherin of you. Where is your survival instinct, Draco?

 

The hot chocolate helped him keep his own thoughts straight, but the uneasy feeling of doubt still lingered. Even so, with extra effort, he was able to keep the negative thoughts at bay—the thoughts that whispered that Harry had lied to him, or tricked him, or told him whatever he had to say to get Draco out of Gleyma. Because even though Harry had said, ‘Don’t come back for me’, he’d also said ‘I don’t want to forget’. He’d held Draco like he never wanted to let go, and then pushed him away. He’d said something as he did it, but Draco hadn’t heard it. He knew what he hoped it to be, but he’d just have to ask Harry after all this was over.

 

And yes, Draco didn’t know what memories were in the phial, but there was no use languishing over it until he knew what Harry had given him, and why.  

 

Draco had gotten very skilled at arguing with himself. He was good at arguing with anything willing and able to talk. But if they couldn’t save Harry from this place—for whatever reason—what would Draco do? It was mad, even thinking about staying here intentionally. Yes, he’d done it for the two and a half weeks when he’d been trying to figure out what was wrong with Harry, but this was different. Now he knew what this place was. Marginally. And even that was enough to make braver men turn tail and run. Draco was not brave, not like Harry. But even if he was in love with the stupid, wonderful, idiotic man, could he in good conscience decide to spend the rest of his life here with Harry, after only really knowing him for three weeks?

 

It terrified him to think that yes, he probably could. Because it hadn’t just been three weeks; it had been fourteen years.

 

The sound of a chair scraping on the floor interrupted the disturbing path his thoughts were determined to follow. A throat cleared softly behind him, and then: “Look, mate, I’m sorry about…all that.”

 

Draco thought it was a rather poor apology, but he hadn’t expected to get one at all, hopeful though he’d been. Besides, Weasley’s face was nearly the same color as his hair, and knowing this was uncomfortable for him somehow made Draco feel a bit better. “Apology accepted. It wasn’t really your fault, anyway.”

 

“Yeah, but I said it, and I do believe it, I guess. But I never meant to yell at you about it. I was just…waiting to see the proof, or something.”

 

Draco hummed, tapping his fingers together. He’d known Weasley must have thought it was true on some level if he said it at all, but he was begrudgingly a bit impressed that Weasley had the nerve to admit it. Now he had to decide whether he’d let it stop them or if he could put it aside, too. “If it makes you feel better, Ronald, the hag who set all this up wants us to fail. She’ll do anything to keep Harry here, so why don’t we give her the two finger salute and do our best to all get along, shall we?”

 

Unexpectedly, Weasley laughed at that, and stuck his hand out. “Deal. But don’t call me Ronald. Makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

 

“Aren’t we, though?” Draco said mildly, accepting the handshake. It was strong, warm. Very…Gryffindor.

 

“Did you mean it?” Weasley said after extricating his hand. “What you said about…about Harry.”

 

Draco didn’t have to ask what he meant by that. His impulse was to lie about it, to say he’d just been caught up in the moment, to never reveal the depth of his feelings. But he didn’t really want to lie about Harry. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said instead, gesturing grandly to the tent. “Actions speak louder than words, I hear.”

 

Weasley didn’t say anything for a moment, though he did make a sort of frustrated grunting sound. “I didn’t think you could mean it. You don’t know half of what he’s done for you. I thought…I don’t know, that you felt obligated. Or perhaps it was your life debt compelling you to stay here, or something.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Draco said, curiosity piqued. "What has he done for me?" He'd already done so much. How could there possibly be more?

 

Weasley—Ron shrugged. “He advocated on your behalf to the DMLE, said to give you a chance. Robolds wouldn’t budge, though. First he made up a bunch of dumb rules about NEWTs, but Kingsley waived those for everyone else, so Robards didn't have a leg to stand on there. Then he said no one with any dark relatives in their family could be Aurors, but Harry shot that down by mentioning he was technically family with Bellatrix Lestrange, magically speaking, and he had a family tree to back up his claim. Then Robards said you needed to prove you had a muggle in your family somewhere, but Harry and Hermione made sure the Pureblood discrimination laws didn't pass. Robards' next obstacle was to say aurors can’t have tattoos, and we know you’ve got a—well. A tattoo.” Weasley blushed a deeper crimson, which Draco wouldn’t have thought possible, but bravely continued, “So Harry went and got a tattoo to prove a bloody point. He said he’d been thinking about getting one for a while, but…well. Anyway. After that, Robards said only wizards who can cast a Patronus can be aurors, otherwise they’d be a liability to the rest of the team, so Harry said he’d get rid of all the dementors so it wouldn’t matter. And he got rid of all the dementors.”

 

“Most of them,” Draco corrected.

 

“Yeah, alright, most of them.”

 

Draco nodded, still reeling from the revelation that Harry sodding Potter got a tattoo just so Draco could be an auror, had sworn to get rid of dementors just for Draco. If he didn’t already love the daft bastard, he’d be gone now. Even if it was, perhaps, an unrequited feeling.

 

He was feeling less sure of that assessment by the minute.

 

Draco took a deep breath and slumped against the edge of his desk. The tent flap twisted in the wind, but charms kept out the chill. “I feel I should apologize as well.” He wasn't exactly sorry, though. Not really. At least, not about what he'd said; he meant every word. He was sorry for losing his temper. Sorry that he'd left Harry here, however unwittingly. Sorry he'd let death eaters in to Hogwarts, sorry about—well. Everything he’d ever done. Mostly.

 

But arguing over it wasn’t going to make either of them feel better about any of this. Probably.

 

“Mate, if you had to deal with three weeks of feeling like this,” Weasley paused to whistle and shake his head sadly.

 

“I had Harry’s hot chocolate to keep it at bay,” he said by way of explanation.

 

Granger cleared her throat meaningfully. “Glad as I am to see the two of you bonding, we have a lot of work to do here.”

 

“Yes, alright,” Draco said, standing and ushering them closer to the stove. “Tell me about your impressions.”

 

Granger looked a bit annoyed at that. “I was rather hoping you could tell us about them, seeing as you’re more familiar.”

 

“I am,” he said with a touch of impatience, “but I want to hear what you think about them before your views are tainted by my opinions. I am not well-versed in the minutiae of identifying wards. So tell me: what did you notice about the wards here? Anything notable about them?”

 

Granger frowned. “Well, they are very subtle. You wouldn’t notice them unless you were looking for them.”

 

Draco nodded. He’d thought the same when he first came to Gleyma. Hadn’t even noticed there were wards of any kind, which was sloppy form for a Slytherin, really. “Anything else?”

 

“They felt new to me,” Weasley said with a careless shrug. When Draco and Granger stared at him, he looked uncomfortable. “What? They did. I’ve helped Mum with the wards around the Burrow a few times, and there’s a certain…I dunno, freshness to them the first few days. Like when you’ve washed the sheets, or the way trousers feel when you put a stiff drying charm on them.”

 

“They can’t be new,” said Granger. “They were erected centuries ago.”

 

“Yeah, maybe the ones around the town. But the ones at Cosmic Latte? New. I’d bet my signed Cannons Quaffle. I might not have gotten to look at them up close, but I can feel it.”

 

Granger looked like she had a few choice things to say about that, but Weasley was right, and they both knew it. “This doesn’t make any sense,” she said, “If they’re new, who could have put them up?”

 

“Harry might’ve done,” said Weasley.

 

Draco scoffed. “How could he? He doesn’t have a wand.”

 

“Not to mention that I don’t think Harry would have intentionally put up wards to make us leave,” Granger said evenly. Draco wasn’t so sure; if Harry thought it would protect his friends, Draco was sure he’d do anything, no matter how unsavoury.

 

“I think Weasley’s right,” Draco said, suppressing the urge to shudder. “Never thought I’d say those words.”

 

Weasley smiled, the smug bastard. “Only the first of many times, I’m sure.” 

 

“These wards aren’t particularly strong. You wouldn’t even notice them if you weren’t specifically looking for them. It seems to me,” he said slowly, making sure he had their attention, “that the wards aren’t weak, but are meant to amplify other magic.”

 

Granger made an impatient noise. “Potions,” she said, like it was obvious. Draco was only a touch annoyed that Granger seemed to realize it more quickly than he had. In this case, it was in their favour, so he decided to let go of the old sting of jealousy.

 

Draco nodded. “The wards amplify the effects of a potion.”

 

“Why did you made us drink the hot chocolate?” Weasley said, eyes calculating. “I thought it was something to do with dementors.”

 

“The cinnamon and cayenne have neutralizing effects. Without knowing the exact components of what was used in the warding potion, I can’t combat the effects completely. But the hot chocolate will nullify the effects. Even so, it isn’t perfect, so you’ll need to be mindful of what you’re thinking. If you get too…oh, I don’t know, maudlin, that’s a sign that your thoughts are not your own.”

 

“What about Harry?” said Weasley.

 

“What about him?”

 

“Is he under the effect of a potion?”

 

“I don’t know,” Draco said honestly. “I’m not sure I ever saw him drinking anything from Cosmic Latte. He only told me he thought the lattes were overpriced.”

 

“And are you sure it’s only the coffee that’s affected?” Granger demanded. He didn’t think her anger was directed at him this time, but he didn’t like it.

 

“I’m not sure of anything at this point.”

 

That was clearly not the answer she was hoping for, and she didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. “What do you think the potion does, then?”

 

Draco sighed. “I wasn’t aware until today that there was a potion element involved in Gleyma’s defenses. It could even be new, for all I know.”

 

“New since you were last here,” Granger said, more to herself than Draco. “Why do you think so?”

 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “At this point, it is little more than a hunch. But the effect seems more potent than the last time I was here. Before, it was a more subtle effect, a growing itch to leave coupled with a sense of wrongness. When I looked at the wards last time, they felt…well, not benevolent, per se. But they didn’t seem to have the effect to cause harm, just compliance and inattentiveness.”

 

Granger frowned. “What do you mean?”

 

“I mean—Merlin, it’s hard to explain. All I can tell you is that the wards seemed designed to avoid detection, but if someone happened to wander in here regardless, they would be influenced to leave as quickly as possible, and accept whatever they were told with no questions asked.”

 

“Why aren’t there muggle warding charms in place, then?”

 

“Those have to be periodically replaced,” Weasley answered, surprising both Draco and Granger. “They only last about a month, and that’s in magically dense areas to feed the wards.”

 

“So just a general ward to disencourage anyone from sticking around. Not harmful, then,” Granger mused. “Almost seems…merciful. Trying to get people away from here.”

 

“You have to wonder how it all works, though,” Weasley put in. “Obviously people must’ve decided to stay here at some point or another, since if it’d just been what’s-his-face who stole the net from the Black estate, he would have died alone.”

 

“Not necessarily,” Said Granger. “Kreacher made it sound like the ‘Nest’ had been here long before Abnus was exiled here.”

 

“The difference,” Draco cut in, “was that he brought the Net with him, presumably to protect himself from the dementors.”

 

“People could hardly have been living here amongst them without that protection, though.”

 

“There’s too much we don’t know,” Draco said at last. “Just because the dementors are somehow made here doesn’t mean they necessarily stay here. And considering how many ended up at Azkaban…”  

 

“In a certain sense, this might be the safest place from dementors, then,” Weasley said grimly.

 

“Perhaps,” Draco allowed, “But areas with long exposure to dementors are heavy with despair. I’m sure you’ve noticed the effect in Gleyma.”

 

“Gleyma is gloomy, but it isn’t Azkaban.”

 

“And yet people are trapped here all the same,” Granger pointed out. “You’re certain the gloominess is because of the dementors, and not the wards?”

 

“Like I said,” Draco replied, doing his best to remember that they weren’t trying to be contrary, they were just…Gryffindors. “I am not certain of anything.”

 

Granger and Weasley were quiet as they processed, which was almost an improvement, but this was no time for silence.

 

“The difference in the wards,” Granger said at last, “Will you could show me?”

 

With an apologetic smile reached into her bag and pulled out the pensieve. Weasley’s lips thinned to a line, but he held his tongue.

 

Further discussion was impeded by the arrival of Diggory’s patronus. A slobbering bloodhound, as it so happened. “Have you made it inside? How’s Harry? What can you tell me about the wards? Made it back to boundary.” And then it disappeared. It was succinct, but thorough. Perhaps he was feeling a bit neglected.

 

Granger was the one to act first, casting her own Patronus. She turned to the otter and said, “For Amos Diggory: made it inside, Harry is alive. The wards are more complex than originally thought. Standby for further information.”

 

Her otter disappeared, and she turned now to Draco. “Please, Draco. If you don’t mind, I’d like to see the changes to the wards, as you remember them.”

 

“We’d like to see them,” Weasley interjected, “or did you forget I’m here and would also like to help?”

 

“We can all look at them together, because we all want the same thing: to save Harry. Right?" Draco raised an eyebrow, giving them both an unimpressed snort. "I thought you Gryffindors were tougher than this. Are you going to let some silly curse make you fight at the drop of a hat? You have to try harder.”

 

The two of them at least had the decency to look cowed at that.

 

“I don’t exactly get my jollies going on a doomed camping trip and sharing my memories with two ornery lions, but here we are. Needs must and all that rot. And if I can do it, I’m sure the two of you can.” Without further ado, Draco tapped his wand to his forehead and pulled out the memories and deposited them in the pensieve, before he could think better. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing to the swirling silvery mass. It reminded him uneasily of Harry’s mental barrier.

 

Granger and Weasley nodded, and together the three of them submerged themselves in the memories.

 

It was Draco’s memory of the first time he had investigated the wards of Gleyma. He remembered thinking that the wards reminded him of the edges of a pensieve memory, and now that he was looking at them in a pensieve, he could say with certainty that not only did the wards resemble a pensieve memory, they looked exactly like a pensieve memory.

 

An uncomfortable thought made itself known in Draco’s mind then, what Blaise had told him when he’d inspected his damaged memories. “If I had to guess, old man—and you know how I feel about guesses, educated or otherwise—I’d say your memories were forcibly removed by a pensieve spell.”

 

“That’s not what pensieve spells do, Blaise.”

 

“Not normally,” he agreed. “But theoretically, it’s possible. I may or may not have read about it in one of those old books your Dad sent to my mother for safekeeping.”

 

“Merlin’s balls, they’re memories, ” Draco said, pointing to the wards. “I don’t know how they did it, but the Net of Memories is exactly that. A wall of memories—your happiest ones, I bet—to protect the town—”

 

“From the dementors, of course!” Granger finished, triumphant. “So, somehow Abnus took the Net to protect him from the dementors, but you can’t just take a ward like that, you’d need—”

 

“A focus. Or foci, maybe,” Draco continued, pacing around the Memory-Version of the woods. “But if he were a squib, how did he set them up?”

 

“If the magic in the focus or foci were strong enough, perhaps it wouldn’t need his help," Granger mused, "Or maybe his blood was enough…is that possible, though? Do squibs have access to blood magic?”

 

“Debatable. Some of the barmier purebloods have tried to find proof that Muggleborns form if there are more than one squib on both sides of the family.”

 

“Muggleborns don’t form, we’re born, Draco—”

 

“That’s not what I meant, Granger. I mean the forming of the magical core—”

 

“Will you stop calling it ‘forming’?”

 

“What would you prefer? Coalescing? Convalescing? Consolidating? I’m talking magical theory here, not biology.”

 

“You know what biology is?”

 

“Of course I do, I'm not an idiot —”

 

“Debatable,” Weasley opined. Draco ignored him.

 

“—and I did take a year-long muggle education course, I’ll have you know.”

 

“Did you really?” Granger asked, curiosity piqued.

 

“Ok, swots, I’m enjoying this ever so, but what about those?” Weasley said, pointing to the wards converging on Cosmic Latte. Memory-Draco had moved from observing them in the woods to outside the shop.  

 

Granger nodded, focus rapt. “Quiescere, Perceptio Turbare, Ignosco…” It didn’t surprise Draco at all that she knew the names for the wards used. He lamented—again—that he hadn’t looked them up recently enough to know how they worked, only vaguely what they did. “These aren’t wards a squib could have set up.” She wrinkled her nose, dissatisfied with the way logic wasn’t lining up.

 

“That’s what I thought,” Draco said softly. “Especially when I saw the wards again today.”

 

She looked at him sharply as the memory swirled around them. They were inside Cosmic Latte again, speaking with Harry. Draco was invisible, being under the cloak, but he knew he was there, and the shimmering of the wards revealing themselves to those who knew to look for them was proof of his influence. “See there?” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the mantlepiece. “They look…different, somehow.”

 

“That’s not all,” she said, approaching the shimmering wards. She plucked at one of the golden wards, but as it was just a memory of the real thing, it dissolved into grey smoke before reforming again. “This wasn’t here last time.”

 

Draco felt a chill run down his spine. “I know.” He swallowed down his nerves, feigning nonchalance. “What does it do?”

 

“It fell out of fashion a couple of centuries ago. I’d have to look at it in person to know who it refers to, but…it’s a persona non grata ward.”

 

Draco closed his eyes, and he just knew. “It wards against an individual.”

 

“Not exactly. It doesn’t keep them away, but it will make everyone affected by the ward distrust them. Forget any positive feelings they might have for the person, and amplifies any negative sentiments they have towards them.”

 

“Well, I think it’s clear, then.” He sighed. “I’ve never had someone ward their property against me specifically.”

 

She gave him a pitying look, but didn’t deny it. “At least now we know why everything fell apart after coming here. A persona non grata requires visuals on the individual.”

 

“He’s just been staring at us the whole time.” Weasley spoke from somewhere in the counter area. He was watching Memory-Harry with a complicated look on his face. “Didn't notice earlier.”

 

Draco had noticed. Then again, he’d been able to stare with impunity under the cloak. The memory dissolved, and they were back in the tent, looming over the pensieve.

 

He coughed once, and straightened up. “We need to figure out exactly how Abnus Black and his descendents set up the wards, and how to take them down. That memory ward is the only benevolent one around.”

 

“It’s only partially benevolent,” Granger said, latching onto the new topic with feeling. Apparently he wasn’t the only one feeling uncomfortable. “It protects the people here from dementors, but only by robbing them of their happiest memories. Or so we have to assume…”

 

“Gleyma requires sacrifices of us all,” Draco echoed, remembering one of the last things Harry had said to him. The signs had been there all along. He ignored the troubled looks Granger and Weasley gave him.

 

“What I don’t get is why people would stay here if they’re so miserable.”  Weasley crossed his arms, face a picture of contemplation.

 

“According to Mrs.Frond, after a certain period of time, you can’t leave.”

 

“But what would make someone want to stay here in the first place? It’s creepy from the beginning,” Weasley pressed, yawning obnoxiously.

 

Draco shifted from foot to foot. He had elected to stay here after all, if only briefly. Then again, he’d had a rather important reason to make it worth staying. It hadn’t been all that bad, really, while he was here with Harry. “People get comfortable with their grief. Sometimes it’s easier to cling to the familiarity of discomfort.”

 

Granger looked thoughtful at that. “Why do you think Harry was convinced you had to leave the day you did?”

 

“According to him, we risked being stuck here forever." Draco waved a hand vaguely. "All I know is it had something to do with a warning Mrs.Frond gave him.”

 

“It always comes back to the two of them,” Weasley said, more to himself than anyone else.

 

“Whatever it was, neither of them were willing to say it when I asked.”

 

“But you did ask them?” Granger leaned closer, eyes suspicious again.

 

Draco clucked impatiently. “Of course I asked. Who do you think I am?”

 

Granger nodded once, seeming satisfied with that answer. “Well then, will you show us that as well? Your conversation with Mrs.Frond, and what Harry said to you the day you left Gleyma.”

 

“Was forced out,” Draco corrected, not caring how petulant he sounded. He thought of the intimacy of that day, the hug, the kiss, the exchanged promises and apologies. “I’d rather not relive it, if it’s all the same to you.” Granger and Weasley gave him an identical look of skepticism.

 

“It would really help us understand,” Granger said. Manipulative witch.

 

Draco felt his face harden into a cold palette of refusal. “No.”

 

“Draco—”

 

“I can’t bear it,” he said, and couldn't even fault himself for his honesty. “Ask me any questions you like, but no is my final answer."

 

———

 

Draco retreated to his bedroom to “rest his eyes”, but everyone knew he was doing nothing of the sort. Instead he was just staring at the canopy ceiling, wallowing in misery. Idly, he played with the phial in his hands, not really looking at it. He didn’t need to; there was nothing to see that he hadn’t already seen before. It comforted him to have a piece of Harry with him, regardless. There was still so much they didn’t know, and it frustrated him. There wasn’t a way to find out, unless they could get the stupid cork out of the phial. But they couldn’t, and so the questions remained. It wasn’t a very productive logical circle to follow, but it was preferable to the other things he could be thinking about, like how stupid it was that he was refusing to show Granger and Weasley his memories when it might help them. It wouldn’t help, was what he wanted to say. Wanted to believe. But he didn’t know.

 

A soft knock came at the door, and Granger poked her head in. “Um, Draco? Ron and I are going to look at the perimeter wards again, see if we can figure out how to disable them.”

 

Draco swallowed. “Alright. I’ll stay here.”

 

Granger nodded, and shut the door. When he heard them leave the tent, he emerged from his room, collapsing on the sofa in front of the stove. Granger had left the pensieve out, with his memories still inside. He had half a mind to just vanish them, but knowing Granger, she’d want to look at them again later, and extraction was such an uncomfortable experience…

 

He sighed, stood, and went in search of a vial to store them in. He didn’t like them just sitting out like that, even if there were no one here but himself. And that was when he saw it: Granger had left her suspiciously spacious bag on the kitchen table. The bag he knew contained Harry’s wand.

 

He glanced at the tent flap, making sure neither of them had come back for anything, and when he was sure that they hadn't—and before he could think better of it—he dashed over, opening the bag and sticking a hand inside. The charm work was excellent, he had to admit. Even though it was large enough to hold an impossible number of things with an undetectable extension charm on it, it wasn’t often easy to find things inside such a vast space. But all he had to do was think of Harry’s wand, and it was in his hand. He withdrew it, fingers shaking.

 

It was a legendary wand, to be sure. The reason Harry had survived so many encounters with the Dark Lord, or so Longbottom had said. Not the wand that defeated him, though, Draco thought smugly. That was his wand. To this day, it amazed him that he had briefly been the master of the most powerful wand ever crafted, and he’d remained ignorant of the fact until it was too late. More the better, really, for if Voldemort had found out, Draco would most certainly be dead now.  

 

Unlike Voldemort, it didn’t seem that Harry had any trouble using Draco’s wand. Wands. Merlin, help him. No doubt his own feelings—however unacknowledged at the time—had played a central role in that. Draco had often wondered if it would be the same if he tried to use Harry’s wand; he'd tried out the holly wand just that week, though he hadn't known it was Harry's at the time. He remembered how it felt, like the wand was evaluating him.

 

Here it was again in his hands, that same searching sense. A tentative trust, different from how it had felt before. Hopeful, almost. Unless, of course, Draco was merely projecting his own hopes and wishes onto the bloody thing. He really needed to learn more about wand lore…

 

He nearly didn’t do it; nearly shoved it back in Granger’s bag and forgot the whole idea. But what could it hurt? The worst that would happen is that he wouldn’t be able to use it, and his worst fear that he was and always would be inferior to Harry Potter would be confirmed. And he already knew he wasn’t as just as Harry, wasn't as kind, or brave, so he’d already lost that illusion, anyway.

 

It was a daft idea, really, but Draco felt the rightness of it before he’d even thought it through. He pointed the holly wand at Harry’s memory phial, and whispered, “Alohomora.”

 

The cork wiggled, but it didn’t completely come free. Instead, a brief inscription on the stopper was revealed. Make them your friend.

 

Draco smiled, in spite of himself. This was the answer to that daft riddle on Harry’s bedroom door in Grimmauld Place, and though Draco already knew the response, he had a hunch that this was another clue. A hint to unlock something else. Sighing and making a mental reminder to have stern words about Harry’s apparent new-found obsession with blood magic, Draco bit his finger, just enough to draw blood, and placed a drop on the stopper. It fizzled as the blood absorbed into the cork, and for a moment nothing happened, but then— finally— the stopper popped free. Merlin, he’d done it!

 

He ought to wait for Granger and Weasley to return. They’d want to see these memories, too. But they could see them later, and Draco had waited a long time for answers.

 

He summoned a vial to empty out his own memories from the pensieve, and before he could talk himself out it, he dived.

 

———

 

The first memory he saw wasn’t what he expected, in that it wasn't a memory, but a montage of sorts.

 

Draco found himself in Grimmauld Place, each memory taking him from room to room as Harry attempted to fix the place up. First, it was Harry sitting in front of a particularly dirty window with a book of cleansing spells, attempting spell after spell to get them clean. None of them worked, and in his frustration he shattered a pane. It wasn’t clear to Draco whether it was accidental magic or a spell Harry cast, but he guessed it was the former based on the way Harry cursed softly, took a deep breath to calm himself, and repaired the window to try it all again.

 

The next flash, he was on the floor in the kitchen on his hands and knees, a bucket full of cleaning potion beside him as he scrubbed and scrubbed. The floor maintained its dull, ragged appearance. Harry’s face was dark, and Draco suspected it has little to do with the stubbornness of the tiles. The memory flashed again, and Harry was painting, the muggle way. A distant voice screeched insult after insult at him. He cast a wordless silencio —not for the first time, Draco suspected—and returned to his thankless task. The walls never took the white of the paint, in spite of Harry’s attempts.

 

The memories swirled again, and Harry was slumped against a wall in a completely empty room. Draco recognized it vaguely as Harry’s bedroom, though it hardly resembled the well appointed beauty it had been when Draco had been there last. In the memory, the walls were dark, as though scorched, and Harry looked exhausted and pale. Kreacher appeared with a pop and a cup of hot chocolate. Spiced, Draco guessed. “Is Master Harry alright?” Kreacher asked, ears flat against his head. His hands were trembling behind his back, where Harry couldn't see. It was clear that Kreacher was terrified. Something had him thoroughly rattled, and for an elf of Kreacher’s age, that was a sign of danger. Draco could do nothing about it now; this was a mere memory, he reminded himself.

 

It didn’t stop him from feeling like he needed to help somehow.

 

“It worked,” Harry said, with a relieved sigh. “I’ve claimed it with my magic.” Upon closer inspection, Draco realized it wasn’t scorch marks on the wall and floor; it was blood. Harry’s blood. With sickening clarity, he understood the reason for the particular cherry colour of the wooden floors. Merlin’s Beard. Did Weasley and Granger know about this? He couldn't imagine they’d approve. At all. This kind of magic…it was powerful. Some might even call it dark.

 

Draco was horrified; he didn’t understand the pleased expression on Harry’s face—couldn't understand it. “With this, the house has to recognize I’m its Master now, that I’m invested. That I want it to be better.”

 

Kreacher's lips twisted, a slew of conflicted emotion stirring in his gaze. "Master has certainly put his heart into it."

 

Harry smiled, drank his hot chocolate. "Bring me a blood replenishing potion, won't you?"

 

The edges of the memory swirled and dissolved, with several memories passing in quick succession. Harry, eating breakfast. Alone. Harry, painting over his bloodied walls, alone. Harry, sitting in bed, shaking after a nightmare, alone. Harry, putting up complex wards around his bedroom with determined grace. Alone.

 

All the while, the house creaked and moaned, heavy with grief, loss, sorrow. Ages of neglect.

 

Draco wanted to reach through the expanse of time to shake Harry, to hug him, to ask him why. Why are you always alone?

 

When the rapid fire memories faded, Draco found himself with Harry in the library. It looked much the same as it had when Draco had last seen it, including the piles of books stacked haphazardly around the room on every flat surface. Granger and Weasley were present as well; it appeared they were in the middle of an argument. Granger and Weasley versus Harry, from the looks of it.

 

“Harry, it’s just not working,” Weasley pleaded. “You’ve tried everything.”

 

“Obviously I haven’t,” Harry said, a mulish tint to his tone.

 

“You could hire a team of professionals,” Granger suggested, but Harry sent her a quelling glare powerful enough to silence the most determined of adversaries. Draco had almost forgotten the intensity of Harry Potter’s anger. Almost .

 

“I’m not inviting a bunch of strangers in here to poke around my home, discovering my secrets to sell to the Prophet.”

 

“Harry,” Granger tried again, “Maybe it’s time to consider that…well, that you should just give up. You can afford a flat, or a house, or whatever you want—”

 

“I’m not giving up!” he all but yelled. “We’ve been over this.”

 

“Mate—” Weasley said, but was useless.

 

“You two don’t get it! You have family! I don’t! This is all I have left of them!” The sound of his ragged breathing was the only thing Draco could hear in the following silence, burdensome and dark.

 

“Oh, Harry, ” Granger sobbed, then she was on her feet, rushing over to hug him. “You know that’s not true! You have us.”

 

Granger couldn’t see it, because her face was pressed into Harry’s shoulder, but Draco could. If she could have seen Harry’s expression… “I know, 'Mione,” Harry said softly, brushing a hand through her hair. But his face said it all. It’s not the same.

 

The memory swirled again, but Harry was still with Granger and Weasley. They weren't at Grimmauld place anymore, but somewhere else—The Hog’s Head, by the look of it. “I’ve had a thought,” Harry said cautiously.

 

Granger gave him a good natured smile, and Weasley thumped him on the shoulder. “Proud of you, mate. Thanks for telling us.”

 

Harry scowled and shrugged Weasley’s hand off, but he had an amused twinkle in his eye. “Kindly fuck off, Weasley.”

 

“What was your thought Harry?” Granger prompted, with only a hint of impatience.

 

Harry took a swig of his drink—butterbeer. “You won’t like it.”

 

Weasley rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me: another ploy to get Malfoy into the aurors?”

 

Harry sighed, lips twitching as though suppressing a frown or smile. “He’s more than qualified, and he’d be a valuable asset to the team—”

 

“Save it, Lover-Bi,” Weasley groaned, “We get it, you think he’s fit.”

 

“I do not!” Harry hissed, flushing beautifully. Weasley and Granger gave him a dubious look. “Okay, fine, he’s fit, but even you can’t deny that. What he looks like has nothing to do with him being a good auror candidate. And anyway, that wasn’t what my thought was about. Though…I suppose it’s related.” He paused, as though reconsidering whether he really wanted to share his thought, but then continued, “I was thinking of asking him for some help with Grimmauld Place.”

 

Granger and Weasley were instantly cautious, walls up. “Harry,” Granger began slowly, “I really don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Weasley counted off on his fingers, face a picture of smug amusement. “Because he might be salty about the fact that it should be his house? Because he was a Death Eater once? Because he might make it worse—intentionally? Because he knows enough about the dark arts to trigger ancient blood curses on you? Because you’d have to let him in on the Fidelius? Because you think he’s fit, in spite of his personality?”

 

If Draco hadn’t been standing right next to Harry, he wouldn’t have heard it, but he was standing right next to Harry, so the whispered ‘his personality isn’t so bad’ did not pass by his ears unheard. Draco smiled in spite of himself. If he’d known Harry felt this way before Gleyma…well. It was certainly enlightening.

 

But Harry was talking again, and Draco had to pay attention. “Look, you know what I think about all your reasons why not already, but he’s a Black by blood. His face is on my bloody wall. And like you said, he knows things about dark magic, and blood wards, and ancestral estates. It might be something simple to fix, like…I don’t know. Buying different candles.”

 

“It’s not that, and you know it. You’ve bought every kind of candle under the sun, Harry,” Granger said with a disapproving frown. “It’s a bad idea.”

 

“The candles?”

 

“Asking Malfoy for help!” She sighed heavily and rested her head in her hands for a moment before looking up and pinning Harry with a no-nonsense glare. “All other reasons aside, I just don’t think he’d want to help you.”

 

“I won’t know if I don’t ask.”

 

“Harry, it…scares me when you’re like this. It’s like sixth year all over again.”

 

“I was right in sixth year, and if someone had believed me, things might have ended differently. Better. For everyone.”

 

Granger tried a different tack. “This level of obsession isn’t good for you, Harry. You're fixating. You’re always working on the house, or on your case you won’t tell us about—”

 

Harry’s eyes flared in indignation. “You know I’ll tell you the moment I can. Bloody gag order makes it impossible. Without resorting to some very dark, illegal magic, that is.”

 

“I just don’t understand why you have to do it all right now!” Granger cried.

 

Weasley wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “You could move into another flat while you’re getting the townhouse sorted. Or move in with us.”

 

“The house ended up as twisted as it is because it’s been abandoned so many times!” Harry clenched his fists, seeming desperate to make them understand. “You don’t know what I’ve had to do to just get my bedroom in order. And I'll have you know that all the work I’ve put into it is helping, just not enough. Some of the hidden rooms have opened to me.”

 

“What does it matter if they’re all as depressing as the rest of the house?” Weasley grumbled.

 

“Ron’s right,” Granger agreed, “it’s not good for you to spend all your time there.”

 

Harry looked dissatisfied, but promised he’d look into renting a flat elsewhere to spend some time when the house got to be too much. Draco could tell he didn’t mean it.

 

The memory swirled again, and Harry was back in Grimmauld Place, sitting in the kitchen, staring blankly at his hands. Alone again. “Kreacher,” he said softly, and instantly the elf was beside him with a crack.

 

“Is Master wanting some tea?”

 

Harry shook his head. “It’s leaking.”

 

The elf twisted his hands, averting his gaze. “Kreacher is not sure what Master is talking about.”

 

“The house.” Harry threw a hand out, exasperated, gesturing to the walls. “It’s…leaking. I don’t know how to explain it. I’m sure you’ve noticed it.” He stared at Kreacher until the elf met his gaze guiltily. “The magic is being drained away. Every happy memory, the light magic, it’s being drained away. That's why it's so dark and depressed all the time. It's all that's left.”

 

Kreacher wrung his hands. “The house is not being very joyous, Kreacher has noticed over the years…”

 

“No one has wanted it to be, have they?” Harry said, jaw tightening angrily. “Since I linked my magic to the bedroom, I can tell. Something is missing from the house. Something that it was meant to have all along. Kreacher, if you know anything, you must tell me. Please.”

 

“Is that being an order, master?”

 

Harry exhaled sharply. “If it has to be, then yes. But I’d rather you’d just tell me, if for no other reason than you want to save this house as badly as I do.”

 

Kreacher looked conflicted for only a moment more, but then seemed to decide something. “Kreacher is not knowing much. Kreacher is only a lowly servant, not worthy of sharing details with, but…”

 

“But?” Harry encouraged, leaning over to be closer to Kreacher’s height.

 

“But…Kreacher remembers, when Kreacher was a much younger elf, there being something different about the house.” He grabbed his ears and twisted them painfully. “Oh, Kreacher shouldn’t say, it’s being Black Family secrets, Black Family shame!”

 

“Kreacher, I am part of the Black family now. Not…in all ways, but I swear on my magic that I won’t share the secrets with anyone. I’ll keep it in the family.”

 

Kreacher looked at Harry with such adoration it was hard to bear. “Harry Potter swears it?” he whispered. It was an important moment; Kreacher addressing Harry as a wizard, not as his master.

 

“I solemnly swear, Kreacher,” he said, lips quirking up in a small smile.

 

Kreacher exhaled, shoulders sagging in defeat.“Then Kreacher will tell it. Once, when Kreacher was being a much younger elf, an…undesirable was being born into the family, with no magic. My mistress waited and waited and did terrible things to be bringing forth her child’s magic, but…nothing was working. Master wanted to be killing the boy, but Mistress couldn’t bear it, so she banished him to the Nest.”

 

“The Nest?” Harry repeated. “What is the Nest?”

 

Kreacher cringed, but pressed onward. “The Nest is being where the Black Family buried their shame. All their failures, sent to the Nest.”

 

“They sent their squibs there?”

 

Kreacher gave Harry a doleful look. “There is being no squibs in the most ancient and noble house of Black. But…the house of Baas, there is being something different to say. The House of Baas has not magic but a duty befitting the Noble and Ancient House of Black.”

 

“Kreacher, what is the Nest?”

 

“Kreacher is not knowing where it is!” he said shrilly.

 

Harry blinked calmly. “That’s not what I asked.”

 

Kreacher pulled on his ears again, gaze dropping to the floor. “The Nest…is being where Mistress sent Master Abnus, to join the House of Baas.”

 

“And what is the duty of the House of Baas?”

 

Kreacher said nothing.

 

“Please, tell me.”

 

“To protect the Black Family shame!” he wailed. Draco could see Harry was getting frustrated with the circular nature of the conversation, but he persisted.

 

“And what is the Black Family shame? And don’t tell me it’s what the House of Baas protects, or that it’s what’s kept in the Nest.”

 

“Kreacher is not knowing the specific details of how it happened, or why the most Ancient and Noble House of Black kept it at all, but…Kreacher is knowing it is having something to do with dementors.”

 

Harry sat straight up at that. “…what ?”

 

“The Black Family shame is being that they made dementors. Kreacher is not knowing more than that!” he wailed again, then collapsed on the floor and beat his head against the tiles. “Kreacher is a bad elf! Kreacher shared the Black Family shame!”

 

Harry jumped to his feet and held onto the back of Kreacher’s shirt, keeping his head off the ground. “Kreacher! Stop that!”

 

Kreacher stopped—very reluctantly—and regarded Harry miserably.

 

“Kreacher, why did your mistress send her son into a nest of dementors? Especially if he didn’t have any magic to defend himself?”

 

“To regain honour by defending his family." Kreacher scuffed his dirty toes on the ground, as if contemplating how to hurt himself without Harry noticing. "At least in death, Master Abnus could be doing some magic, and possibly hurting filthy muggles who can’t see him coming.”

 

Harry let go of his shirt and sighed. “Kreacher, what did I tell you about speaking of muggles that way?”

 

“Kreacher is being sorry, Kreacher is only repeating what Kreacher’s former mistresses and masters was saying.”

 

Harry sighed again. “Alright. What does the Nest have to do with what the house is missing?”

 

“Master Abnus was being angry at being banished, especially because Master Abnus was being sure he was having magic. Not very much magic, he was saying, but enough. So he took things, many things. Master Abnus was being very good at potions, and so he was taking all the potions books, the potions ingredients, the warding books, and the Net.”

 

“The Net?” Potter took a deep breath, as though preparing for the difficulty of getting answers out of a reluctant elf. “What is the Net?”

 

“The Net is being something to protect the house. Master Abnus was not wanting to die for the House of Black, or serve the House of Baas. But he was being banished, so he had no choice but to go. And he took the Net, and he swore revenge.”

 

“So he took a part of the house, and no one noticed?”

 

“The Net keeps things contained, makes enemies forget where the house is, what happened to them here. It is not being the most impressive or interesting of the defenses of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, but it is being impossible to take down from the outside, because wanting to take it down makes you an enemy, and makes you forget it even exists. For enemies of the house inside the house, it takes away their happiness, and uses it as a defense.”

 

“Against what?”

 

“Against the shame of the Black Family!”

 

“…against dementors, then. Clever.” Harry sat back in the chair, drumming his fingers on the kitchen table in a slow rhythm. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

 

“Kreacher doesn’t know where the Nest is!” he wailed, body shaking.

 

“That’s alright, Kreacher,” Harry said gently. “You’ve been a great help.”

 

Draco felt numb, hardly noticing the memory swirling into a new memory. Part of him wondered why these were the scenes Harry had decided to show him, or whoever was able to open his phial. A larger, quieter part had a feeling he knew exactly why Harry had picked these memories.

 

The next memory found Draco found in a very familiar location.

 

It was just Harry, standing in his bedroom in Gleyma. “Draco,” he said gently. “If you’re seeing this, then I’ve either died, or you’re far more tenacious than any Black curse could expect. And I suppose you’ve ignored my instruction to not come looking for me…well. Can't say that's a surprise. In any case, I’m sorry things have to be this way. I’m sorry I don’t have time to explain everything.” He laughed and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “I feel a bit daft, sitting here talking to myself like this, and I need to get you to the border before sunset. The Debt Collector comes tonight, and no one knows what they owe. Gleyma requires sacrifices of us all, you see, and I won’t leave until I get what I came for. The memories before this are for Ron and Hermione, to help them understand. But the rest are for you. No matter the outcome, I wanted to keep these memories safe. I can’t think of anyone better to hold on to them, come what may.

 

"I’ve been very happy these past few weeks with you, Draco Malfoy. Thank you, and I’m sorry.”

 

Draco shifted nervously on his feet, uncomfortable with the eery echo of Harry’s last note to him. He thought he’d find answers in these memories, but there’d been nothing but pain, hurt, and more pain.

 

He just knew what was coming next, and as the pensieve swirled around him and he found himself back inside Cosmic Latte, he was proved right.

 

“Potter? Is that you?” Draco tried not to cringe, watching this particular interaction from an outside interaction. Merlin and Morgana, he looked like such an arse, demanding Harry—or Potter, as he’d been at the time—tell him everything. Like he owed it to Draco. He owes me nothing, now or then.

 

It was gratifying (though he remembered being annoyed about it) watching Harry’s smirk as he intentionally misspelled Draco’s name on his cup.

 

The next memory was just as cringeworthy, and just as heartwarming. At the time, Draco had been too caught up in his own misunderstanding to notice how much Harry watched him, that the look on his face wasn’t always distaste or irritation, but curiosity and challenge. It was just so Harry; Harry on the Hogwarts’ Express, Harry on the Quidditch Pitch, Harry in the dueling club, and outside the Shrieking Shack, and taking down a dragon, and coming back through the black smoke of fiendfyre Draco was sure would be the last thing he’d ever see, reaching a hand out and saving him.

 

The memories pass Draco by, past and present, and the tears were falling now, because what Harry had given him, what he wanted to protect, were the memories of every day Draco and Harry had spent together in Gleyma. Drinking cider, building fires, hanging out on cliffs,beaches, chocolate, snakes, lattes, and reading. Old pastries (still good), Old ladies (still lively), old scars (still fresh). It was a gift Harry had given him twice, both in the days themselves and in the reliving of them through Harry’s eyes.

 

I wanted to keep these memories safe. I’ve been very happy with you, Draco Malfoy.

 

Thank you.

 

———

 

Granger and Weasley came back some time later. It could have been five minutes, it could have been an hour. Draco wasn’t keeping track of the time. He was staring into the dying embers of the stove, lost in his thoughts. He was certain he looked a right mess; he always did after crying. Eyes puffy, face blotchy, nose dripping. He didn’t care, not this time.

 

Granger made a distressed sound as she took in Draco’s state. “Oh, dear…are you alright? Is it the wards again? Or—”

 

“No, no, it’s not the wards,” Draco said, wrinkling his nose at how raw his voice sounded. “I’m fine, thank you for asking.” He sighed, and stared at the phial in his hands a moment longer, before holding it out for Granger to take. “I got it open.”

 

There was no response from either Gryffindor for a moment—and that was how Draco prefered to think of them for the time being; he needed some emotional distance for now—but shortly they’d taken it from his hand and were rushing over to the pensieve, talking enthusiastically between themselves. He’d taken out the memories Harry had given him, specifically. But…“One more thing,” he said quietly, and proffered another vial.

 

“What’s this?” said Weasley, plucking it from Draco’s fingers more gently than Draco would have expected.

 

“You can see those as well,” Draco said quietly. “The memories you wanted to see.” He swallowed thickly. “My memories.”

 

Weasley and Granger shared a look that Draco only half noticed. It could have been a look of caution, or perhaps worry. Draco almost laughed at the thought that they could be worried about him, considering how they’d treated him today. Hell, considering everything between the three of them. He wasn’t sure he deserved their concern any more than he was sure what he was going to do.

 

He gestured to the pensieve, and they eyed him curiously. “Best get on with it, then. We have wards to take down once you’re through.”

 

“Aren’t you coming?” Granger asked, voice full of something warm and heavy Draco couldn't bear to think about.

 

“No,” he croaked, “I’ve seen it.” I’ve lived it. Draco was just as uncomfortable with the thought of leaving two Gryffindors unsupervised in his memories as he was with letting them see the memories at all. But he knew if he had to relive that day again, he’d break. “Ask me whatever you want about it after, but…no.”

 

Granger and Weasley exchanged another look, but before Draco could decipher it, they were diving into the pensieve, and Draco was alone with his thoughts.

 

But not truly alone. He’d been entrusted with something dear, and he had to think, or at least dare to hope, that maybe, just maybe, Harry Potter loved him, too.

Notes:

first of all: I am sO SO SORRY this took forever to get out! This chapter did NOT want to be written. I wrote and rewrote and struggled with it a lot >.< but it is twice the length of a normal chapter, so I hope that is adequate recompense. You all have been so lovely and kind, thank you for you patience, and for reaching out and checking on me! Hopefully there will be no more editing disasters.

as always, I am on tumblr @ noir-renard.tumblr.com

thank you for reading!! and for your kudos! And your comments!

Chapter 17: The Best Laid Plans

Summary:

Lots of talking about wards and jenga and stuff.

Sitting there waiting for Granger and Weasley to finish watching his memories was terrible. But going outside and standing in the rain knowing they were in the tent watching his memories without him there would be worse. So Draco sat, and made himself more hot chocolate, and flipped through an arithmancy book without absorbing a word. Finally, Gryffindor A and B were through, and Draco did his best to look one hundred percent casual and unaffected by what they’d seen.

 

“Bloody hell,” said Weasley, letting out a long whistle. “Might have mentioned you and Harry were in a relationship, mate.”

 

He wanted to say something snarky, but Draco was still too emotionally frayed for anything but honesty. “We aren’t in a relationship.”

 

Granger and Weasley pinned him with identical expressions of disbelief peppered with humour. Well. Perhaps he ought to call them Hermione and Ron. It was difficult to maintain the cool indifference of acquaintanceship with people whom you’ve shared your most intimate memories with. “Maybe you haven’t defined it, Draco, but you’ve definitely got something going on.”

 

“But—” Draco began, but Weasley was already talking.

 

“Come off it. Harry won’t commit to even going on a coffee date with anyone, and you hang out for what, a week plus change? And he’s giving you his memories, his wand, the keys to his flat—I mean, blimey. Like it or not, you’re in a relationship.”

 

“It was good to see him like that again,” Hermione said with a wistful sigh.

 

“How?” Draco asked, voice small.

 

Hermione looked at him, eyes full of warmth. “Happy .”

 

Draco felt his stupid pale skin flush, reminded once again of Harry’s last words to him. I’ve been very happy with you, Draco Malfoy. Thank you.

 

He coughed once and forced himself to focus on the present, pink cheeks be damned. “Do you have any questions about what you saw?”

 

“Yeah, how far have you and Harry—”

 

“Ronald. ” Hermione cut him off with a stern glare. She turned to Draco and, with far more kindness, replied, “I have several theories already.”

 

“So the memories were helpful, then,” Draco said dryly. He wasn’t sure whether he ought to feel relieved that it was worthwhile to share his memories, or if he should be ashamed he’d tried to hide them in the first place.

 

“Very,” Hermione agreed readily, “but I’m going to need to watch yours at least one more time to see if I missed anything. If you don’t mind.” She stuck her head back in the pensieve almost immediately, robbing Draco the opportunity to say whether he minded.

 

“Well, she’ll be like that for some time, I imagine,” Ron said with equal parts fondness and exasperation. “Fancy a game of chess?”

 

Draco didn’t, not really. He was far too frazzled, but perhaps he could use a distraction. “Very well, Ronald. White or black?”

 

“Black. And please, please, call me Ron, already.”

 

“Alright, Ron Already it is. I suppose you ought to call me Draco.”

 

Ron laughed goodnaturedly at that and summoned a chess board. “I s'pose I’d better.”

 

———

 

They played in silence for a while, but it was mostly companionable. As it turned out, Wea— Ron was a formidable player, and Draco had to concede that he’d underestimated his intellect for far too long. Especially when he beat Draco. Three times.

 

“You’re good,” Ron said, sounding shocked.

 

Draco sent him a withering glare. “I’ve lost. Again.”

 

“Yeah, but I had to try. I wasn’t sure up until the end there.”

 

If Draco didn’t know better, he’d say that was a compliment. Fortunately, Granger—Hermione saved him the trouble of figuring out how to respond by popping her head out and exclaiming, “I knew it!” She rushed over, already reaching inside her bag and pulling out a book. Draco wondered not for the first time how much she’d crammed in the thing. “I think I know what the Black Family shame is.”

 

“We already knew that, though,” Ron said, pausing to yawn widely, “Dementors.”

 

“Actually, dementors are only part of it, if I'm right.”

 

"You're always right."

 

"Usually," she said grimly. Draco might have expected her to sound more enthusiastic about whatever it was she’d discovered, but her face was fixed in a rictus of grim distaste. “I’ve been thinking about it since you said you thought those dementors were sent to stop you, but not hurt you. They didn’t try to kiss you, did they?”

 

He wondered why she was asking, since he'd definitely included that memory amongst the ones he'd handed over for viewing, but perhaps she just wanted confirmation.

 

“No,” Draco said, leaning his forearms on his knees. “If I had to guess, I’d say they seemed like they were guarding something. They definitely had time to kiss us, if that’s what they’d been after.”

 

"That's what I thought." She put the book down on the chessboard, much to the displeasure of the white and black kings. Draco recognized it as one from the Black Family library, though he’d refused to even flip through it on principle, given that the title was ‘Uses of Muggles in Magic’. The picture of a man being blood-let on the cover did not inspire confidence that it was a cheerful sort of book. “We’ve seen the memory ward protecting Gleyma ourselves, both in your memories, Draco, and in person. Dementors shouldn't be able to get past them, but even if they can, there shouldn’t have been any reason for them to come inside the wards.”

 

“Do you think someone let them in?” Ron cut in, face pale.

 

“It could be, but…here!” She flipped the book to the appropriate page on self-renewing wards. “Something Harry said got me thinking. Do you remember? He mentioned ‘Friday the 13th’ when he was trying to get you out of town, Draco, but it wasn’t Friday the 13th, obviously. It was—”

 

“Saturday the 25th,” Draco supplied, mind racing. He’d thought it strange at the time, but he’d been too distracted by all the other strangeness of Harry’s behaviour to focus on any singular thing. Mostly, he'd been focused on whether Harry's memories had come back.

 

“Exactly! And then what Harry said about a debt collector, and the reason you had to leave that day, and—well, the Autumnal Equinox was that week, and as I'm sure you know, there are 13 weeks in every season, so I thought, what if it wasn’t friday the 13th, but the 13th Friday? Er, Saturday. Week. Whatever. In any case, if the wards reset every 13 weeks, and it coincides with this ‘debt collector’ coming inside the wards, what does it collect?" She paused long enough for Draco to wonder whether it had been a rhetorical question. "Happiness. Memories. And…well, maybe people, too.”

 

Draco wondered if he were ever going to stop being impressed by her. Somehow, he doubted it. “If the wards were weakened leading up to the renewal, it would explain why we ran into three dementors while ostensibly being inside the wards.”

 

“Unless they were sent to guard something.” Hermione flipped through yet another book with an equally distasteful title (Moste Malicious Magik) and placed it on top of the one about muggles and ancient wards. “I’ve been reading through some dark literature, specifically on ancient beliefs about the source of magic in a witch or wizard.”

 

Ron scoffed. “The magical core, obviously. Everyone knows that.”

 

“We know that now. No one knew about magical cores until the 13th century. Until then, it was widely believed that the source of magic was the soul. And because of that, they used to think—” she shuddered here “—that you could extract magic through the soul. That the reason muggles didn’t have magic is because they had no souls.”

 

“Well, that’s just stupid.” Ron shook his head in disbelief. “How’d they explain squibs and muggleborns, then?”

 

Hermione grimaced. “Stolen magic. They thought muggleborns stole the magic from ‘proper’ witches and wizards. Incidentally, that was their explanation for squibs, too. They'd had their magic, and their soul, stolen.”

 

“What’s that got to do with Gleyma?” Draco asked, stomach roiling, already dreading the answer. He’d been aware that there were some purebloods who thought that Muggles didn't have souls, but he’d had no idea how deeply rooted the beliefs went.

 

Flipping to another page in the horrid book, Hermione continued, “Well, that’s the thing. Soul extraction and reinsertion isn’t possible. Well, unless it’s fractured, but that’s a whole other thing altogether, though it might be related—”

 

“Hermione,” Ron said gently, “Focus.”

 

“Right.” She shook her head, as though clearing a particularly nasty thought, and continued, “According to these books, they thought that however the muggleborns took the soul in the first place, it could only return to its proper place—the way to get the ‘stolen’ soul back to the squib—if the original vessel were to experience extreme suffering.”

 

“Through torture?” Draco asked, because he wouldn’t doubt it of some of his ancestors to believe that. He’d met Bellatrix, after all.

 

“Emotional torture. Heartbreak. Despair.”

 

The full picture was becoming disturbingly clear to Draco, and based on the looks Hermione and Ron were giving each other, they were on the same page. “So…the Blacks somehow made a soul sucking creature to extract muggleborns’ magic, then inflict extreme suffering on squibs to make their supposed stolen magic return to them?”

 

Hermione nodded. “That’s my working theory, at least.”

 

“So their shame was that it didn’t work, then,” Ron said, lips pulled back in disgust.

 

“It’s worse than that, actually,” Hermione said. “I don’t think their shame was the dementors. Their shame was that squibs were born in their family at all. Whether the torture worked or not was never really the point. If it worked, they’d be more than happy to accept their former squib child back into the family, especially knowing that it came at the cost of a muggleborn’s magic. And if it didn’t work, so what? The squibs sent here were soulless, magicless embarrassments anyway.

 

“What you said earlier got me thinking, Draco, about muggleborns with squib ancestors. How many generations of Black squibs would it take intermingling here for a witch or wizard to be born? And if one had been born, and was trying to take down the wards, escape this place…”

 

“I see,” Draco said, closing his eyes.

 

“So where does that leave us, in terms of saving Harry? And ourselves, really,” Ron added.

 

Hermione stuck her hands in her hair, messing it up and somehow making it even bushier. “I don’t know. There are too many variables; too much we don’t know.”

 

“I think,” Draco began slowly, “that we need to give Harry the brooch back.”

 

Ron looked vindicated. He’d been expressing similar sentiments from the beginning. But Hermione still looked unconvinced. “Why?”

 

“I think we can all agree there are a lot of machinations at work here,” Draco said, side-stepping her question. “Like you said, there’s much we don’t know. But Harry does."

 

“You don't know that,” Hermione said sullenly.

 

“Why don’t you want him to have it?” Draco countered.

 

She regarded him carefully, as though he were missing something obvious. “Well, what will happen to your memories without the brooch?”

 

He hadn’t thought of that, or rather, he’d refused to think about it. “They should be fine, I think. As long as we don’t spend much more time here. And even if something does happen to them, Harry’s memories are more valuable than mine, when it comes to Gleyma.”

 

“But you aren’t sure. Until Harry remembers, we need your knowledge. What if something goes wrong, and his memories don’t come back even with the brooch? The wards were weaker last time he used it.”

 

“That’s an understandable concern, but it’s just a risk we’ll have to take.”

 

“I’m on board,” Ron said, and Hermione gave him a betrayed glare.

 

“There’s also the problem of activation…the brooch requires a blood sample, doesn’t it?”

 

“What of it?” Draco sniffed. “That’s how they work.”

 

“Blood magic is dark magic,” Hermione said, eyes flashing in what Draco would classify as a sanctimonious way.

 

“So says you. It’s just risky if misused. In this case,” he amended when he saw her about to argue. They didn’t have time to get into the semantics of what made something dark magic, and was dark the same as evil. “The brooch won’t hurt him. It belonged to a Hufflepuff, for Salazar’s sake. Or Godric, if you must.”

 

“Mad-Eye was a Hufflepuff,” said Ron.“You shouldn’t underestimate their potential for the macabre.” Draco wondered whose side Ron was on, exactly.

 

With a self-righteous set to her jaw, Hermione added, “I don’t know how well you understand Harry, but as someone who’s been his best friend for 14 years, I’d like to think I have a fairly good idea of how he’ll react. If he gets his memories back, he’ll just go charging right on ahead into whatever it was that got him into this mess to begin with.”

 

Draco rather thought it was due to the fact that they'd known Harry so long that they couldn’t see that he’d changed. Or how he had. But Ron and Hermione hadn’t figured out how to access Harry’s memories—Draco had. Ron and Hermione hadn’t been able to open Harry’s bedroom—Draco had. Ron and Hermione hadn’t stumbled across Harry in a cursed town and gotten to know him without the burden of the past—Draco had. Perhaps they’d known Harry longer, but he wasn’t convinced they knew him better than Draco. At the very least, he knew Harry differently than they did, and that perspective was vital to rescuing him.  

 

“We’re here now,” Draco pointed out. “And if he gets his memories back, he’ll recognize that we’re here to help him. No matter how stubborn he is, why wouldn’t he accept our help?”

 

Hermione and Ron exchanged hopeless glances. “Harry isn’t very good at accepting help,” Hermione said at last. “He thinks he has to do everything by himself. Especially if he thinks he’s protecting us.”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “He wanted to ask me for help with his house.”

 

“He wanted your advice. No doubt he wouldn’t have asked for your assistance in executing it.”

 

Draco thought of Harry, always alone in his memories. He thought of Harry using his own blood to tie himself to the wards, what it took just for him to find out what was wrong with the house. “You really think he wants to be alone?”

 

“No!” Hermione said, looking horrified. “He doesn’t want it, and we don’t want that for him, either. It’s just…he doesn’t ask. He’s always faced his problems alone, even when we help him. Or try to, as much as we’re able.”

 

The haunted looks on Ron and Hermione’s faces made Draco think he was better off not knowing, but in spite of that he wanted to know. He wanted to share Harry’s burdens, to see what he’d insisted on carrying alone all this time.

 

“No doubt Harry’s martyr complex is deep,” he conceded at last, “but I must insist that it would be dangerous to lower the wards without equipping him the means to defend himself.”

 

“And you maintain that giving Harry the brooch—”

 

“And his wand.”

 

“—is the only way to do that.”

 

“Not the only way,” Draco said, thinking of the Patronus in the woods, and the pain that followed, “but the best way. And as for my memories, they won’t be under attack as long as we take down the wards quickly after Harry has remembered.”

 

Hermione gave him a measuring stare. “I don’t like it,” she said at last. “It’s too uncertain.”

 

“Do you have a better plan?” he asked, sure that she did not.

 

“No.” She sighed heavily. “I don’t.”

 

Draco tried not to look too smug about it. It was rather difficult; his face was naturally prone for smugness.

 

“Alright, so we give Harry the brooch, then,” said Ron happily. “When? And where?”

 

“Tomorrow,” Hermione said. Her tone brooked no argument, not that Draco would have pushed for giving the brooch to Harry sooner. Even so, Draco had a feeling Hermione only wanted to wait because she wanted time to think of a better plan, but he owed her that. She was the smartest person he knew, after all, much as it stung to admit.

 

Ron’s happiness visibly faded. “Is there nothing else we can do until then?”

 

“Like what?”

 

“Like beginning to dismantle some of the wards?” Ron said with just a hint of irritability. “Even knowing about them, I can feel them grating away at me. It’s bloody exhausting.” Draco set to making more hot chocolate for all of them, the conversation effectively paused until they all felt more settled.

 

“I’m worried about the actual process of dismantling the wards,” Hermione said, sitting down with her mug. “They are interdependent, and if we pull on one piece, they might trigger some unknown attack sequence.”

 

“Like a jenga tower,” said Ron, elbowing Hermione playfully.

 

“Exactly. We won’t be able to leave the benevolent aspects up while taking down the ones attacking our mood and memories.”

 

“Why not?” said Draco. “Jenga towers only come down if you carelessly remove a piece integral to maintaining the tower’s balance.”

 

Ron and Hermione stared at him incredulously. “You know what Jenga is?”

 

“I will remind you: I took a muggle education course on muggle culture and—”

 

“That’s not important right now,” Hermione interrupted. “The point is, we know nothing except that the wards are interrelated, and they were set up by people who thought they could fix squibs by creating soul sucking dark creatures.”

 

“I’ll grant you that. But the wards around Cosmic Latte are new,” Draco said, pinching his lip between two fingers, considering. “They were added specifically to deal with Harry, and presumably me. Taking them down shouldn’t hurt the integrity of the wards protecting the town.”

 

“Great!” Ron crowed, clapping his hands together. “Let’s do it, then.”

 

Hermione looked like she wanted to argue—then again, she always looked that way to Draco—but with an exasperated sigh of defeat, she gave in. “Fine. Fine. But we’re all using disillusionment charms. And we wait until nightfall.”

 

Draco grinned, relieved to finally be doing something. “Fine by me.”

 

———

 

Dismantling the wards around Cosmic Latte was, unfortunately, rather anti-climatic. Hermione wanted to be absolutely sure no one would see them, and thus insisted they wait until moonset, which was around 3 in the morning. It was ‘worth it’ for the ‘absolute certainty’ that they would ‘have the cover of darkness supporting them’. Even though it was cloudy, and raining, and the moon wasn’t visible anyway. But Draco mentally conceded that he wasn’t willing to take any risks either.

 

When the task was done, there was no feeling of reassurance, no visible sign that the wards were gone. Hermione suggested they put up glamours to make it appear that the wards were still in place, but frankly they were all too tired to even contemplate it. “I doubt anyone will be checking. As far as whoever put them up is aware, there’s no one around to take them down.” 

 

They trudged back to the tent after that, exhausted and downtrodden and anxious. Few words were exchanged as they all collapsed into bed and prepared for whatever the next day would bring, after giving Harry the brooch back. Draco was afraid to hope for much, in terms of what Harry would remember about their time together. He tried not to think of it at all, but not thinking about it was as impossible as not thinking about Harry, and hours later Draco realized he wasn’t going to be able to sleep for nerves, no matter how weary he was. As such, it seemed pointless to languish in his bed, wishing for sleep that wasn’t coming.

 

Finding ways to keep himself occupied in the tent was pointless as well. He was too ancy and frenetic, pacing back and forth in front of the stove with a rather mediocre cup of coffee. Cosmic Latte would be opening soon, but he knew he shouldn’t go. Couldn’t go. It was too risky. But maybe if he stood at the edge of the woods, he could catch a glimpse of Harry…

 

No. He shouldn’t. It seemed like a good idea to his sleep deprived brain, but they were so close to saving Harry, and he’d only have himself to blame if it all came to nothing because Draco couldn’t wait one more day to see Harry.

 

In the end, he decided to practice his Patronus, seeing as how the likelihood that he'd need it in the near future was only increasing.

 

Fifteen minutes later, and he was doing just that at a suspicious distance from the tent and a questionable proximity to the edge of the woods close to Harry’s flat. It would be easier to cast a Patronus if he could see Harry, and just the thought that it was theoretically possible to catch a glimpse warmed him, but he told himself (firmly) that he’d just have to make due with thoughts of Harry. The feel of Harry's hand in Draco’s. The way his ridiculous hair stuck up in the morning. The way he always woke up—curling his toes first, then scrunching his nose, arching his back, yawning with all his might, then finally, finally, blinking those devastatingly green eyes open. Not all the way at first, just a sliver, as though to test whether or not he really wanted to wake up. He never wanted to, Draco knew, but he always did it anyway, in the end.

 

With that in mind, he cast his Patronus. It was big, and the shape was familiar, but still undefined. Four legs, muscular, elegant. It was not…quite corporeal, but Draco could say confidently that it was probably some kind of mammal. A horse, perhaps? He didn’t particularly feel any affinity for horses. A goat, maybe? He shuddered at the thought. Sharing a patronus with Aberforth Dumbledore would be a cruel trick of fate.

 

If he squinted at it, it almost looked like…but could it be? It certainly could, he thought, if he were being honest with himself—

 

But he didn’t get the chance to think about it for long, because there was a swoosh of air, and a sharp pain in the back of his head, and then there was darkness.

 

---

 

They were back. Jean and Bill were back, and something about this was familiar but Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The more he thought about it, the more his head ached…

 

“I know my lattes are good, but I didn’t expect to see you again,” he said to them, taking in their somewhat-less-bedraggled-than-yesterday appearance.

 

“We decided to stay until the rain stopped. No use walking through a deluge if you can avoid it,” Bill said, sounding happier than one should about getting lost and camping in the rain. Too happy, in fact. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, and there was a tension in his shoulders that belied his true feelings.

 

Since when do I notice things like that? Harry wondered. Something akin to suspicion was budding in the pit of his stomach. “You’ll be staying here forever, in that case. You can’t wait on the weather to cooperate in Gleyma.”

 

Bill and Jean exchanged a nervous glance with each other, silently communicating in the way only the most in-sync couples can.

 

Jean smiled weakly. “Right, well. Do you have hot chocolate here?” She asked, changing the subject. Her eyes were darting around, full of intent and repressed nerves.

 

“It’s on the menu, isn’t it?” Harry said, pointing behind him, trying not to be annoyed. That something in the pit of his stomach was definitely full-on suspicion now.

 

“Can you make it with cayenne and cinnamon, like you used—I mean, can you?”

 

Harry narrowed his eyes. “Unfortunately we don’t stock either of those things—”

 

“Good thing I brought my own, then!” Bill said, plonking down two travel-sized tubes of spice.

 

Harry stared blankly at them. No one had ever brought their own items and asked for them to be made. There was probably some rule against it, though Harry hadn’t been arsed to read the employee handbook in months. “Well, I didn’t realize I was dealing with a connoisseur. You have impeccable taste, good sir.”

 

Bill beamed at him. “My best mate got me into it.”

 

“Then perhaps he’s the one with impeccable taste,” Harry countered, heart aching with the familiarity of the exchange. But it couldn't be familiar; he'd never talked to anyone about his hot chocolate preferences before. Well, except Queenie, but that didn't count.

 

He could see Jean trying not to laugh and turning red with the effort, but he chose not to comment. Whatever it was, it was clearly an in-joke, and he was not in on it. “Would you like one or two superior hot chocolates?”

 

“Three,” Jean said. “We’d like to buy one for you, since you’re clearly a fan.”

 

Harry frowned. “Er…why?”

 

Jean gave him a meaningful glance. “A show of good faith.” Harry glanced at Bill, but he was also making a painfully earnest expression, all traces of mirth vanished.

 

“Er, alright then. Uh…thanks?”

 

Harry got to work making the drinks, keeping a surreptitious eye on Jean and Bill. Unlike the previous day, they had not gone to sit down on the sofa, but were instead watching him with vested interest. Rather than pretend he hadn’t noticed, he decided to engage them.

 

“Where did you end up staying last night, then?” he asked, trying for casual.

 

He wasn’t convinced he pulled it off, but Jean answered, “Just out of town, by that rock outcropping with the carved symbols.”

 

“Oh, the bonfire pit? Good job finding that,” he said, trying not to let it show that his suspicion had curdled into dread. No one noticed the runes on the outcropping; no one ever stayed long enough in town to even find the bonfire pit, let alone notice the peculiarities of the spot.

 

“Say, you haven’t, uh, seen any other out-of-towners today, have you?” Bill asked, far too casual.

 

“Why, you missing one?” He half-joked. Frankly, he wasn’t in a joking mood today, but was he ever?

 

They look disappointed, but not deterred. “Yes, actually.”

 

“Um…ok?” Harry wasn’t sure what was happening here, but somewhere in the back of his head he recognized that this was important. “You realize you’re being incredibly questionable, right?”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Jean, not sounding sorry at all. “He—We wanted to give you this. It’s yours by rights, he said.” Jean put a strange brooch on the counter, a green and gold dragonfly with strange etchings on its abdomen. A pressure behind Harry’s right eye blossomed, a sharp ache when he tried to consider the gift too deeply. But deep in his bones, he knew: he’d seen it before.

 

Harry picked up the brooch skeptically, but dropped it almost immediately. It burned. He cursed under his breath and shook his fingers, red and throbbing. Only partially aware of his actions, he reached a shaking hand out to grab it again.  “Who gave this to you?” he whispered, transfixed by the strange brooch. He registered a tingle when he touched it, something between an electric shock and a buzz. There was no possibility he’d seen it before, and yet…and yet…

 

He grasped it until it hurt, and vaguely noticed that he was bleeding.

 

“Are you alright?” Jean whispered.

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“But…you’re crying.”

 

Harry put a shaking hand up to his face and, yes, he was crying. “Oh,” he said dully. “I don’t know…I have memory problems.” He was sure he’d mentioned it to them before.

 

Jean patted his hand kindly, familiar, like she’d done it a thousand times before. “That’s ok. Our feelings stay, even if our memories leave us.”

 

Harry took the brooch and attached it to his jumper, wiping his eyes with his apron. “It’s an ugly thing, isn’t it?”

 

Bill and Jean gave him such a pained look Harry was worried they were going to start crying,too. Harry fixed them with a shrewd stare, putting their hot chocolate in front of them. They made no moves to drink it, however, in favour of watching him as though waiting for something to happen. "What are you really here for?" he asked at last. 

"We're here to rescue you," Bill whispered, and this too was familiar, from long ago.

"But first, we need your help with something," Jean said earnestly. "Our friend disappeared this morning. Blonde, tall, pale—”

 

“—bit of poncy posh bloke, but my best mate thinks he’s alright."

 

Harry’s heart clenched painfully. Thank you, and I’m sorry. “What?”

 

“We were hoping you’d seen him,” Jean continued. But her name wasn’t Jean, was it? Focus Harry. Pay attention. “His name is Landon.”

 

Harry laughed once at the name, a clear image coming through, and not only that, but…“No, it isn’t.”

 

Jean and Bill looked hopeful, nervous.

 

He squeezed his hand into a fist. “It’s Draco."

 

---

 

Draco came to slowly, like waking from a distant dream. Except that his head was pounding, and he was tied to a chair in a dark room. He wriggled his arms and legs experimentally. Correction: his head was pounding, and he was tied to a chair very securely in almost complete darkness. There was a pale strip of light off to his left, but it wasn’t enough to identify his surroundings. He could still feel his extremities, even if they were tied up, so he hadn’t been petrified or force-fed a numbing potion. So there was that to be grateful for, though grateful was very far down on his list of things he was feeling at the moment.

 

A soft scuffling sound to his right alerted him to the fact that he was not alone. Lovely.

 

“Where am I?” he groaned, laying his discomfort on thickly. His headache was becoming more manageable by the second, but his captor—assuming that’s who they were, and not a co-captive—didn’t need to know that.

 

He didn’t really expect an answer, because a co-captive would likely be as much in the dark as he was (literally and figuratively), and a captor had no reason to answer. But an answer he got, a familiar voice cooing, “Never you mind. You're somewhere we won't be disturbed.” A lamp on desk in the corner switched on, burning Draco's corneas as his eyes adjusted to the light.

 

"Did you do that just for the drama?" he asked. He wouldn't put it past her to wait in the dark until he woke up—Queenie. He took a moment to observe his surroundings anew. There wasn’t much to see in the room, but clearly he wasn’t in a shed; the room was attached to some other structure. Every so often a soft grinding sound floated from somewhere just beyond the door, and with the faintest aroma of coffee wafting through the air…Merlin’s Beard. “We’re in the attic of Cosmic Latte.”

 

She scowled. "Knowing that won't save you."

 

He wouldn’t have believed her strong enough to knock him out and carry him all the way up to Cosmic Latte without anyone seeing them, but perhaps she’d had help. His money was on Cyril. “So, what was your grand plan with all this? Bring me up here, torture me for information? All I have to do is shout, and someone will hear me. Elementary villain mistake. I would know.”

 

“No they won’t; I cast a silencing charm. Besides, no one comes up here. They can’t.  Wards, you know. Such handy things.”

 

So she didn’t know what they’d done yesterday. He could work with that. Unless she recast them…bugger it all. He tried a different tack. “You have no idea who I am, do you? What I’m capable of?” It was an obvious stalling tactic, but it hardly mattered if Queenie knew he was trying to buy himself time. She didn’t know why, and might assume it was because he didn’t know what she planned to do with him. Which he didn’t. But he didn’t plan to stick around and find out. All he needed was just…a strategy. Of any kind.

 

“You’re Draco Malfoy. Heir to the Malfoy family. Some kind of Black, too.”

 

He gave an impressed whistle. “Figured that out, did you? Or maybe you just stole some of my memories for your viewing pleasure.”

 

“That’s not how it works,” she sneered, but didn’t offer any more information.

 

Draco felt his pocket wiggle, and could have cheered, were he not in this situation. He couldn’t believe the bint didn’t search his pockets, what kind of villain was she? But she didn’t search his pockets. Poppet—or Pigwidgeon, he supposed—was sleeping in Draco’s coat. For now, at least, and Draco was forming a plan already. “I don’t suppose you care to tell me how you found out, then? As a professional courtesy, one villain to another.”

 

She scoffed. “You? A villain? Please. You’re an annoyance at best, and a…an anti-hero, or something, at worst. And for the record, I’m not a villain either. I’ve only done what’s necessary to maximize utility.”

 

“Whatever you have to tell yourself, darling,” he drawled.

 

She didn’t say anything at first, but finally she responded, “You wouldn’t have been able to come back here if you weren’t a Black. You wouldn’t have remembered, let alone have the wards accept you. Especially if he banished you.”

 

“Harry’s the Black Family Heir. I doubt I could have returned if he really wanted to keep me away.” He wasn’t sure whether that were exactly true or not. But he was hoping she didn’t know that. Or would rush to demonstrate her superior knowledge. Either way, it was a good distraction for the unnatural way he was shimmying his shoulder to wake the daft bird. As long as it kept her talking, he didn’t much care.

 

“He’s not, but he is,” she hissed, “I don’t know how it happened. He’s the head of the family, but he’s not a Black, and he can’t remember anything! Really throws a spanner in the works, you know.”

 

"Harry's been known to do that to plans," Draco said with a fond smile. His own plans in school had certainly been thwarted by Harry, time and again.

 

That seemed to unlock the flood gate of Queenie airing her grievances. “All he has to do to end this curse is accept me back into the family! But he wouldn’t initiate the damn test, let alone accept me.” Draco somehow doubted it was that easy; Harry wouldn’t refuse if it were so simple. “He came for the Net, and I said I’d give it to him if he married me—”

 

“Married you? ” As Harry’s…significant something or other, he had a problem with that.

 

“That was his reaction!” she said, wildly swinging her arms as she paced in frustration. “It’s not as though he’d be at any risk! Just administer the exam, and I could leave! I’d definitely pass, of that I’m sure.”

 

“Exam?” Draco pressed. It was important to keep her distracted, but he was personally curious as well. This wasn’t something Hermione had come up with during her research.

 

“Yes! The exam to prove I’m not a squib, and deserve to be Ciara Black, not Baas.”

 

“…Ciara? I thought your name was Queenie.”

 

“It’s a nickname, ” she grit out, eyes flashing dangerously.

 

“Why didn’t Harry want to give you an exam, then?”

 

“He said it wasn’t ‘ethical’ because it would only end my imprisonment, and that he couldn’t ‘condone’ torturing people because of bigoted beliefs. Not to mention he found the whole lure thing ‘objectionable’.”

 

Draco sincerely doubted ‘objectionable’ was the word Harry had used to describe anything related to Gleyma; it was far too mild. “And what is this lure?”

 

“Well, there’s no use torturing squibs to get them their magic back if there’s no soul to return to them, is there? Any witch or wizard born here isn’t really a muggleborn, since we all have magical ancestry. So the wards are set to bring in the ones responsible for the Baas lack of magic—”

 

“You’ve lured muggleborns here? To—surely not for the dementors. ” Draco was sure his face was a rictus of horror. Surely that wasn’t the implication here?

 

“Dementors?” Queenie repeated, an odd little tilt to her head. “Oh, you mean the debt collectors? Well, how else could they collect? It’s not often, you know. Only—”

 

“It doesn’t matter how often! If it happened even once, it’s—” Draco felt bile rising in his throat. “Do you realize what happens when a dementor kisses a person?”

 

She shrugged, unbothered. “They give back what they stole. Nothing more, or less. It’s only right they should suffer for it.”

 

He continued to quietly get Poppet to wake up, because the daft bird could—and would, by Salazar—fly through the crack under the door to get help. His situation, he’d realized, was far more dire than previously believed. She was worse than Bellatrix, which wasn’t something he'd thought possible.

 

“You’re making that face,” she said darkly, breaking Draco out of his reverie.

 

“I beg your pardon?” he wished he had the courage for defiance in the face of what she might have planned for him, but he couldn't quite stomach it.

 

“That’s the exact same face John made when I told him about the exam. Is it so wrong to want what’s mine? Besides, my magic has already been returned to me. It’s not as though I’m the one who made it happen. I just benefited from the system of my ancestors.”

 

The thought of what Harry would do—or had done, rather—in Draco’s situation helped him focus on escape rather than suppressing his horror at what she was saying. He didn't have the heart for defiance; but feigned coolness, he could manage. “What’s your plan for me, then? Let the debt collectors kiss me and give my magic away?”

 

She blinked once, twice, as though confused. “What? Oh, heavens, no! You’re a wizard, born with magic. You didn’t steal it. Though I’m sure Cyril would appreciate having magic, it’s not as though he can take yours. He has to get his own back.”

 

“Have you considered the possibility that your ancestors were wrong? That muggleborns aren’t soul-stealers or any such rot?”

 

“Of course they weren’t wrong," she scoffed, "It’s written in all the books they left us, and every few decades or so one of us has our magic returned, so obviously it works.”

 

“But that doesn’t make any sense! If you’ve lived your whole life in Gleyma, what muggleborn could have stolen your magic? And even if it were the case that muggleborns could steal magic, do you think you just randomly happened to capture the very same muggleborn who stole your magic?”

 

“Of course it didn’t just happen randomly. It happened because of magic.”

 

Queenie continued speaking, detailing how magic "defies logic and explanation", but Draco wasn't paying attention. What would be the point? He couldn't use logic to explain the flaw in her beliefs if she didn't believe them for logical reasons. “—so I told him fine, if he doesn’t want to do the test, he can marry me, and then together we can take down the wards, but he didn’t want to do that either. If it weren’t for the fact that it won’t work if it’s not willingly given—”

 

“What?” Draco said, because he thought he’d missed something important.

 

“I said I can’t force him to bond magically with me because that won’t break the curse! He has to want it! But he can’t remember the conversations we’ve had about it, so every cycle I have to start over trying to woo him!”

 

Draco sat there quietly for a moment, processing. “So, what? You’re just going to keep me captive up here until Harry decides to marry you?” he hoped that were the case. At least that wouldn’t mean she intended to have the dementors kiss him, after all.

 

“No,” she said with a little patronizing smile, “I’m going to make polyjuice and become you, and then Harry will marry me. Well, you. But, me.”

 

That had to be the worst plan he’d ever heard. “That’s the worst plan I’ve ever heard, and believe me, I’ve heard things.”

 

“Ye of little faith,” she sneered.

 

“Bad faith, actually. And that’s rather the point, you see; Harry doesn’t want to marry me.”

 

She actually laughed at that—laughed!—and said,“That’s what you think. Do you know how hard I have to work to keep his feelings for you suppressed? It’s maddening. I’ve had to strengthen the wards against him three times this week alone.”

 

Draco’s chest swelled with affection and pride, that in spite of everything, Harry was still fighting back. Fighting for him. If she thought that would demotivate him, she really wasn’t very bright.

 

“I realize that everything here isn’t your fault specifically, but you’re kind of the worst,” he goaded. "Harry would have helped you if you’d let him.”

 

She stepped forward into the light, her eyes gleaming with malice. “I gave him the chance, and he said no.”

 

“You said he had to marry you, magically bond with you. Of course he said no!”

 

“Considering he was asking for the one thing that keeps us safe, it was not only a fair trade, but a necessary one. The wards can’t be taken down by one person alone. It requires two Blacks, from the inside and the outside. Even if I wanted to be nice and just give it to him, I’ve read the journals of Baas’s past—if you think it’s bad now, you should know what it was like living in Gleyma before the Net. As long as we have the Net, we’re safe here.”

 

“It doesn’t belong to you,” he growled. Come on, Queenie, hit me. “And even if you did have some claim to it, the Black Ancestral Home is dying without it. And if the house that contains the last of the Black magic dies, what do you think will happen to your precious Net?”

 

“WELL MAYBE IT DESERVES TO DIE!” she seethed. “My fucking ancestors were squibs, but I’m not! Maybe they deserved to be here, but I don’t! I taught myself magic! Learned everything I’d need to to take back my freedom!”

 

“By sacrificing other people’s memories, happiness, freedom, and souls.”

 

“Achieving Greatness requires Great Sacrifice.”

 

Draco thought he’d be sick, if he’d eaten anything in the past twelve hours. “You know, I was mistaken. You’re not misled; you’re sick.”

 

He didn’t know why that did it, but he wasn’t expecting it when she grabbed him and screamed in his face, told him he didn't need a soul for her to use his body’s DNA for polyjuice, after all. And he was scared shitless, frankly, but it was the opening he’d been waiting for. “Poppet! Go get Harry!”

 

The fluffy owl zoomed out of his pocket with a triumphant screech and zipped under the door.  Draco was relieved that for once the daft bird didn’t decide to do a victory loop around Draco’s head before heading off to find Harry.

 

Queenie sat in shocked silence for a moment before screaming, “What have you DONE!?”

 

“My very best, of course.” Draco shot her a rakish grin as the door slammed open to admit Hermione, Ron, and Harry Fucking Potter, Poppet-Pigwidgeon flying loops around them with enthusiastic hoots.

 

“Your office sucks,” Harry said, and Hermione sent a stunning spell at the bint, knocking her unconscious.

Notes:

!!! Happy Boxing Day, if you celebrate it. And if you don't, happy regular december 26th. Whether you celebrate or not, here's a present for you! Thank you for your lovely comments, your kudos, your bookmarks, and subscriptions! Your support means the world to me ^w^

find me on tumblr (in spite of everything) @noir-renard

Chapter 18: Hidden Depths

Summary:

nothing says mystery like the zodiac!

Notes:

cw for blood (just a little bit though I promise!)

edit: I made some slight changes to some scenes in this chapter, mostly because I forgot that the tent belongs to Draco rather than the one Harry, Hermione, and Ron stayed in during the horcrux hunt.

It hadn’t been a moment since the so-called Golden Trio had burst through the door to rescue Draco, and Harry was already on his knees untying Draco’s bounds. Harry touched Draco’s wrists tenderly, prodding where the ropes had dug into his skin. They were sore and would probably bruise later; Queenie had not been gentle. Draco pushed up his sleeves to examine the damage—ugly red lines, but he’d had worse—and Harry froze.

 

Draco realized too late that Harry’s eyes were focused on the tail of the dark mark forever carved into Draco’s arm. Harry hadn’t seen it before, with or without amnesia. If he remembered what it meant, he’d remember exactly why Draco Malfoy wasn’t worth his time. And if he didn’t remember yet…well, that would be problematic for other reasons, and Merlin, Harry was still staring, but whether with horror or confusion, Draco couldn’t tell. How could he have thought this would ever work once Harry remembered who Draco was, what he had done? Draco was a fool for thinking Harry wouldn’t mind, or wouldn’t notice or—Merlin, this was a mess.

 

Ashamed, Draco hastened to pull his sleeve down, but Harry stopped him with a gentle hand and calm eyes, pushing up Draco’s sleeve to examine the mark. Draco wanted to turn away, unwilling to bear whatever disgusted face Harry made at it, but he couldn’t move. Unexpectedly, Harry looked anything but disgusted. He looked intrigued, laying Draco’s arm out flat to examine the hated snake and skull. Without speaking, he pushed up his own sleeve and revealed the stag tattoo, so similar and yet nothing like Draco’s mark of shame. Draco remembered, then: Harry had gotten a tattoo so Draco could apply to the aurors. Harry knew Draco was marked, and Harry still thought Draco was worth giving a chance. Harry had been present for nearly every bad decision Draco had ever made, and he’d still forgiven him.

 

Soft, warm lips on Draco’s arm brought his attention back to the present. Harry’s black, wild hair brushing Draco’s arm as he bent over to kiss the mark, as though to say ‘I accept it; it’s a part of you. Nothing more, nothing less’.

 

Draco held still while Harry touched him everywhere—his hair, the corner of his eyes, his nose, his hands, and once again the ugly brand of his past mistakes. Harry traced the edges, lips turned up in a delicate smile. Something about it felt sacred, and he dared not shatter the moment with clumsy words and hasty movements. Finally Harry looked up, green eyes pinning Draco with potent sincerity. There was no judgement there. Only kindness, and concern. And, perhaps, even love.

 

Draco did try to speak then, to focus on the fact that this was a happy reunion, to say something meaningful to mark the occasion. ‘Thank you’ didn’t seem like enough, ‘I’ve missed you’ made him feel vulnerable, and ‘Don’t ever do that to me again’ failed to encompass the scope of his emotions. Harry didn’t speak either; instead, he took Draco’s face in his hands tenderly, and Draco placed his own hands on top of Harry’s. They stared into each other’s eyes before Harry pressed his lips to Draco’s in a desperate, relieved kiss.

 

He thought he heard Hermione sigh and Ron cough, but he couldn’t be bothered to care. He’d all but forgotten they were there, anyway. It had only been a week and a few days since he’d last seen Harry, touched him, held him, but he didn’t intend to let this long overdue reunion go to waste.

 

At last—too soon—Harry was pulling away, staring at Draco with unconcealed wonder.

 

"Why is it," Draco began, "that even in the midst of my attempt to rescue you, you're still the one saving me?"

 

Harry chuckled wetly. "You saved me first. You came back,” he whispered, peering deeply into Draco’s eyes, saying more than words could convey. “You weren’t supposed to—but you came back.”     

 

“Of course I came back, you daft bugger.” Draco scoffed, though he was unable to stop his mouth from curling into a smile far too revealing. “No thanks to you.”

 

Harry grinned and leaned his forehead against Draco’s. They sat there a moment, soaking up the other’s presence, until Ron coughed again—louder this time—and mumbled, “Not in a relationship, my arse,” sounding somewhere between shocked and amused.

 

Harry flushed and smiled in a embarrassed sort of way, and shared a glance with Draco, lips quirked in a smile that promised they’d talk about this later.

 

“Right,” Harry said, standing up and pulling Draco to his feet, “Not that I’m not grateful, but who are you people, really?”

 

Hermione's lips pressed together in a moue of disappointment. “You don’t remember?”

 

“I remember you,” he said slowly, carefully. “Jean and Bill, two pumpkin spice lattes in mugs. Going down the coast on your honeymoon…but that’s not who you really are, is it?” He sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his palm.

 

“You remember Draco,” Hermione said, making it sound like both a question and an accusation.

 

Harry smiled. “I should hope so, unless you think it's normal to snog a complete stranger tied to a chair."

 

Hermione rolled her eyes impatiently, and Harry relented. "I remember Draco, yes. At least, I remember the time we spent together here.”

 

“You don’t remember him from before?” asked Ron. “Hogwarts, the war, any of it?”

 

“I don’t remember anyone from before here,” Harry said coolly, “Sorry.”

 

Draco noted—with satisfaction—that Harry didn’t sound very sorry. Then he had to remind himself that it wasn’t a good thing Harry didn’t remember; Harry wanted his memories back, just as Draco wanted him to remember. The good and the bad. That had been his original goal, after all, getting Harry to remember who he was. But if he took a small amount of satisfaction that right now, Draco was the one Harry trusted most, well…he could be allowed to savour it while it lasted, couldn’t he?

 

Still, it was strange to watch the two people Harry trusted more than anyone in the world put their foot in it. And memories or not, they all needed to trust each other to get out of this.

 

“Harry, this is Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley,” Draco said, when it didn’t seem they were going to provide their own introductions.

 

Hermione sniffed. “We’re both Granger-Weasley now, actually.” 

 

“Granger-Weasley,” Harry echoed, “You’re friends of Harry Potter. Er, my friends.”

 

“You remember?” Ron asked hopefully.

 

Harry grimaced and shook his head, scrubbing his hand through his (disastrous, wonderful) hair. “Not exactly. But you wouldn’t be here if it weren’t true, would you?”

 

Well. Maybe things weren’t so dire, after all.

 

Hermione’s hands were clenched into fists at her sides, as though she wished to hug Harry but wasn’t sure it would be welcome. “You will remember,” she said fiercely, “Once all this is…sorted.”

 

Draco squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “I think it might take time to come back,” he offered, “Last time, your memories seemed to return in bits and pieces.”

 

“Last time,” Harry repeated, rubbing his forehead again distractedly. “I remember remembering, but not what I remembered.” He glanced dispassionately at Queenie on the floor, unconscious and still. “I got into a fight with her…an old fight. And I remember packing up the flat…and pushing you over the boundary.” He looked to Draco, face guilty but defiant. “You shouldn’t have been able to come back.”

 

Well, there was a lot to unpack there, but now was hardly the time for it. “I’m assuming you remember what this is?” Draco asked, pulling out his wand. Yet another thing Queenie had failed to take off his person. Perhaps she believed that as long as Draco’s hands were tied, he wouldn’t be able to use it. Amateur villain, indeed.

 

Harry grinned wide. “You asked me that last time, too. It’s a wand. Your wand. But I…” he reached out to it, and Draco handed it over without question. “I’ve used it before.”

 

Ron and Hermione were watching them with interest now, and Draco wasn’t sure how he felt about being so…exposed. His concerns only deepened when Hermione sent him a knowing look. Ugh, Gryffindors.

 

“You gave it back,” Draco said a bit defensively, “Against better judgement, I’m sure.”

 

Harry shrugged, unbothered, handing it back again without question. “Where’s mine, then?”

 

Hermione extracted it eagerly from her bottomless bag, practically shoving it in Harry’s hands. “You really shouldn't have given it away so easily, Harry,” she admonished.

 

He frowned lightly. “Why do you have it?”

 

Hermione’s shoulders tensed. “I was just keeping it safe. The bag is enchanted so only people I’ve authorized can take things out of it. I added that feature after last time…Anyway, the point is, only people I trust have access.”

 

“Trust…” Harry echoed, glancing at Draco for confirmation.

 

Draco was silently having a crisis over the fact that apparently, Hermione trusted him, but he smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way. “I gave it to her. They helped me figure out where to find you, Harry, when I couldn’t remember why I had Harry Potter’s wand and memories. They’ve been searching for you for months.” Far longer than I have, Draco added to himself.

 

“Alright. If you trust them, I will as well,” Harry said with a nod, the matter apparently concluded. Draco, meanwhile, was having another crisis at the implicit and explicit trust being offered him once again. 

 

Ignorant to the shaking of Draco’s inner world, Harry took his wand carefully, a small smile blooming on his lips as the room lit up with red and gold sparks and a rush of warm air that was almost joyful.

 

“You trust us because you know us,” Ron said emphatically, eyes pinched with a sort of desperation.

 

“You can’t just tell someone they trust you, Ron,” Hermione chastised, but she looked a bit teary as well. “We came here to help you, Harry, and that’s just what we’ll do, even if you don't remember who we are.”

 

“You’ve helped a lot already,” Harry agreed, flicking the dragonfly brooch now fastened to his shirt.

 

Draco squeezed Harry’s shoulder. “While it’s all coming back, we ought to tie her up, wouldn’t you agree?”

 

Draco made sure not to repeat Queenie's mistake by removing her wand from her person, gesturing to the others to go ahead with moving her.

 

“Hold on. There’s something odd about the magic field in here,” Harry noted as Ron went to levitate Queenie into the chair. “Better to avoid casting spells if we can avoid it.”

 

Ron was rather put out by this development, while Hermione looked intrigued, but they complied. Draco had noticed it as well, the sense of wrongness permeating the air. He’d thought it was merely a side effect of being knocked out in the woods, but apparently there was more to it than that, and he said as much.

 

“How did she manage to knock you out, by the way?” Ron asked, wiping his brow as he slumped Queenie’s lifeless body into the chair. “We didn’t even realize until, what? 9 or so? That you were gone. Thought you were having a lie-in.”

 

“I couldn’t sleep,” Draco admitted, “So I went to the woods.”

 

“So, what? Queenie saw you, conked you over the head, and carried you to Cosmic Latte herself?”

 

“She might have levitated me,” Draco said with as much cool disinterest as he could maintain in the face of such humiliation. “Or maybe Cyril helped carry me.”

 

Ron scrunched his nose. “The brother?”

 

“Doubtful,” said Harry, tying Queenie’s left arm with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. “Cyril would’ve tried to throw you out of the boundaries of town again.”

 

“Why didn’t she throw you out?” Hermione asked. “Surely she saw you as a threat.”

 

“More of an opportunity,” Draco corrected. “Apparently, she intended to polyjuice herself into me so she could marry Harry.” He noted—with interest—the pointed looks Ron and Hermione gave each other at this development, and filed it away for later consideration.

 

“She didn’t just want to marry me. Marriages can be dissolved.” Harry paused, hesitating before continuing, “She wanted to bond our magical cores.”

 

Hermione winced while Ron whistled.

 

“Why were you out in the woods to begin with?” Harry asked. “Wasn’t your being here with them meant to be a secret?”

 

Draco tried to think of something to say instead of the truth, but the truth was the only thing he could think of. “I was practicing my Patronus, if you must know, seeing as how we’re dealing with dementors. Queenie must have seen me.”

 

“That’s not it,” Harry said, pinching his bottom lip in contemplation. “There are alarms that go off when magic above a certain threshold is conducted within Gleyma's boundaries."

 

“How do you know that?” Hermione demanded. “We didn’t see anything like it when we examined the wards.”

 

He waved his hand negligently. “You wouldn’t have noticed it. It’s tied to the magic of the land itself. It stays inert unless provoked by external forces.”

 

“How do you know all this?” Hermione pressed. “And why do you remember that, and not us?”

 

“Queenie told me about some of it when I came to Gleyma. The rest I figured out through trial and error. As for why I remember, every time the wards reset, it all comes back for a short period. Never enough to do much, once the migraine and nausea wear off, but enough to try to convince Queenie to let me in to the office, to try and fix the wards, to investigate…but this,” he gestured to the firefly brooch, “provides mental defense. I'm guessing it won't let it all come back at once. It’s not…pleasant to remember everything all at once.”

 

Draco remembered just how not pleasant it had been the last time. He had no intention of repeating it if it could be avoided. The thought that Harry had gone through that when he remembered, alone, was horrifying.

 

“Right,” Hermione said, sounding a bit awkward. “So Queenie just…told you?”

 

Harry hesitated. “She thought I came here to conduct her exam. I just went along with it until I realized what exactly the exam entailed.”

 

“Exam?” Hermione echoed with interest.

 

Of course she’s interested in an exam, Draco thought, with some foreign emotion bordering on fondness. “She told me it was a way to prove she has magic after all,” Draco said, reading from Harry’s expression that he was tired of being so thoroughly grilled by someone he barely knew. “Passing the exam is supposedly a way to ‘get back into the Black family’ or some such rot. I wasn’t much paying attention to her explanation. I was focused on escaping.”

 

“She explained a bit more to me.” Harry sighed, frowning. “I thought it was a good option before I realized that it would only let the examinee escape. It requires demonstrating feats of magic in four areas.”

 

“What four—”

 

“I don’t know,” he snapped, “and I didn’t ask either. But I’m not sure the exam is one that can be passed, anyway.”

 

“She told you that as well?” Ron asked dubiously.

 

“No. But the Blacks happily burned their own magical children off the family tree merely for differences in ideology. Do you think they’d accept someone back into the family who would be, to them, no better than a muggleborn? Not to mention that unless the heir of the Black Family deigned to visit Gleyma themself, there's no way for someone in Gleyma to contact anyone outside the town to request an examination.”

 

"They could send a letter via muggle post," Ron said.

 

Harry laughed. "Do you really think the Blacks have a muggle post address?"

 

“Then why even dangle the exam as an option?” Hermione challenged.

 

“As far as I can figure, to keep them occupied with a goal,” Harry said, checking Queenie’s bounds one last time and standing up. “Not to mention that on the off chance one of their squib descendants did turn out to have magic, providing them with a way to win their freedom would stop them from directing their energy towards other ways of escaping. Keeping them focused on working towards a false promise of freedom would distract them from finding the real way to escape.”

 

Draco nodded, feeling the first glimmer of hope that they just might get out of this with both their lives and their memories. “Alright, so there is, potentially, a way to get out of here without taking this exam, since said exam may or may not work.”

 

“Hold on, what was it that Kreacher said?” Ron asked scrunching his nose up in thought. “Something, something, only Blacks can find Gleyma, and something, something, ‘unleavable’ unless you make a sacrifice or are…’accepted’ by Blacks?”

 

“Speaking from personal experience, I think we can safely assume the Great Sacrifice is having all your memories wiped,” said Draco.

 

Harry gasped softly, a small smile gracing his features. “I remember Kreacher…”

 

“He’s been very distraught with your absence,” Hermione informed him. She reached a hand out slowly, touching Harry's arm gently. He tensed up, but didn't pull away, which surely was a good thing, even if Draco felt a bit of—only a small bit, mind, but still present—envy.

 

“Not distraught enough to bloody well tell us anything ‘til a blood relative got involved,” Ron said, jerking his head towards Draco.

 

Harry stared at him, horrified. “We’re not relatives, are we?”

 

“Heavens, no!” Draco hastened to explain, just as Hermione said, “Not yet.”  

 

Draco sighed, and ignored the knowing smirks of the Granger-Weasley contingeon of their motley crew. “I don’t know if we can take Kreacher’s word for it.”

 

“You might be right. He’s lied to us before,” Ron agreed.

 

“Has he?” Draco mused. “Hmm. That’s not what I meant, though. Kreacher’s knowledge of Gleyma is secondhand. It’s likely he only knows what Abnus was told, which would include any lies to keep him complacent. He doesn’t even know where Gleyma is, as he so fervently told us many a time. From what I recall, Abnus' mother had a soft spot for him, and probably wanted to believe he would have magic to escape, if offered the proper motivation.”

 

Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You call sending your child to a cursed town surrounded by soul sucking monsters ‘having a soft spot’?”

 

Harry jumped to his defense. “He’s right. I believe Abnus was a turning point for the Blacks, though it’s hard to be certain.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Hermione asked.

 

“This place existed long before Abnus Black was ever sent here, yes?” Harry paused, as though waiting for them to acknowledge this as true. “In any case, Abnus was the first one brought here in a long time, other than the poor muggleborns who got lured in.” Harry paused, shivered, and pressed on, “but unlike the others banished here, Abnus was sent here as an adult. Why wait? Why not send him here as soon as it became apparent that he was a squib?"

 

"You think his parents were waiting to see if he had magic?"

 

Harry smiled. "That's the thing: he did have magic, just not enough to use a wand effectively. It was enough to set up the Net, anyway."

 

"That would make sense," Hermione said, "Given that I—we believe the basis of Gleyma was causing squibs to suffer as a way to 'reclaim their stolen magic'."

 

Harry tilted his head towards her in agreement. "Perhaps Abnus believed it, too. He was not exempt from his family's bigotry, after all, but he was certain he didn't need to reclaim his magic, that it was a mistake to send him here."

 

"Sounds about right," Ron said, face pale. "Kreacher told us Abnus was bitter and stole the Net from the Black House to make them suffer."

 

"I'd say he succeeded. In any case, Abnus certainly didn't want to suffer the Squib treatment. He figured out how to link the Net to the pre-existing wards here,” Harry explained, “If nothing else, he was incredibly resourceful, and clever enough with theory to manipulate something he would never master.”

 

Draco found himself feeling something akin to respect for the hapless Abnus Black. He was probably as bigoted as his family, and likely thought himself better than every other squib and muggle and muggleborn in Gleyma, but he had done something incredible nonetheless.

 

With a sigh, Ron asked, “So, where does the exam come into play? Abnus’ mum tells him that he can study here, suffer for a bit, and if he gets his magic back from dark dementor bullshite, they’ll give him a test to see if he can rejoin the family?”

 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know that part. Probably a secret he took to the grave. He didn’t hide who he was in town, though. He openly proclaimed himself a wizard, sent here to be Gleyma’s salvation. And before you ask,” he began, cutting off Hermione when she opened her mouth to question his knowledge of Abnus Baas, “I read about him at the library here in Gleyma. He’s considered a hero, since he ‘brought peace, prosperity, and banished the evil spirits’.”

 

“That would be the dementors, then,” Ron surmised, “but how did he know how to set up the wards? He didn’t go to Hogwarts or any other magic school.”

 

“He had books!” Hermione cried out, triumphantly, “Kreacher told Harry—we saw it in his memories—Abnus took books!”

 

“We’ll never hear the end of it now,” Ron muttered miserably.

 

“Queenie must have found them and taught herself the same way,” Draco said, catching on to Hermione’s train of thought. It certainly did explain how she knew all she did about magic despite the fact that she hadn’t gone to Hogwarts and, apparently, she was the first witch in generations. “Do you know where the books might be, Harry?”

 

“No. But they must be in here somewhere.” Harry gestured around the room. He paced along the walls, hands running up and down the panels, muttering to himself, opening the drawers of a filing cabinet and cursing under his breath. He pulled the curtains back—revealing a small oval window overlooking the town—but quickly shut them again with a sound of disappointment, before finally turning toward Queenie’s desk. “Could it be?” he said softly, stalking toward it with purpose and opening every drawer with vigor and shuffling papers around. “It seems too obvious, but…”

 

Having no idea what it was Harry was looking for, exactly, Draco considered the desk. It was an old, ornate, mahogany monstrosity with scrapes and dark burn marks up the sides, as though someone had tried to burn something off it but had failed to burn the whole thing altogether. It was larger than an average desk, but it certainly did not appear large enough to hold enough books to teach oneself witchcraft and wizardry. Then again, anyone who spent enough time around magical furniture knew better than to assume the appearance of something spoke of its depths.

 

“Why don’t you use a summoning spell?” Ron offered, watching with concern as Harry’s arm disappeared deep into the bottom drawer and grasp around at nothing.

 

Harry paused to give Ron a mildly annoyed glare before resuming his examination of Queenie’s desk. “I suspect they—the books, I mean—can’t be summoned. Besides, I told you, there’s something strange about the magic in here, so using as little as possible is—a ha! ” He pulled on a hidden latch, revealing the drawer had a false bottom. He lifted it out and gestured for them to come see. The drawer, it seemed, had an undetectable extension charm on it, because inside was a set of stone steps.

 

“Blimey, did she make this herself?” Ron asked, begrudgingly impressed.

 

Harry snorted. “No. This is a Black Family Heirloom.”

 

“How do you know that?” Hermione asked, stepping up next to Draco and peering curiously down the steps. It was too dark to see much, but there was a faint blue glow emanating from somewhere beyond the bottom of the stairs. “And how did you know this drawer has a false bottom?”

 

“I don’t kn—oh.” He paused, blinking his eyes in surprise as though just now remembering. “Because I’ve got an identical one in my office.”

 

Well, that was an encouraging sight, that he was remembering. Nothing too personal, yet, but Draco wasn’t complaining.

 

“At Grimmauld Place?” Hermione hedged.

 

“You’ll have to ask me later,” he said with an apologetic shrug. He pulled his wand out to dispel any traps, but then seemed to think better of it. Draco noticed then that Harry’s hands were bandaged, mostly because he pulled off the plaster and did something Draco couldn’t see, but then he was bleeding on the drawer, causing a shower of purple sparks to go up before they turned white and, finally, gold. “Amateur warding,” he clucked disapprovingly, flicking a few more drops of blood on the steps. The desk groaned and sputtered and finally went still, like a beast issuing its final breath.

 

Draco really needed to talk to Harry about his obsession with blood magic, and decided there was no time like the present. “You’ve got to stop throwing your blood around like that,” he admonished. “Your enemies can do a lot of unpleasant things with your blood.”

 

Harry shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?” Without further commentary, he stepped into the drawer and began his descent down the steps.

 

“Um, Harry,” Hermione said nervously.

 

Harry paused, peeking his head out over the edge of the drawer. “Oh, right. Do you mind staying up here with her, in case she wakes up?”

 

Hermione opened and closed her mouth a few times, as if to protest, but finally sighed and nodded. “I want to go down there and see it after you, though,” she added.

 

Harry smiled and disappeared down the hatch, with Ron following closely behind. Draco noticed Harry didn’t make any promises. Hermione, it seemed, either did not notice, or was graciously ignoring the fact. Draco had the feeling no one could stop her anyway, promises or not, from exploring the depths of hidden knowledge.

 

“You’d better go with them,” she said in an exasperatedly fond way. “There’s no telling what they’ll get into if there’s no one there to tell them not to touch things carelessly.”

 

“You don’t mind staying here alone?” Draco asked, not bothering to hide the fact that he desperately wanted to go.

 

“I’m not alone. I’ve got her to keep me company.”

 

Draco knew from personal experience that a stunned person wasn’t much for company, and even awake Queenie was a trial to say the least, but he didn’t press the issue. If Hermione was content to guard the bint alone, he certainly wasn’t going to stop her.

 

With a nod, he followed Harry and Ron down the steps into what he hoped was not some sort of death trap.

 

———

 

As it turned out, it was not a death trap, but something of a dungeon-slash-library-slash-laboratory of sorts. It reminded Draco uncomfortably of the potions classroom at Hogwarts, only darker, and with far fewer books and far more iron manacles chained to the wall; something to fuel his nightmares later, surely.

 

What caught his eye was an enormous pantry filled with enough potions ingredients to start an apothecary. Newt eyes, salamander skin, acromantula venom, baneberry, everything from ordinary to rare ingredients was well stocked. The blue glow around the pantry indicated that the stasis charms were top-notch, too, likely built in to the cabinets. It was every potion master's wet dream, and here it was, in the hidden drawer in the attic of a muggle coffee shop.

 

This at least explained where Queenie had gotten her ingredients for whatever it was she’d been putting in the coffee as well as the aforementioned Polyjuice potion. The myriad books must have told her how to brew it. Come to think of it, Kreacher had mentioned something in Harry’s memories to the effect of Abnus having taken potions equipment with him. It was difficult to imagine how anyone—much less a squib—could have absconded with so much equipment unnoticed, but perhaps they’d allowed Abnus keep it since they didn’t think he could do anything with it.

 

Or because they hoped he’d get his magic back one day, unaware that it couldn’t be done.

 

Harry and Ron were inspecting something bubbling in the corner, their faces precariously close to the fumes of the unknown substance.“It definitely smells like it.”

 

“You remember how it smells?”

 

“Bit hard to forget, you know.”

 

“Is that Polyjuice potion?” Draco asked, interrupting whatever inane conversation they thought they were having.

 

“It appears to be, yes,” Harry said, stepping back from the cauldron with a grimace.

 

Draco peered in, already judging it harshly. He sniffed, insulted that this mess was trying to pass itself off as polyjuice. “I doubt the end product would have kept her transformed for longer than three minutes. Look how unstable it is—it should be bubbling, not belching. Not to mention all these ingredients are under stasis charms,” Draco said, waving a negligent hand towards the cabinet. “You need fresh ingredients for polyjuice. Well, really, one needs fresh ingredients for all potions in order to obtain anything passable, though there are some who claim there is merit to using ingredients preserved from magically potent eras but—”

 

“Alright, Slughorn, save the lecture for later, yeah? It's poorly made polyjuice, we get it,” said Ron, interrupting Draco’s musings. “The polyjuice we made in second year lasted an hour. Wasn’t really worth the trouble, in the end, though.”

 

“Did you really make polyjuice potion in second year?” Draco demanded, somewhere between annoyed and impressed.

 

“I have a feeling it was probably Hermione,” Harry said. 

 

“Yeah,” Ron sighed, eyes going lovesick. “It was Hermione. She’s amazing, you know.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes and crossed the small room to examine the bookshelf. “These books are ancient,” he said quietly, twiddling his wand nervously between his fingers as though itching to use it. “Merlin, is this even English? I’ve never seen this letter before.”

 

Draco walked over, looking where Harry was pointing. “It’s called a thorn. This is written in Middle English. Egads, these were likely already considered old when they were brought here!”

 

Harry shrugged, clearly failing to appreciate the historic significance of the text. Then again, it was a book on ‘blood letting for sport’, so perhaps his indifference was just as well.   

 

Ron joined them at the bookshelf, scanning the titles with curiosity. “These put the restricted section at Hogwarts to shame. Well, not that Hogwarts’d keep books like these, but they’ve got the strongest preservation charms I’ve ever seen. Mione’s gonna have a field day down here.”

 

Harry picked up a textbook that had been left on the table and thumbed through it with interest. From what Draco could tell, it appeared to be about wards.

 

“It worries me that this book is out,” Harry said, brow furrowing. “I hope Queenie hasn’t been trying to alter the wards…” With a grimace he put it down to rifle through more things left out.

 

“Shouldn’t you check if these things are cursed before touching them?” Draco questioned in what he hoped was a casual way as Harry picked up everything with reckless abandon. He said a silent farewell to his sanity as visions of a future filled with chasing after Harry as he did reckless things assaulted his mind. Still, he'd rather take that future than no future at all.

 

“I don’t think she’d bother cursing things herself. She’s arrogant enough to believe no one else knew about this place, and even if they did the warding over the hatch would’ve kept most people out.”

 

Draco hummed, still unconvinced. “These things belong to the Black Family, though. You can’t be too careful.”

 

Harry nodded, but continued his search in the same reckless fashion.

 

“What exactly are you looking for?” Ron asked, picking up the ward book Harry had discarded. “‘Course it’s bloody well written in bloody runes,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. “Should’ve taken that instead of divination. Bloody useless.”

 

“I don't know, exactly,” Harry replied in response to Ron's question, “I'll recognize it when I see it.”

 

“And you're sure it's down here?”

 

“It has to be. This is the core of the town. The heart, so to speak.”

 

“This room?”

 

“No,” Harry said, distracted, “Cosmic Latte. The hidden room is just an extra security feature. Her office used to be warded so no one else could enter unless she invited them in.”

 

“How do you know?”

 

“She told me, once,” he said, examining an object that looked like a stone Rubik’s cube, only all the sides were black schist or quartz. “Anyway, the state of Cosmic Latte influences the state of the whole town, which is why it’s so important to her.”

 

Draco thought of the wards they'd removed this morning. A dark feeling began to creep up his neck. “How much is it the centre of Gleyma?”

 

“Well, all the wards are kept and managed here.”

 

Botheration.

 

Harry, however, was not paying attention to Draco. He was still messing with the cube, turning it over to investigate all the sides. Before Draco could caution him against doing anything brash, he turned one of the rows. Apparently, it functioned like a Rubik’s Cube as well. As he did so, however, the sound of stone scraping on stone filled the small chamber, and the potion cabinet rotated, revealing another room. “Hm. Didn’t think that would work.”

 

Draco placed a hand on Harry’s shoulders, stopping him from entering the newly revealed chamber. “Harry, focus. The wards? You said they’re linked to this room.”

 

Misunderstanding, Harry looked at the cube. “Oh, this thing? It isn’t linked to the wards. It’s the control key to this room, I have one at home. Normally, it’s a lot trickier to get them to work, but—”

 

“Harry,” Ron called from the new room, “I think you should see this. There’s loads of weird stuff back here.”

 

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing for patience and Hermione. These two couldn't be managed singlehandedly. “If one were to, say, tinker with Cosmic Latte's wards from outside, or even, Merlin forbid, dispel them, what would happen?”

 

“Well, assuming that were even possible, it would affect the whole town,” Harry replied. His spine straightened and, as though finally registering what Draco was hinting at, his curiosity morphed into caution. “Why do you ask?”

 

Draco winced. “Well…”

 

“Harry! Ron! Draco!” Hermione yelled, “Get up here now! ”

 

They exchanged glances before leaving the room behind, climbing the stairs quickly. Harry pocketed the control cube in his green apron, which he was still wearing for some reason.

 

The first thing Draco noticed was that Queenie was awake and struggling against her bounds as her body convulsed in a frankly frightening way that reminded Draco of the horror film he'd watched during his muggle cultural education course.

 

The second thing Draco noticed was Hermione had drawn her wand. She had a panicked look on her face, eyes roving over Queenie's thrashing body.

 

“Don’t touch her!” Harry said, striding over and sticking an arm out protectively in front of Hermione. “What the hell happened?” he demanded, terse but authoritative.

 

“N-nothing! I don’t know! I was just sitting here, watching her, and she started foaming at the mouth!”

 

Draco looked and yes, there was something white and frothy bubbling at her lips, dribbling down her chin. “It looks like she was cursed.”

 

“Or poisoned,” said Ron, glancing once at Draco then back at Queenie. Undoubtedly, he was thinking of the time when Draco had poisoned him. Accidentally, but almost fatally nonetheless.

 

“Do any of you know any diagnostic spells?” Harry asked.

 

“No, just basic first-aid from training,” said Ron. Hermione simply shook her head, eyes wide.

 

“I know a bit,” Draco confessed, “but you said not to use magic in here.” Now more than ever the perverse wrongness of the magic in the room pulsed around him. He found he didn’t want to do any spells, to mix his magic with whatever had invaded the magic field here.

 

Harry grit his teeth. “Do whatever you have to. If we don’t save her, we might not be able to escape. She has answers, and we need them.”

 

Draco jumped into action. However he might feel about Queenie personally, Harry was right: they needed her. He spared only a small thought for the irony of it all before casting all the diagnostic spells he knew. Whatever was wrong with her, it wasn’t poison, it wasn’t a pre-existing medical condition, and it wasn’t a curse he’d ever run across before.

 

Blood began seeping from her mouth, and really this was not good. Suddenly as the convulsions began, they ceased, and her head rolled to one side in a sickening way, blood leaking from her nose and eyes as well. “That doesn’t look good,” Ron said helpfully.

 

“I see that, thank you, Ronald,” Draco hissed. All of the usual diagnoses dismissed, there was only one possibility left, but Draco didn’t see how it could be the case…but there was nothing else it could be. “Harry, are you certain there are no other witches or wizards in Queenie’s family?”

 

Harry grimaced. “If there are, it’s news to me. Why?”

 

“This looks like an inheritance challenge,” Draco explained. He’d never seen one before, but he’d read enough about them to get the general idea, and this fit the bill. He considered spelling the blood off her face, but unfortunately, they might need it. “Someone is trying to take over her place as heir.”

 

Harry got a skeptical look on his face, looking back towards the desk. More to himself, he said, “it doesn’t seem very likely, but it is possible…” he cast a protective bubble around Queenie which, although giving her skin a strange bluish tint, seemed to improve her state. The tension in her shoulders relaxed, and now she appeared to be simply asleep. “We need to get her out of here. I think the office is trying to reject her.”

 

“But you said this is where the wards are controlled,” Hermione said, eyes darting around quickly. “What if we can’t get back in?”

 

“If we leave, we probably won’t be able to,” Harry said with far more calm than the situation warranted. “But that’s fine. You lot did something to the wards, didn’t you?”

 

Guilt flushed Draco’s system, stomach full of ice. He looked to Hermione and saw a similar expression there.

 

“We didn’t know this would happen,” Hermione said in a small voice. “The ones we took down were just the new ones, we thought. They warded against Draco specifically, and you as well.”

 

Harry waved distractedly. “This isn’t your fault. Though your messing with the wards probably did make it possible for him to jump into action…if that’s what happened…” he frowned, as though something were just now occurring to him. “I suppose that explains the strange magic field in here…”

 

“Well, fuck me,” Ron said. “I knew it was a bad idea to take down the wards.”

 

“Oh, shut it, Ron!” Hermione said crossly. “You were champing at the bit to do something this morning—”

 

“I'm not blaming you; What’s done is done,” Harry interrupted. "We actually have an opportunity here as well. Cosmic Latte has been knocked off its pedestal as the centre of town. And since we’re here, we can renegotiate the terms of where that is.”

 

“I don’t understand—”

 

“The controls are somewhere in that desk,” Harry interrupted again, turning towards the mahogany monstrosity, “and we’re going to take it.” Without further ado, he waved his wand, shrinking the desk down to pocket sized and sticking it in his apron along with the control cube. “Now. Please tell me you have a dramatic side hidden in there somewhere.”

 

---

 

All told, it was far easier than it should have been to play the role of concerned employee. He ran down the stairs with genuine panic—they were in danger, after all—and cleared his throat. “Everyone, if I could have your attention?” he said, uneasy as the five or so patrons of Cosmic Latte swiveled their hitherto uninterested attention on him. “I’m afraid we’re going to have to close shop early. The pipe specialists have informed us there’s a leak, and it’s not safe for you to stay here.”

 

"Pipe specialists?" someone asked.

 

“There’s a leak in the pipes?” Mrs.Haverford gasped, clutching her handbag to her side and standing on shaking legs as though the imaginary leaking pipe had threatened her personally.

 

“There’s never been a leak in the pipes before,” Mr.Jones—or was it Joneson?—said gravely.

 

“Yes, it’s very serious I’m told, so while I hate to boot you out in weather like this…better wet from rain than dead from a leaky pipe, yes?”

 

Those seemed to be the magic words, and without further ado everyone scrambled to leave. Once the coast was clear, he signalled to the others to hurry up. The leaky pipe may have been a lie, but the threat of danger was not. “Hurry! I’d rather not be here when they arrive looking for the desk,” he said, rushing them out the door and locking it with a spell. If they come, he added mentally. Somehow, he knew they would, though.

 

"Leaky pipe? Really?" Hermione said, levitating Queenie's body. "That's the best you could come up with?"

 

Harry rolled his eyes. "What should I have said? There's a bomb? What matters is that it worked."

 

He felt a bit strange, leaving without doing any of his closing shop duties. He’d never left Cosmic Latte without cleaning the espresso machine, and checking the inventory, and cleaning the pastry hut, and counting the register, and countless other mind-numbing tasks. But this was no time for propriety. Because if Draco were right, and Queenie’s position as heir were being challenged, in a very short time one of two people was going to bust through the front door of Cosmic Latte and attempt to force their way through the newly re-erected security wards around Queenie’s office. They’d search for the desk—or what it contained, and when they found it gone they weren’t going to be very happy.

 

He barely paid attention as they wove through the woods. He knew the way like the back of his hand by now, and his gaze kept drifting to the back of them, watching for pursuers. No one came, but it didn’t make him feel better.

 

Without really registering the passage of time, he stumbled into the bonfire pit, and with the tingle of wards and friendly magic, he was past the disillusionment barrier and staring at a tent.

 

A very familiar tent.

 

"I see you fixed your tent," Harry said, smiling in spite of the situation. He remembered how strange he'd found it when he'd visited Draco's tent the first time and seen a desk inside. It hadn't made sense, but he'd been more than a little distracted.

 

Harry stepped through the tent flap, seeing dark hardwood floors, elegant emerald silk lamps hanging from the ceiling, along with a leather chaise lounge and cork table. "All that time, I was so worried about where you were staying, fretting over you in a tiny tent, cold at night, and you had this. I think it's bigger than my entire flat." Harry looked around, feeling like he ought to be annoyed but mostly just in awe. "Fanciful caravan, indeed. You even have a stove!"

 

Draco shrugged, a bit apologetically. "If it makes you feel better, this is the expanded version of my tent. The other version didn't have enough room for everyone."

 

"Wouldn't mind even more room, to be honest," Ron groused.

 

Harry was about to ask, but Hermione flashed him a dark look and mouthed 'later'. "Right. Well. Thanks for hosting, I suppose."

 

Draco smiled, and with a flick of his wand, deposited Queenie in front of the central tent pole.

 

Ron trundled off, Hermione behind him whispering something and rubbing circles on his back. He nodded and smiled and huffed in what Harry would describe as a good-natured way. He almost felt jealous, but all he had to do was look over at Draco, giving Harry a tour of the tent. "The toilet is through there, the library is down the corridor to the left, and the sleeping quarters are down the corridor to the right, though—well, we can figure out sleeping arrangements later, if it comes to that."

 

Harry looked at Draco, flushed slightly and fiddling with his hands, and couldn't help but to smile. No, he didn't have anything to be envious of, when it came to Ron and Hermione.

 

Ron and Hermione came back to where Harry and Draco were standing, staring each other like loons. Ron brought over four mugs of hot cocoa, and from the smell of it Harry could tell it was made exactly as he liked it.“I guess this explains some things,” he said, gratefully taking a mug from this stranger who was, apparently, one of his best friends.

 

They drank in silence, shuffling over to the elegant leather sofas that Harry was admittedly nervous about drinking hot chocolate on. He wasn't clumsy, exactly, but the very real possibility of spilling on something so luxurious made him nervous. Draco sat down on Harry’s left while Ron and Hermione seemed to have a silent argument over who would claim Harry's right. It was a strange experience, from Harry's perspective, but it made him feel warm and loved. Something he didn't have a lot of experience with, from what he could remember. Draco was pressing against him in what he probably thought was a sly way. Harry smiled into his cup. He didn’t mind, terribly. It was a pleasant distraction from the thoughts and half-remembered memories swirling around his head.

 

He remembered, now, the things Draco had told him about Harry Potter. Harry Potter was a war hero. Harry Potter had taken down a corrupt government. Harry Potter was a freedom fighter, a truth bringer, self-sacrificing, a saviour. Now that Harry knew he was Harry Potter, he was having a difficult time putting together the image he’d created of Harry Potter with himself.

 

But now he had some memories back—filled with fires, and monsters, and a cold, cruel laugh. A dark cupboard, being hunted, being hungry…for the first time in a long time, he began to wonder whether he really wanted to remember at all.

 

Clearly it wasn’t all bad. Hermione and Ron were here, and had apparently always been there. Draco was here, despite the fact that he, Harry Potter, had put those scars on his chest, and blood, so much blood—

 

He remembered that he had a house, that someone he cared about had given to him, that he was desperate to save. The house had always been foremost in his mind, so that even at every subsequent remembering, the things he’d been willing to give up knowing were the things about himself. What he’d held on to was 'you must save these people’, and ‘you need the Net so you don’t lose your last relic of Them’. He’d forgotten who they were. Names, faces, relations, all blurry to him now. But Harry remembered this: he loved them, and they were gone. The house was all he had left, just as he was all the house had left. An imperfect, unhappy coupling, but one he’d invested a lot in.

 

He didn’t remember everything about himself, nor did he fully understand the 'Harry Potter' Draco had described to him, but he knew this: he was someone who saved people, especially if they couldn’t save themselves.

 

He drained his cup and put it on the table, turning now to Queenie in her blissful, blue stasis bubble. He almost envied her, in this moment, but she was in for a rude awakening.

 

“Right. We’ve got some questions to ask her, I reckon.”

 

Ron groaned. “Do we really have to wake her up?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes.” Harry pulled out the control cube, fiddled with it. He knew he had a similar one at home, but he didn’t remember what the configurations meant. They couldn’t just sit here while he stared at it and tried to remember, either. “Time is not on our side. She’ll cooperate, especially if she thinks she has something to gain from it.”

 

He cancelled the stasis charm, and a wordless enervate. Regardless of the circumstance, and everything else that was happening, it felt wonderful to do magic again.

 

Queenie came to with a start, dark eyes darting wildly around the tent, until they focused on Hermione. “You! What have you done, you filthy little—”

 

Harry silenced her again, a vein in her temple throbbing angrily. Blood rolled out of her nose and down her chin, but she didn’t seem to notice or care.

 

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, you won’t say anything at all. Do you understand?”

 

Queenie glared at him.

 

Harry took a step closer, and loomed over her. He knew he struck an intimidating figure, just as he knew he’d done this countless times before. It always worked. “I asked you a question,” he said softly. Speaking softly was, for some reason, more effective than yelling, in his experience. “Nod if you’ll cooperate, otherwise we’ll just throw you out past the boundary, and who knows what will happen to you then?”

 

She trembled for a moment, but seemed to weigh how serious she thought Harry was about his threat. She was, really, quite clever, loath as he was to admit it. She had something Harry wanted, and she knew it. But she had wants, too, and in the past had been willing to bargain. In the past, she had always had the upper hand. No more.

 

Finally, she nodded, and Harry cancelled the silencing spell.

 

“If you’ve done something to the wards, you should know debt collectors will only stay out for as long as it takes them to eat through what’s left of the Net,” she said nastily. “They can only come into town if something’s happened to the wards, and I can feel it. You’ve done something.”

 

“Not us,” Harry replied, “Someone else. Cyril, perhaps, or the Old Man—”

 

Queenie laughed once—well, cackled, really. “They can’t do shit. Neither of them have the ambition or ability. The most magical thing about either of them is being related to me.”

 

“I heard differently. Mr.Baas was the heir before you came into your majority.”

 

“He was only the holder of the wards. He couldn’t do anything with them, not like I can—”

 

“So you did mess with the wards, then,” Harry said, beginning to pace in circles around Queenie’s chair. He knew it would make her nervous, and she’d either strain her neck to keep an eye on him, or resolve herself to wondering (worrying) what he was doing behind her chair. “In a sense, it’s your fault this has happened. If you hadn’t destabilized the wards, no one would have been able to wrest control from you like that.” Harry stopped walking, just behind her left shoulder. He leaned over slightly, speaking directly into her ear. “But you did destabilize them, and control was taken from you.”

 

She shivered once. Good.

 

“If you answer some questions, we might be able to put you back in control.”

 

She whipped her head around, eyes full of guarded hope. “Well, if you untie me, I can get you back into my office, and we can inspect the wards together—”

 

Harry showed her the control cube, waving it under her nose. “You mean inside your desk? We’ve already seen it. Your polyjuice was…wanting.”

 

She tensed up, licked her lips. “That thing won’t help you—”

 

“Without the desk, I know.” Harry bent down, hands on his thighs, so he was at eye level with Queenie. “Now, you’re going to tell me how this will open up the chamber governing the wards, or I’ll have no problem leaving you outside, tied to a chair, once the wards fall down and the dementors—that is, debt collectors— come inside. You've built quite the reputation among them, I'm sure.”

 

She stared at him, anger poorly attempting to cover up fear. Perhaps he’d overdone it? “You wouldn’t,” she said quietly, almost a whisper.

 

“I don’t want to,” Harry agreed, “so tell me something useful, or I’ll silence you again.”

 

“It shouldn’t be possible!” Her voice was frantic, insistent, eyes darting wildly around the tent looking for something she could use. “Taking control of the line of inheritance! I—no one else has magic in my family! And the new wards shouldn’t have messed with any of that! They were just—to make you stop thinking of him, to keep him away!” She gestured to Draco at this, looking at him as though this was all somehow his fault.

 

Well that explained some things at least. The headaches, the heartaches, the knowledge that something—someone—was missing, even though no one but Beatrix would talk about it or seemed to remember.

 

“Did you link these new wards into the old wards?” Harry asked, already sure of the answer.

 

“Of course I did,” she scoffed, regaining some equilibrium, “somebody kept tearing through them with wandless magic. I had to link them to something too strong to destroy.”

 

“Your warding books are a little out of date, you know,” Ron said, stepping out from the shadows.

 

Queenie glared at him. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

 

“I’m Auror Granger-Weasley.”

 

Queenie squirmed in her chair, eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Ron. Harry had a brief flash of memory, introducing himself next to Ron, to hundreds of faceless criminals in this same fashion. Ron was good at this, Harry remembered. They were good at this, together.

 

“We took down your shoddy new wards around Cosmic Latte, by the way,” said Ron, walking over to Queenie’s right side opposite Harry like the natural, practiced maneuver it was, “so obviously they weren’t as strong as you thought.”

 

“You have no idea what you’ve done, do you?” She whispered. “We’re all going to have our souls sucked out, and it’s ALL. YOUR. FAULT. What have you done?!” she shrieked, squirming in her chair so violently that the legs are bucked off the ground. “You’ve doomed us! Doomed us all! A thousand years and there’s never been a problem, then you lot show up and—”

 

Draco shot some red sparks her direction, and her lips sealed together, though her eyes still burned with fury.

 

“You can scream all you like. No one knows you’re out here,” Ron said casually, “I’m not feeling particularly generous towards you, seeing as how you’re the reason my best mate has been missing for months, but I’m a fair man. I can be reasoned with, to a degree.”

 

“You'd better listen to him. He’s a far kinder man than I,” Draco agreed. He leaned against an internal tent pole, looking incredibly at ease, but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes glinted in the low light. “Keep that in mind when you’re deciding how forthcoming you wish to be. You’re in control of your fate, Queenie.”

 

It was probably inappropriate that Harry was incredibly turned on right now, he knew, but Merlin. Still, they had more important things than Harry’s feelings for Draco, and if he wanted a chance to explore said feelings, he needed to focus on their goal. It was difficult with Draco leaning against the tent pole with that look on his face, and that voice with that tone, but…

 

With (what he considered) impressive self-control, Harry turned away to face Queenie.

 

“We can come back to dealing with the wards later. They’ll last for a few hours yet, yes?”   

 

Queenie nodded sullenly, still glaring at Draco just past Harry’s shoulder.

 

Focus, Harry. “Now, I need you to think. No matter how impossible you think it is, who could be behind this?”

 

Harry flicked his wand, liberating her to speak. “That stupid old witch, maybe.”

 

“Vivien?” Harry chuckled. “Try again.”

 

Queenie scowled. “Well…the only one who’s seen the books other than me is the Old Man. And…Cyril was always so jealous of me. Always wanted what I have: magic, looks, charm. Ambition. He…well, he was convinced that there was magic we could do together.”

 

“Group magic?” Hermione asked, her tone analytic. It sounded like a winning tone, the kind that said she was already thinking of a solution.

 

Queenie grit her teeth, but continued, “He said even if he doesn’t have enough magic to use a wand, his blood is as magical as mine. Can you believe that? He fancied himself the next Abnus Black. He kept wanting to do a ritual with me, saying that he just needed one more person, and the stronger the magic, the better. I didn’t have time to entertain his fantasies, though, and told him as much.”

 

“Seems like he didn’t need you, after all,” Ron said smugly.

 

“I suppose that explains why he was so willing to try it on with me,” Harry mused aloud, feeling both relieved to have an explanation and annoyed that someone had tried to use him. Again.

 

Queenie laughed. “He wanted you because I did. I told you he’s the jealous type. And it doesn’t hurt that you’re not hard on the eyes, love. And with all that delicious power…well. It's very appealing, to say the least.”

 

Disgusted, Harry put a containment field around her, obscuring her lecherous smile and also preventing her from listening in on their plans. He motioned for everyone to join him around the stove.

 

“What do you think?” Harry said, looking at them all.

 

“I don’t know,” Draco said skeptically. “She seems to think it’s unlikely that Cyril could be behind this. Reluctant as I am to agree with her, I don’t think he has it in him. I also find it doubtful the—Old Man, was it?—would remember any of the rituals well enough to do them without the texts on hand, especially if he couldn't have used them himself.”

 

“How do we know he doesn’t have them?” Hermione asked. “She would have no use for books on group magic. Maybe he took them out of the office before she came into her inheritance.”

 

Harry nodded thoughtfully. It did seem plausible. “She’s always been a bit short sighted when it comes to evaluating the capabilities of others. Her father spoiled her, far as I can tell, but Cyril was always the more pitiful one. Maybe the Old Man took the books to appease Cyril’s desire for magic.”

 

“Hold on,” said Draco, “Are you telling me her father is the one you call the Old Man?”

 

Harry frowned. “Yes?” Hadn’t he mentioned it before?

 

“He came to your flat once. Tried to get me to leave. Well, that, and he gave me your post. Which I still have, by the way.”

 

“He’s not a bad sort,” Harry explained. “He’s not exactly the cuddles and hugs type, but people trust him here. He owns all the buildings in town.”

 

“I dare say he inherited them,” Draco sniffed. “Though I don’t see why he’d cede control of the wards over to Queenie—his daughter, is she?—when he still has ownership over the town.”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, trying to think. “He’s not actually her father, biologically. He’s her birth father’s brother…or uncle? He helped raise her, though, so he’s as good as her parent. In any case, everyone in town seems to have some story about how he helped them at one time or another. He’s the one who founded Cosmic Latte, to give people in Gleyma a place to go.”

 

“That’s actually very thoughtful,” Hermione mumbled.

 

“Doesn’t sound like the type who’d try and wrest control from his niece slash daughter and put the whole town at risk by lowering the wards,” Ron pointed out.

 

"Unless he thought he'd be able to get back into the office easily and re-establish the Net," Harry countered.

 

Ron shook his head. “It still doesn’t make sense. He put himself and everyone in town in danger by doing so.”

 

“If what Harry says is true, I agree, it doesn't make sense. Cyril on the other hand…alone, he's not competent enough. With assistance, though? I could see it. He only thinks of himself, and I doubt he thought through the risk he posed to his own safety,” Draco said with a dismissive sigh. “He probably saw the opportunity we provided and took it. I still don’t see how he could have done it, though,” Draco said, pacing back and forth. “You need to go to a runic circle and hold hands to do group magic, especially the kind written about in books as old as the ones in the laboratory. There’s a reason we use wands now.”

 

“It’s not just group magic, though, is it?” Hermione said, eyes sparkling with ideas. “It’s also blood magic.”

 

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, looking keenly interested. Or perhaps he was just turned on by smart women. Or Hermione, specifically.

 

“If someone is trying to usurp Queenie’s place as the heir, to take over her inheritance, they must be using blood magic, right?” she said, beginning to pace excitedly.

 

“Merlin, Granger, you’re right. That would explain why she was bleeding, and the magic field, and the office trying to reject her—”

 

“Right! It’s like it was trying to say ‘You Do Not Belong In This Space’, or something—”

 

Hermione and Draco exchanged ideas rapidly, feeding off the energy of the other.

 

“I was stuck with them for days while they were doing this, with no one to commiserate with,” Ron whispered to Harry, a conspiratorial grin stretching from ear to ear. “Imagine it’ll be a relief once we’re out of here, we can just throw them at each other when they want to talk theory. If I’d known what a swot Draco is, I’d’ve told you to seduce him years ago. Or vice-versa.”

 

Harry laughed, both surprised and pleased. This felt normal, and right. “I seem to have some vague recollection of you telling me not to get involved with him.”

 

Ron shrugged unapologetically. “He’s still a git. But he did try very hard to save you, even before he remembered…well. You know. That counts for something in my book.” He blushed admirably, all the way to his roots.

 

Harry smiled and listened to Hermione and Draco continue their strange exchange of ideas.

 

“There’s actually a theory going around that magical cores have become more potent over the past thousand years or so.”

 

“Yes, I read that paper. Magician’s Monthly, wasn’t it? Something about generational wand usage concentrating magical density in the core, but that doesn’t explain muggleborns—”

 

“Nothing explains muggleborns, though, unless that thing you said about long-lost squib relatives holds any water.”

 

Draco sighed, sounding gravely inconvenienced. “Cyril and his father don’t have wands, though, and can’t use them. Even if they have some amount of magic…”

 

“They also don’t have a runic circle, which means maybe it’s not group blood magic after all. The only one in Gleyma is in the one we’re occupying right now,” Hermione agreed.

 

“Actually, that’s not quite true,” Harry interjected. “There are four runic circles in Gleyma.”

 

Hermione, Ron, and Draco blinked at him quietly for a moment, before erupting into questions.

 

“Why didn’t you say so sooner? This could change everything!”

 

“You mean I was right to go galumphing off into the woods in search of them?”

 

“Where are they?”

 

Harry held up a hand, hoping it would calm them. “I don’t know where they all are exactly. But I have a general idea.”

 

They exchanged bemused glances. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to explain that a bit more, Harry.”

 

Harry sighed, wondering when he was going to get a break from explaining things. But, it couldn’t be helped. “Accio parchment and quill,” he said, catching them as they came flying from a desk close to the entrance. He stalked over to the kitchen table to have a surface to write on.

 

“This is what I mostly worked on, when I had my brief moments of clarity,” he explained. “I was trying to make a map.”

 

“Isn’t Gleyma unplottable?” Draco asked.

 

Harry could practically hear the frown in Draco’s voice. “Doesn’t matter. You just need to understand the shape—”

 

“But—” Hermione began, but she’d just have to wait.

 

“Just hold on a moment. You’ll see what I mean.

 

“Imagine this is all of Gleyma, including the woods, beach, and farm lands,” he said, drawing an oval on the paper, “and this dot is Cosmic Latte,” he put a dot in the center, then another larger circle around it, explaining, “this circle represents the town, where all the shops and homes are.”

 

“Is it really in a circle like that? The boundaries of the town?” Draco asked, tracing the lines with a long, pale finger.

 

“Yes. Odd, isn’t it? I thought so, too. But if you add a few more landmarks, things start to become a bit more clear.” Harry pulled the map back from Draco and drew a bunch of squiggly lines along the bottom, and a triangle perpendicular to that along the smaller circle on the right side of the page. “The ocean,” he said, pointing to the squiggly lines, “and the bonfire pit. The bonfire pit which we know is a runic circle.”

 

“That still doesn’t tell us much,” Hermione pointed out with a dissatisfied pout, but Harry could tell she was thinking. “What makes you think there are four runic circles, instead of just one? Isn’t that a bit…excessive?”

 

“It is if you only wanted to use one for group magic,” Harry agreed. “And I don’t know precisely that there are four. But I do know there are probably at least two.”

 

Hermione raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him, clearly unconvinced. Frustrated, he drew another shape—a square at the top of the paper, opposite the ocean. “This represents the Church. I think there’s another runic circle inside.”

 

“You think, or you know ?”

 

Harry scratched his head. He wondered if Hermione was always this critical of things she didn’t personally believe in. He had a suspicion that yes, probably, she was. “I think I know?” he hedged. “I’ve only been inside a few times. It stays closed unless there’s a funeral, and the times I went to a funeral I had already forgotten everything about myself and magic, so I didn't think to look for runes. But there’s a certain kind of feeling inside the church, and when the doors close…it’s like being in a separate space.”

 

“Why is it only open during funerals?” Hermione demanded. “Are the people of Gleyma not particularly religious?”

 

Harry chuckled. “By the time the Romans brought Christianity up to Britannia, Gleyma was already sealed off from the outside world.”

 

“But other advances have clearly made it here—electricity, coffee, the concept of churches.”

 

“Well, I suppose those things were brought in by muggleborns who were…lured in. And coming and going is easy enough for people who are only passing through. Most of the technological advances were made in the past twenty years or so, anyway.”

 

Hermione seemed to accept this, if only tenuously. “Alright. So the church maybe has a runic circle inside, and the fire pit is a runic circle. Why does that mean there are two others?”

 

“I know this map is crude, but both of those things define the part of the town that is ‘civilized’. But things get a bit more interesting when you add road lines.” He drew twelve straight lines out from Cosmic Latte. “Look familiar?”

 

“Um...no?” said Ron. Hermione said nothing.

 

Draco gasp softly and explained (a little smugly),“It’s a star chart. Or, more precisely, a zodiac wheel.”

 

Harry smiled. “Exactly.”

 

Put out at not guessing, Hermione said, “How does this help us understand Gleyma?”

 

“It’s a puzzle, innit?” said Ron. He looked a bit flustered when everyone turned to stare at him. Harry hadn’t really thought of it as a puzzle, as such. But now that he thought about it…

 

“How’d you know?” Harry asked.

 

Ron shrugged. “Things with Zodiac stuff are always a damn puzzle.”

 

Hermione grabbed Harry’s hastily drawn map. “What do these lines represent? I don’t remember seeing so many roads in town.”

 

“Some of them are roads, some of them are treelines. That one there is a creek,” he said, pointing to a line in the upper lefthand corner. “Some of the lines I’ve just guessed at, actually. I haven't had the chance to find them all, but the ones I have found do imply the others.”

 

“So you drew some circles and lines and called it a map?” Hermione said, voice dripping with skepticism. “You can’t even use this as a guide. You can’t use it as a zodiac wheel either—you can’t tell which section represents which sign. Not that I put much stock in astrology,” she said hastily.

 

“It doesn’t matter what you believe," Harry objected, starting to get annoyed now. "Remember who founded this town? We’re dealing with the Blacks here, who always name their kids after stars. A family so steeped in mystery and traps and misdirection that even their own family members don’t know what the truth of the matter is.”

 

Hermione made an irritated sound. “Fine, but just because there might be two runic circles, doesn’t mean there are up to four.”

 

“Well, it’s not like I just decided it, alright? The one in the North is probably underwater, but—well, even though I’ve never seen it,” Harry shivered, thinking of that last ‘memorial service’ he’d been to on the beach, “I am certain there is one there.”

 

“How can you be certain?” Hermione pressed.

 

Harry placed a hand over his eyes. He’d rather not remember it, if he could help it, but there was nothing to be done for it. “Because whenever someone dies in Gleyma, they put the body in the ocean. They wrap it in silks, and sink it with rocks. There are no graves in Gleyma.”

 

He peeked through his fingers to see everyone make similar expressions of disgust and horror. “Does…is that how they make dementors?” Draco asked quietly. Ah, so they knew about that, then. At least vaguely.

 

Harry took a deep breath to steady himself. “I don’t know the exact process, but I suspect the runic circle in the water has something to do with it.”

 

Draco pointed to the eastern part of the map, his mouth set in a grim line. “This is where Harry and I were searching for runes when we were attacked by dementors,” he explained, “Or were waylaid by them, at any rate.”

 

“You did say you thought they were protecting something,” Hermione grudgingly conceded. After a beat, she groaned and collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs, resting her head on her hand. “Alright, fine. Fine. There is good reason to think there are more runic circles in Gleyma. But assuming Cyril and the Old Man are behind it—does he have a name, by the way?—which one would they be in?”

 

“Probably not underwater,” Ron said, crossing his arms, “and obviously they’re not in this one.”

 

“In all likelihood, they’re in the church,” Harry admitted, “The Old Man—Mr.Baas, that is—has the keys. He knows how to open it, too.”

 

“Well then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get them!” Ron said, clapping once with a loud slap.

 

No one moved, and Hermione sent Ron an apologetic smile. “This is a nightmare.” She rubbed a spot on her temple, as though fighting an oncoming headache. “Alright, so what’s this got to do with zodiac wheels, then?”

 

Harry sat down next to her. He wasn’t sure if she were really asking him or just thinking out loud, but he decided to answer anyway. “Look, this isn’t really my thing to be honest, but zodiac signs have elements, yes?”

 

Hermione nodded, reluctantly.

 

“Earth, Fire, Air, and Water,” Draco recited, standing behind Harry’s chair and leaning over the table to examine Harry’s map.

 

Harry shivered, not unpleasantly. “Yes. So, zodiac signs have elements, and there are four runic circles in Gleyma,” Harry continued. Hermione nodded vaguely, probably only half listening as she came to her own conclusions, but he continued, “I’m kind of guessing at this point, but it seems to me there must be a link there somewhere.”

 

“You think each runic circle is related to an element,” Ron summarized. “What exactly were you trying to figure out, putting all this together?”

 

Harry shrugged, a bit helplessly. “I was hoping the answer would become clear as I followed the clues. I only had about a day or two to think about it each time when the wards reset and I got my memories back. I tried talking about it with Mrs.Frond, too. She’s the one who made me think of the zodiac wheel, actually. But I never had enough time to think about it before…well.”

 

Harry felt a cool hand squeeze his shoulder, and looked up to see Draco staring unfocused into the middle distance. “Before you forgot everything again.”

 

Harry swallowed, mouth dry. Merlin, Draco was beautiful. Harry cleared his throat and chastised himself to focus again. “I’m hoping the answers are in the runes. And I’m also hoping one of you can read them.”

 

“I know one of them says ‘dry’,” Draco offered. “I couldn’t read the rest, really. Something about ‘safety’, perhaps?”

 

Harry nodded, and wrote it down. It was more than he'd been able to figure out in months.

 

“Isn’t it obvious?” said Ron. “It’s a bonfire pit, so this runic circle must represent fire.”

 

“I don’t think so,” countered Harry. “It hasn’t always been a bonfire pit, and besides that, the runes are carved into rocks. There isn’t an outcropping like this anywhere else in Gleyma that I’ve found.”

 

“Not to mention it’s right next to the ocean,” added Draco. “Typically, alignment charts put fire and water opposite each other.”

 

“Isn’t the ocean a bit too obvious, though?” said Ron. “If I was trying to make a puzzle, I wouldn’t put the water part right in the ocean.”

 

“Unless it’s reverse psychology,” Hermione said thoughtfully. “It seems too obvious, so it can’t be right, but the very fact that it is obvious means it’s the perfect spot to hide water runes.”

 

"I doubt anyone was thinking about reverse psychology when this puzzle was set up centuries ago," Harry said with a teasing smile. Draco merely raised an eyebrow at him, and gods, Harry just wanted to stare at him for a bit and catalogue his every expression. 

 

A long sigh distracted him, however, and Harry floated back down to this plane of reality where they were trying to solve a mystery, though it was terribly boring compared to staring at Draco.

 

Ignorant of this fact of the universe, Hermione glared at the map as though it had personally wronged her. It had certainly personally wronged Harry, since drawing it meant he had to focus on solving the mystery it presented.

 

Hermione huffed again. “Hmm,” she said, then paused. She leaned back in her chair, still looking at the map as if more information would appear. “Harry, do you remember how you came into Gleyma?”

 

“I walked,” he said honestly.

 

“I mean, did you come from the east, the south, the west…”

 

“Oh,” Harry said, considering. He hadn’t thought about that fateful day in a long time. “There’s a road to the South of Gleyma, it weaves through the trees for a while before entering the town.”

 

“To the South?” Hermione repeated. “So you came from around here?” she pointed to the square representing the church.

 

“Er, yes?”

 

“When, exactly, did you come here?”

 

Harry wasn’t sure why this was important at the moment, but he answered as well as he could. “I’m still a little fuzzy on the dates, but it was sometime between the end of December and the beginning of January. I’m pretty sure I spent my first few weeks here in a coma, actually.”

 

“Sagittarius,” Draco interjected, apropos of nothing. “You came during a Sagittarius period.”

 

Hermione beamed at Draco, pleased that he’d caught on to whatever she’d figured out. “What element is Sagittarius?” She asked him.

 

“It’s a fire sign.”

 

"And we got here, what? Two days ago? Three days ago?"

 

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Draco said. Apparently, he knew how to speak Hermione's language. "It's Virgo time right now."

 

“That’s not right,” Hermione said with a frown, “Virgo ends on September 22.”

 

“I thought you didn’t care about astrology?” Harry asked, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

 

“I don’t, only—well,” Hermione huffed, “I’m a Virgo, so I know those dates.”

 

“By the astrological calendar, you’re right," Draco said, "But astronomically—which is more important, we can all agree, yes?—the sun is still in the elliptical line of Virgo until October 30th.” 

 

“But in that case, there should be 13 constellations, not twelve,” Hermione protested. “You can’t just pick and choose which system you want to follow on a whim.”

 

“Ophiuchus wasn’t defined until recently, though,” Draco said, tapping his chin with his finger, “I think it’s safe to assume whichever Black set this puzzle up, they didn’t know about the 13th zodiac constellation. And besides that, Ophiuchus isn’t part of the elemental aspect of the zodiac signs.”

 

"Alright, fine," Hermione said, throwing her hands up in the universal 'I give up' motion. "So we came here during Virgo. What element is Virgo?"

 

"Earth," Draco said, then tapped on the triangle representing the bonfire pit, "and this is where we came in. And where I was forced out, incidentally. All during Virgo. So, if it's not fire because it's next to water, then it's probably—"

 

"Earth." Hermione nodded and chewed on her thumbnail, eyes squinted as she turned information over in her mind. “In that case, one could posit, or even claim with fairly accurate certainty, that assuming this is all some sort of puzzle—"

 

"It is," Ron and Draco said at the same time.

 

"Very puzzling, yes," Harry agreed.

 

Hermione rolled her eyes and continued, "It’s very possible that the element of the zodiac sign prevailing at the time of entry into Gleyma corresponds to where you can enter from, and assuming that is the case, then the church’s runic circle should represent the fire element, and the bonfire pit is the earth element. Since water and fire always oppose each other, the runic circle in the ocean should be the water element…” she said distractedly, “which would make the one in the east the air elemental runic circle.”

 

“Merlin, if you’re right…” Draco blinked several times, lips curling into a tentative smile.

 

“What’re you two on about?” Ron asked grumpily.

 

Hermione jabbed a finger into the map. “Don’t you see? It’s like you said, Ron! This is a puzzle— this is the real test.”

 

“I thought we were trying to stop Queenie’s crazy family from lowing the wards and unleashing a bunch of dementors on unsuspecting muggles.”

 

"Yes, yes, we'll get to that later," Hermione said, gripping the paper like she could will herself to put all the pieces together. In all honesty, Harry didn’t doubt that she couldn’t. "But our first and primary goal is getting out of here.

 

“Harry, you said the promise of an exam was a distraction,” Hermione said, looking up at him, eyes bright, “What if this is the truth they didn’t want the Baas’ to find?” She pointed to the map emphatically. “If there’s a way out of here, these runic circle have something to do with it!” She tapped the lines representing the boundaries of a zodiac wheel, unable to contain her enthusiasm. “I said before that you can’t tell what each zone represents, but that’s because it’s not in a traditional order!”

 

“Grouped by element,” Draco whispered voice full of wonder, “Zodiacs are all about progressions, cycles. You can’t go out of order. Four zodiac signs to a season, four progressions through the elements.”

 

She jumped up, waving the map over her head like some kind of banner. “This is it! Our ticket out of here! This is how we get out!”

 

Draco stared at her, then his mouth pulled into a wide smile. “Granger, you are a genius! ”

 

"I know," Hermione sniffed, but she couldn’t quite stop her own lips from smiling as well. “It’s big of you to admit it after all this time, though.”

 

“I could kiss you right now,” Draco said, and Harry didn’t doubt him. “I could kiss you all. Even you, Ronald. Ron.”

 

Ron looked both pleased and horrified at the idea. “How ‘bout you just kiss Harry enough for all of us, yeah?”

 

And then he did. And Harry, for his part, decided this plane of reality maybe wasn't so terribly boring, after all.

Notes:

ORZ I'm sorry it took me so dang long to get this finished. My cat passed away in January, and it hit me really hard. She'd been in our family for nearly twenty years, and though she wasn't spry by any means, it was a bit unexpected. I didn't want to write while I was grieving (and really couldn't tbh), and I especially didn't want to bring those sad feelings into the climax/building climax of the story. So, I am sorry for taking a long time, but I am back now, and feeling much better. Thank you for your patience and for those of you who reached out while I was away! It really touched me to hear from you, whether through comments or tumblr. I am so very excited to be back on track with the story and to share it with you!

I expect there to be two more chapters plus a short epilogue, and then this cosmic journey will be complete. I can't make promises about when the next chapter will be published, but I won't let another 3 months go by without publishing!

Thank you for your comments, subscriptions, bookmarks, and kudos! You can find me on tumblr @ noir-renard

until next time, all my love and appreciation goes out to you!!! <3 <3 <3

p.s. if I made any grave, terrible, inaccurate astronomy/astrology errors, I'm sorry. i Amn just........... a litle creacher. Thatse It . I Canot change this and everything I learned is from the internet.

Chapter 19: Angler Fish

Summary:

After some success in unraveling the threads of mystery wrapped around Gleyma, the gang must decide on the most prudent course of action: fight or flight. Predictably, everyone has their piece to say. With tensions as high as the stakes, will they find compromise or be compromised?

Notes:

guess who's back, babey?

"No, no, no," Hermione moaned, burying her hands in her hair. "It can't be that permutation…but if we start there then—no. Just—no! Stupid pureblood allergy to logic!"

 

She crumpled up yet another piece of parchment and tossed it towards the bin. Ron dutifully rescued it and started straightening it out, adding it to the pile of 'rejected puzzle keys' she was, apparently, sure to want to look at later. It was the sixth time she'd done this—the self-flagellation and the parchment-tossing both. They'd all tried to help Hermione, to little avail; the previous euphoria of having figured out the secret of leaving Gleyma had been soundly overshadowed by the lack of progress they'd made in solving the puzzle.

 

"That's not an unlimited resource, you know," Draco mumbled, mostly to himself, it seemed.

 

Hermione shot him a dark look. "You're welcome to take a stab at it, you know."

 

"The reception of my advice the last time I offered insight begs to differ."

 

She scowled but said nothing.

 

It was Harry's turn to encourage her. Again. Not that he was particularly sold on this course of action, nor had he made his feelings on the matter a secret.

 

"Look, Hermione, why don't we leave the puzzle-solving for later and focus on the dementors,” said Harry, not for the first time. “Or stopping Cyril. Or dealing with the wards. Or looking for the Net. Or actually doing something."

 

"Unless your ex-boss tells us the right configuration for the control key to access the wards, we can't do anything with them," Ron reminded him. Again.

 

It was a pointless conversation to keep on having, but Harry was nothing if not determined. “Alright, then let’s try talking to Queenie again.”

 

Hermione let out a harsh, humourless laugh. “I think not.”

 

Harry didn’t exactly blame her for that reaction; speaking to Queenie had not yielded the information they’d hoped it would. She'd only laughed at them when they'd explained their escape plan. “It won’t work,” Queenie had spat, eyes wild. “I want to get out of here just as much as the rest of you, but it’s not as simple as determining the way out. Do you think no one has ever left before?”

 

They’d all exchanged uneasy looks at that, but Hermione had pressed on. “Then tell us what will work.”

 

Queenie had sneered and looked (in Harry’s opinion) close to telling them where to stuff it, but either she was in a giving mood or decided it would reflect better on her own prospects if she threw them a bone.

 

"The wards are one thing, and the Net another; but even if you weave your way out of here, you'll never know peace. Not as long as the debt collectors exist. Leaving is an end you won't even see coming. Well, the three of you should be fine. You’re outsiders. You on the other hand," and here she’d focused her dark gaze on Harry, “you’re stuck here like the rest of us.”

 

Her giving mood did not last, as she'd refused to explain what that cryptic and thoroughly grim statement meant. Rather than continue to listen to her disparaging remarks, Harry had put the containment field up around her again. It was meant to be a temporary measure to allow them the chance to discuss, strategize, and regroup before remounting their questioning effort. Harry recognized that the only one who had the answers they needed was Queenie; he knew that they would have to work with her eventually to get anywhere, unpleasant as it may be.

 

Hermione saw it differently. “There’s no use speaking to someone who is set on being deliberately unhelpful,” she’d declared, then marched off to the lab to investigate the books in an attempt to gain insight into the “inner workings of the Blacks' machinations”. As far as she was concerned, that was that, and she wouldn't hear a word to the contrary.

 

Not that it stopped Harry from trying to reason with her, of course.

 

That led them here: Hermione, more desperate than ever to figure out the zodiac puzzle with her wits alone—and by extension the way out with their memories intact—while Harry insisted that they tackle the dementors first, if not trying to figure out what Cyril was up to.

 

However, everytime Harry had brought up a plan to actually do something—anything, really—Hermione had rejected it in a tone that Harry suspected meant she expected no argument. 

 

If that had worked on Harry in the past, it didn't work on him now. He shut yet another tome with a frustrated sigh. It was the third book he’d read with nothing to show for his efforts. “We don’t have time for this!” 

 

“Well, be that as it may, we don’t have a better option,” Hermione said shortly. 

 

“Actually, we do. It just so happens there’s someone with us who’s read all this before—”

 

“Yeah, and she’s also the reason we're in this mess to begin with,” Ron pointed out.

 

"And we already tried questioning her," Hermione reminded him. "Twice."

 

Ron shrugged apologetically, making Poppet (who, apparently, was really named Pigwidgeon and, apparently, belonged to Ron) bob up and down, flapping indignantly. "Sorry. No dice, mate."

 

Harry growled. He had a vague impression that Ron and Hermione had teamed up against him like this in the past. Not that he remembered, exactly, but it felt familiar in a way that was almost as encouraging as it was frustrating.

 

"We've been at it for nearly two hours now with nothing to show for it. You said yourself it clearly isn't a purely logic-based puzzle, but you won't even let us go investigate the other runic circles to get some clues—"

 

Hermione slammed her fists on the table. "Because one is underwater, another is deep in the forest somewhere, and the last one is currently occupied by a narcissist who's tearing down the only thing protecting this town from a horde of hungry dementors!"

 

"So let's go stop him!" Harry countered. "We should at least find out what he’s trying to do—"

 

"Obviously he's trying to take control of Gleyma away from Queenie," said Hermione, as though it were as routine a fact as the colour of the sky, "and I certainly see no reason to stop him. She's hardly been a fair and just leader. Besides, according to Draco, getting involved in an inheritance dispute can be risky."

 

Draco coughed, expression conflicted. "I said it's usually better to stay out of it, but we aren't exactly uninvolved at this point…"

 

"Exactly!" Harry crowed, vindicated. "This could be only the first step in Cyril’s plan—"

 

"That's what you think— " Hermione sniped.

 

"With good reason! You don't know him like I do!" Harry insisted. "And all that aside, there's absolutely no reason for us to try to figure this puzzle out on a deadline."

 

"You just don't like reading!" Hermione said after a beat. "You've always acted first and asked questions later."

 

Harry resisted the urge to groan. How many times had she brought it up now? What he was like, and why that was a problem for her. "We don't have time for questions and reading and debate right now!"

 

"Alright, let's take a break," Ron cut in. "Who wants some hot chocolate?"

 

If Harry and Hermione's matching glares had any effect on him, he didn't show it.

 

“No takers?” He sighed, turning to Harry. "Look mate, even if we stop Cyril, the dementors will still eat through the Net eventually, and we can't stop the dementors alone, so we'd have to leave to get help, anyway. Hermione's right in this case."

 

"I'm always right," she informed him primly.

 

"Not always," Harry snapped back. It wasn't exactly spoken from experience—more of a gut feeling—but no one was always right.

 

"Regardless, there's nothing we can do except leave." Hermione sniffed, clearly believing her logic to be both impeccable and superior to Harry's. The way she scratched another line through the parchment and set it on fire belied she was not as cool and collected as she seemed. “But we can’t do that until we—or rather, until I figure out the exact path to walk through this hell maze so we can keep our memories! Unfortunately, I can’t just solve a puzzle that wasn’t constructed using any coherent—” strike “—bloody—” strike “—thought. And it would be a lot easier if you didn’t keep distracting me!”

 

Harry felt the anger building up like a terrible fire inside him, like the one he tried to forget and couldn't. He wanted to yell, but that would only prove to Hermione that he was unreasonable, and he needed her to listen. He took a deep breath and gathered what was left of his calm. "I came here for the Net and I won’t leave without it, nor will I abandon everyone here to Cyril. You people can do whatever you want, but my business here isn’t done yet."

 

“‘You people’?” Hermione put down the quill to stare at Harry incredulously. "I know your house means a lot to you, Harry, but it's not more important than your life!"

 

Harry opened his mouth to object, but Hermione plowed right on ahead. "Besides, if you care about the people here, you wouldn't even think about taking the Net until we destroy the dementor nest, because if you did take the Net you'd be leaving these poor people defenceless."

 

"Right, which is why I say we go take care of the dementors—" Harry tried.

 

A chorus of 'No's cut him off.

 

Hermione’s eyes glinted darkly in the low light. “Some of us aren't foolish enough to try to tackle a whole nest of dementors alone.”

 

Harry clenched his fist hard, nails biting into his calloused palms. “I’ve told you, I was never going to try to destroy the dementor nest alone—"

 

Hermione turned a page with crisp precision. “But you did investigate alone.”  

 

Harry sighed, if only to stop himself from screaming. 

 

"You don't even know how you did it last time," Ron pointed out. “I mean, how you destroyed the dementors.”

 

Harry frowned. They hadn't gotten this far in the conversation last time they'd had it, which had been about half an hour ago. It almost felt like progress, laterally if not literally. "Don't you know?"

 

There was a pause, just long enough to flirt with becoming an awkward silence. It was almost preferable to the bickering, were it not for all the things left unsaid he couldn’t even begin to guess at.

 

Finally, Hermione said, "Why would we?" The touch of hurt in her voice set Harry on edge, for reasons he could neither remember nor identify.

 

"Weren't you there?" Harry turned to Ron. "We were partners." He remembered that much, at least.

 

Ron's face closed off; mouth pinched tight. "I wasn't there."

 

"Why not?" He had a vague memory of an argument that might’ve been with Ron, but all Harry got from the memory was a sense of guilty determination.

 

“I wasn’t on the anti-dementor task force,” Ron began, eyes cast down. “Someone advised against my being on the team." His jaw worked, old frustration and hurt seeping through. "I didn’t even know it was dementors you were fighting until after the fact.”

 

"Oh," said Harry. 

 

Without even lifting her head, Hermione cut in with, “You said it was because we were trying to get pregnant with Rose, and you didn't want the dark magic affecting Ron's—”

 

“That is entirely more information than I needed, thank you,” Draco interrupted. It was rather rude of him, but Harry was grateful, if for no other reason than it lightened the mood. Somewhat.

 

God, this whole experience must be so strange for him. Still, he was the most collected one out of the four of them. He’d made it through twice the number of books as Hermione in the time Harry had been trying to convince her that this course of action was pointless. Draco was mostly staying neutral which, although understandable, disappointed Harry somewhat. He would’ve appreciated having someone on his side.

 

"You said it would've been good to have me there, but you couldn't risk it," Ron continued, "so, you recommended someone else for the team." 

 

"Finnegan and Park and Lesley," Hermione confirmed.

 

Harry wished he knew what to say. Where to put his hands. How to feel about a choice he couldn't remember making on the behalf of people he hardly knew. What he settled on was, "Well. I'm not sorry for wanting to protect you." It felt mostly true, even if he couldn't remember enough to be sure it was.

 

"You never are," Ron replied, so softly Harry wasn't sure he was meant to hear.

 

Things were awkward again. Lovely.

 

“So, you weren’t there. And I didn’t tell you about it afterwards.” He didn’t remember not telling them, but the stretching silence confirmed it. “And no one else told you about it either?"

 

"No." Ron scowled. "The whole operation was pretty hush-hush, if you know what I mean."

 

Harry did, unfortunately. This whole time he'd been operating under the assumption that everyone here must know how they'd done it, but—

 

Hermione cleared her throat meaningfully. “All you said was that it was done, and you didn’t want to talk about it or think about it ever again.”

 

“And then you were focused on fixing your house and some secret mission, which I suppose was this—” Ron waved his hand in a vague way that could have meant anything “— and then you were gone.”

 

“Ah.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck and stared ahead without really seeing anything. Had he really been such a secretive person? Even with his friends? 

 

“Do you remember how you did it back then?" Draco asked, salvaging what was left of the mood. "Destroying a nest of dementors, that is.”

 

 Harry inspected his hands, picking at old calluses and scars as if the answers could be written there. They weren't. “Would it make a difference if I did?"

 

"It might," said Hermione. "Do you remember?"

 

Harry spent too long thinking about it.

 

“Do you remember?” Hermione pressed, looking away from the parchment and putting down the quill. "Because if you do—"

 

“I don't,” said Harry. 

 

If only it were true.

 

Ron leaned towards him, brow furrowed. "But you remember something?"

 

"Um." Of all things he could have remembered, this was not one of the things he wished to recall, no matter how useful it might be at the moment. “I remember that it felt wrong,” he said at last.

 

“Nothing else?”

 

He shook his head, gut twisting in guilt. Maybe he was just a secretive person, down to his core, if his first instinct was to lie. He didn’t know how to feel about that. 

 

“Well, nothing to be done about it, then,” said Ron, clapping Harry on the back. “So unless you have some other plan for how to contain and destroy a whole horde of dementors, there’s really no point even thinking about it now, is there?”

 

He didn’t have a good rebuttal for that, and Harry—though stubborn to a fault at times—could recognize that he’d been outvoted. That didn’t mean he had to be happy about it.

 

"So we're supposed to just carry on with the same thing and hope it pays off in time, then?" Harry remarked in Hermione's general direction.

 

"Your positive attitude is appreciated, as usual," Hermione sniped. "If you have time to whinge, you've got time to read. Or to figure out that key to the wards, since you're so worried about it."

 

Harry sighed and closed the book on Magikal Manifests that he wasn't really reading anyway.  He pulled the cube out of his apron pocket and stared at it glumly. He knew he’d seen something like it before, but nothing about holding it in his hands or staring at it sparked any memory of how it worked. With a sigh, he twisted the top row three times counter-clockwise.

 

No reaction, same as last time he’d messed with it. He turned one of the black columns downwards, more just to fiddle with it than with any real intention in mind.

 

There was the sound of a click, then a hiss, then a popping noise as a panel peeled away from one of the walls, revealing a large, square recess, about a foot deep.

 

Inset in the recess were twelve glass globes, eleven of which were lit, arranged in a perfect circle like numbers on a clock.

 

"Huh," said Ron, "That's neat."

 

"What is it?" asked Hermione, abandoning her reading to inspect the panel.

 

One of the lights glowed brightly, momentarily illuminating the whole chamber in bright blue light before sputtering out. The remaining ten globes flared and resettled like a startled animal. 

 

Harry felt a strange shudder in the air. An uncomfortable feeling crept up his spine, and the air got a little colder.

 

It was a feeling he recognized. "Well. Looks like we found the control panel for the wards," he said with false cheer. "Looks like we've got, let's see…one, two, three…we've got ten of them left."

 

Harry hated being right.

 

---

 

Draco felt a strange shudder in the air. An uncomfortable feeling crept up his spine, and the air got a little colder. The sound of Ron cursing followed by a high-pitched hoot and the sound of something heavy falling over echoed down the stone steps.

 

“That’s another one down,” Harry said glumly. “That makes how many? Five?”

 

“That was number three,” Hermione informed him, a touch coolly. There had been a slight detente from the earlier tensions, but it was clear neither Hermione nor Harry had forgotten about it completely.

 

“Did you lot feel that down here?” Ron asked as he came down the stairs with a tray full of mugs. Ron was the second person (after Blaise, of course) who could managed to sound both cheerful and full of dread at the same time. "It's like third year all over again." He shivered once before dutifully passing around mugs of hot chocolate. 

 

Draco felt ill at the sight. As much as he enjoyed it, he was ready to drink something else, after hours of nothing but cayenne and cinnamon hot chocolate.

 

The way things were going, it didn’t seem a likely outcome any time soon.

 

“That little fucker took down another ward,” Harry informed him bitterly, gesturing to the wall behind them, "while we sat here reading about the uses of muggle liver in alchemy. It's useless, by the way. Didn't stop Master Velon Meridys from trying thirty separate times and recording it here for our perusal, 500 years in the future."

 

Ron grimaced. “And still no ideas on how or why Cyril’s doing it, other than ‘blood magic in a runic circle with his dad-slash-uncle’?”

 

"The working theory is that he has all the books with his plans involving group magic, blood magic, and inheritance challenges," Draco said dully.

 

“Right,” said Ron. "So that's a no, then."

 

Harry made a frustrated sound, the variety of which Draco had begun to catalogue given their frequency over the past three hours. This particular sound meant he was about to make a suggestion he knew would be rejected, but felt compelled to make anyway. "Maybe if we went to where he's hiding we could at least figure out what he’s trying to do—"

 

Ah, there it was. The call to action. Draco turned his head, awaiting the refusal or dismissive statement sure to follow any moment now… 

 

“The important thing,” Hermione cut in, “is that we know what he’s doing, and how long it'll take him.”

 

Right on cue. And now, the rebuttal:

 

"Except that we don't," said Harry. "We don't know what he's planning at all, only that he's taking the Net down."

 

And the third-party mollifying statement:

 

“We still don’t know why either,” Ron pointed out. "Or how, exactly."

 

Draco sighed internally, figuring he should probably say something, if the dopey eyes Harry was giving him were any indication.

 

“He’s probably doing it to force our hand,” Draco said dryly. He didn’t know Cyril as well as Harry did, but he knew what the ruthlessly ambitious were like.

 

Hermione tutted, but didn't deny it. Her unflappable logic was looking less and less promising in comparison to Harry's plan to rush in and deal with whatever-it-might-be on the fly.

 

The thing was, Harry’s plan to go investigate Cyril’s little cabal would have been a good plan if they were an auror team trained to deal with such unknown variables. As it was, they had one trained auror with memory problems, one retired auror who was out of practice, one auror hopeful who knew a lot in theory but had never applied it, and one who was never an auror and never wanted to be even if she had plenty of practical experience.

 

But even if Draco had made great progress with them in the past few days, Ron and Hermione didn't trust him like they trusted each other, and their faith in Harry was being tested with every snide remark and slight disagreement. Draco knew Harry trusted them in theory, but the wary glances he kept shooting them when they weren't looking was less than encouraging, to say the least.

 

Draco felt like he had to play peacemaker, but it wasn't one of his natural skills. Manipulation was one thing, but Harry was too doubtful and Hermione too shrewd for such tactics to be effective. He was actually starting to come around to Harry's point of view. As much as Draco didn't really want to see Cyril or get caught in the crosshairs of an inheritance challenge, Harry was right: it wouldn't matter whether they figured out how to leave if they were beset on all sides by dementors. Not to mention that Harry had flat-out refused to leave without the Net and without helping the people of Gleyma, so there was that.

 

Of course, the rising threat of dementors in the face of ever-weakening wards was a large part of the reason Draco was so keen on staying in the tent to begin with, even if this research project were doomed.

 

Draco continued, “In any case, I think it’s safe to say they’ve discovered the desk and its contents are missing from Cosmic Latte, and they want it back. Threatening the safety of the town is what I’d do if I wanted something from a group of self-proclaimed heroes.”

 

The Golden Trio—and that’s what they were in this moment, even if they were not getting along perfectly—all glared at him. “What?" He said innocently. "It’s a tried and true tactic. Dangle the carrot, and all that.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes fondly. 

 

“Right. Well." Ron sighed. "Any luck figuring out how to put the wards back up, then?”

 

"It's not as simple as 'putting them back up', unfortunately," Draco explained. He tried not to let Harry's crestfallen expression get to him. There was, after all, a reason he hadn't gotten into the intricacies of inheritance challenges, generational wards, and the like. Harry hadn't exactly been subtle about his wishes to at least discuss it, but even knowing that the control interface was somewhere in this pocket-lab, without looking at them there was very little they could do.

 

Even if they could look at them, without the cooperation of the one currently in charge, or without an adequate blood claim to the inheritance themselves…  

 

"If only I remembered how this worked!" Harry glared at the cube. "It only revealed the one secret to me, so far."

 

"That's because you just keep twisting things randomly," said Hermione.

 

"You didn't have any luck with it either," Harry reminded her.

 

She pursed her lips and went back to reading.

 

Harry hummed, apparently satisfied, and tossed the cube to Ron. “Why don't you have a go? Draco says you've got a mind for these things. Maybe you can figure out how it works.”

 

Ron looked back and forth between Harry and Draco, incredulous. “Oh, right, sure. Just figure it out. No problem.”

 

“Your time to shine,” Harry said with a smile.

 

“Think of it like a chessboard,” Draco offered.

 

Ron grumbled something about it being nothing like chess but got to work on it anyway. “And what do I get if I ‘figure it out’?”

 

Something clicked and the wall of potions ingredients swung forward.

 

“Thank jesus," Harry cheered, chair scraping loudly as he stood up, scrambling around the table to investigate the newly-revealed room.

 

“Jesus had nothing to do with it,” Ron muttered, following behind Harry.

 

“What do you think you’re doing?” said Hermione. “You can’t just go stomping ahead willy nilly!”

 

“We’re just looking,” Harry said, taking a step forward. “Or is looking too reckless for your tastes?”

 

“Yeah, ‘Mione. Pretty sure this is the room I went into earlier, anyway,” said Ron, peering over Harry’s shoulder. “The one with all the weird stuff in it. Remember?”

 

Harry grimaced, leaning back slightly. “You didn’t mention it was set up like some kind of altar of sacrifice th—hang on, is that mine?”

 

Without warning, Harry waltzed right into the chamber, caution abandoned in favour of curiosity, with Ron hot on his heels. “It is!” Came the muffled cry from inside the room.

 

Draco and Hermione exchanged exasperated looks, but he wasn’t waiting for permission; he followed them into the chamber. It was smaller than the potions lab, but only just. The room was a perfect half-circle, with the far wall covered in strange wooden shelves, almost like cubbies, each one with a different object presented inside. They weren’t interesting objects; they were commonplace, really. Gardening shears, a scarf, a fountain pen. Small personal items.

 

For some reason, looking at it gave him a feeling of dread. “Maybe you shouldn’t disturb anything,” he said, feet shifting uneasily.

 

“Why not? It’s Harry’s isn’t it?” Ron said. “I mean, that’s definitely your face on that driving permit in that wallet. When’d you get a driving permit, by the way?”

 

"According to the permit: August 3, 1998," said Harry.

 

Draco closed his eyes briefly to steel himself and his patience. “We don’t even know what all this is, or where it came from…”

 

“Looks like people's stuff that got nicked to me,” Ron observed. “See? There’s a hat, a pair of reading glasses, one shoe—oh, c'mon, that’s kind of a dick move, innit? At least take both shoes.”

 

It reminded Draco of something, if only he could remember what… 

 

“What are these?” Hermione asked behind him, proceeded by the sound of an old hinge creaking and a soft gasp.

 

Draco pressed his lips together lest he say anything regretful. Hermione was clever and cautious, but still a Gryffindor at heart. He wondered if she’d insisted on the reading out of stubbornness, given how readily she abandoned it now that there were other things to explore. “I’d say don’t touch it, whatever it is, but somehow I have a feeling it’s too late for that,” he mused aloud, more to himself than anyone else.

 

“Look,” she whispered.

 

Why the hell not? He thought. “You two, don’t disturb anything else,” he said, though he felt the pointlessness of the statement as the words left his mouth. At least he’d tried.

 

What Hermione was looking at was an old wooden chest. The contents were far more interesting. Far more disturbing, too. “Are those…?”

 

“Wands,” Hermione confirmed.

 

By Draco’s estimation, the number looked to be somewhere in the upper hundreds.

 

Hermione stared at the chest in solemn silence. Draco looked at Harry and Ron helplessly. At least they weren’t touching anything now.

 

“When we get out of here, we can have the wands identified,” Harry offered. “Returned to the families.”

 

If there are any family members left to return them to, Draco thought darkly.

 

“I wonder how many of those could solve all those cold-case missing persons files,” Ron wondered. “All those files in the bowels of the DMLE archive, you know.”

 

Harry made a face at that. “I do remember that. Smells bad, dark? Reluctant archivist?”

 

“Archibald Dustin,” Ron agreed, shivering once. “Certainly don’t miss him.”

 

Hermione gripped the edge of the chest, unable to tear her gaze away. “You don’t think…there aren’t this many dementors surrounding Gleyma, are there?”

 

“I don’t think so,” said Harry. “From what I gather, they didn’t all stick around here. Unlike the people living in Gleyma, there’s nothing to keep the dementors here. They can go where they please.”

 

“So why haven’t they?” asked Hermione, voice tense. “What keeps them here?”

 

Ron scoffed. “I think the better question is why would they leave? With the Net, they’ve got a constant food supply.”

 

Hermione exhaled sharply and shut the chest. “We can think about that later. What is this thing you’ve found?”

 

“I wish I could compartmentalize like that,” Harry mumbled. “I’m not sure what this…display case is, but my wallet was sitting right there.” He pointed to the now empty cubby.

 

Hermione glared at him. “You put that back right now until we figure out what it does.”

 

Harry scowled. “But it’s mine—”

 

“Don’t you think that might be the point? A personal item of yours, placed here in this secret chamber of the secret lab at the bottom of a drawer kept in an office no one can enter?”

 

Harry glanced down at the wallet. “Well, when you put it like that.” He put the wallet back, though Draco noted the way his fingers lingered on it. “I would’ve known my real name a lot sooner if I’d had that.”

 

“Just be glad she didn’t take your wand. Now. Does the number 144 mean anything to you?”

 

Harry squinted up at the ceiling while he thought. “It’s about the population of Gleyma. Why?”

 

“Because that’s how many objects there are.”

 

Harry looked back and bounced his finger as he counted. “Ah,” he said, eyebrows shooting up sharply. “I know what this is. I don’t like this one bit.” 

 

“What is it?” Hermione asked, voice strained.

 

Harry patted an empty shelf—the only empty shelf—running his fingers along the wood almost tenderly. “This is what I’ve been looking for. It’s the Net.” He smiled wryly.

 

“This is the Net?” said Hermione, raising a sceptical brow. “It doesn’t look like much.”

 

Ron took a sizable step away from the wall, cradling Poppet to his chest protectively. “Hang on, this is the Net? The Net that steals memories? That made you come here in the first place? That Fucker McFuckface up there is tearing down?”

 

“This is part of it,” Harry said, almost distracted. “I mean, functionally, having only this part is useless.”

 

“Hang on, if it’s dark magic, maybe we shouldn’t just—leave all these people’s things here?” Ron said, voice rising in stress. 

 

“I would venture a guess that only the person who placed the item can remove them. That’s usually how these things work,” Hermione explained.

 

Ron took another step away from the wall of stolen goods. “What’s the missing space for?”

 

Harry dropped his hand from the empty shelf. “Well…we had a funeral here recently.”

 

“Oh,” said Ron. “Right.”

 

Draco cleared his throat delicately, doing his best to clear the uncomfortable atmosphere (as he'd been doing all day, but—no matter).“I’ve heard of something like this before,” he explained, “you have to steal a personal item of the intended victim, and through it you take something away from them. Luck, power, money, happiness…if I’d known this is what you were looking for…”

 

“What, you would have stopped me?” Harry challenged. “It doesn’t have to be a dark object. When used properly, it can be good. A place for a magical house and those who live there to keep its happy memories. I didn’t think it would look like this. So…normal.”

 

“You said this is only part of it,” Hermione remarked. “Where’s the rest? What is the rest?”

 

Harry turned away from the Net, like breaking a trance. “I don’t know. From what I understand, the Net needs anchors of some kind. A way to define the parameters of ‘inside the Net’ and ‘outside the Net’.”

 

Draco nodded along; he’d thought as much when he looked at the Net surrounding Gleyma.

 

Hermione, however, narrowed her eyes in suspicion. “How do you know so much about it? Kreacher didn’t tell you. He couldn’t. We saw, in your memories.”

 

Harry’s shoulder did a strange jerking motion, almost a shrug. “I read about it. In a journal. I do enjoy reading sometimes, you know.” Harry closed his eyes, as if trying to remember something. “Does the name Alphard mean anything to you?”

 

“That’s my Great Uncle,” Draco said, almost without thinking. An old habit from hours of memorizing unwieldy family trees. Speaking of… “He was blasted off the family tree, I believe.”

 

“All the best Blacks are. No offense, Draco,” Ron said, not unkindly.

 

“He made some notes about Grimmauld Place, about how it felt like something was missing, how rooms were closing up even to his sister—that would be Walburga, I think?—and he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He came to his place in the early sixties and tried to dig up the town, looking for ‘archaeological findings’. Of course, they made him leave, and have held a vendetta against archaeologists ever since.

 

“I didn’t find the journals until after I asked Kreacher about what was wrong with the house. I found them in the library, sitting on the end table. At first I thought Kreature put them there, but eventually I realized the house presented them to me. I think…it wanted me to find the missing pieces. That’s how I knew where to look for Gleyma in the first place…” he trailed off, brow furrowed as though he were not quite satisfied with that explanation, an incomplete image.

 

Hermione made a quiet, wounded sound. “How is it you can remember all that,” she asked quietly, “but you don’t even remember how we met?”

 

Harry lifted his head to stare at her, eyes wide with surprise. “Hermione—”

 

She didn’t stay to hear what he had to say, instead storming out of the chamber.

 

“Well. I think I’ve seen enough here. I’m gonna go check on her,” said Ron, following Hermione and leaving Draco alone with Harry in the room.

 

“I only just remembered,” Harry said sheepishly, “when I picked up the wallet. I just thought about how I knew it and…there it was, mostly. The memory.”

 

“Well, I think it’s good you’re remembering things at all,” Draco said, doing his best to be encouraging. Not his strong suit, but he'd have to do. “She’s just stressed. She’ll come around.” 

 

Harry didn't look convinced, but he didn’t make any further objections. He just nodded and exited the chamber, lingering to spare one last look at the room. Draco put what he hoped was a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder, which Harry reached up and squeezed, just once.

 

The wall swung shut behind them with an eerie silence. Harry glanced at Draco, expression unreadable. Hermione had a book clutched in her hands so tightly he might have worried she was going to damage it.

 

Draco had a bad feeling about this.

 

“There’s only one person we can ask, you know,” Harry began. “Where the rest of the Net is. How to put ourselves in charge of it instead of whatever's happening to it right now."

 

Hermione didn't say anything.

 

"If we can get control of the Net, we can slow down Cyril’s plan,” Harry continued.

 

Ron glanced up at Harry, and back at Hermione, eyes pinched up nervously. “Harry, I really don’t think—”

 

“We aren’t making any progress, and at the rate things are going, we only have, what? Six hours, maybe, until the Net is completely down. Maybe more, depending on how much blood Cyril is using in his ritual. Or whether he got his hands on some blood replenishing potion. Or if he’s getting help from the Old Man, an equal spilling of blood. Maybe they're just toying with us. Maybe they can take the whole thing down at once. All variables we don't know, and can't plan for.”

 

Still, Hermione said nothing. She kept glaring at her book.

 

Harry stared at her and waited.

 

“You know how I feel about talking to her,” she said at last. 

 

“I’m trying to compromise with you here, Hermione. You want to solve the puzzle? Fine. Solve it. But you aren’t going to do it in six hours, and you aren’t going to do it by sitting down here reading the only books that have nothing to do with wards—”

 

“You don’t know that!” she hissed, slamming the book shut. “You used to believe in me!”

 

“I’m trying to believe in you! I want to! But you’re treating me like a naughty child that needs to be kept busy so I don’t cause problems!” Harry’s voice wavered, nearly on the verge of shouting, but he reeled it in. “Frankly, I don’t need your permission to do what I think is right.”

 

“We’re supposed to be a team!” she pleaded.

 

“Then act like it! All you’ve done is tell me what to do, and what not to do, all while being disappointed about what I don’t remember and annoyed over what I do, as if I have any control over it.”

 

“I’m just trying to keep you safe! If you go out there—”

 

“It’s not your job to keep me safe,” Harry said, voice quiet but cutting. It reminded Draco of the first time they’d spoken to Queenie, when he’d been in full auror-interrogation mode. He didn’t like the implication that Harry had slipped back into that mind-frame here.

 

“Someone’s got to do it!” she insisted. “And you sure as hell aren’t!”

 

“I’ve been doing just fine taking care of myself for the past seven months—”

 

“Just fine? You call this just fine? You haven’t been fine in years!”

 

Harry didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t look angry, or shocked, just resigned. “Well. If you couldn’t help me in all that time, what makes you think things are any different now?”

 

Hermione’s eyes shone with tears, her dark skin flushed angrily. “This isn’t like you. It’s like I don’t even know you.”

 

Harry's jaw clenched, so infinitesimal Draco might have missed it had he not been in the habit of watching Harry. “Maybe you don’t.” 

 

He didn't wait for anyone to say anything, retreating up the stairs.

 

Ron, Hermione, and Draco sat there in silence for a long moment, all too upset to react. Hermione collapsed over the table, sobbing. Ron looked at Draco and jerked his head towards the stairs, eyes pleading. 

 

Draco didn’t need to be told twice.

 

 

He found Harry standing at the flap of the tent, watching the rain cascade down the canvas.

 

"Harry?" Draco hedged, wary of spooking him.

 

"They don't get it," Harry said softly. 

 

“Don’t get what?” He could probably guess, but that wasn’t what Harry needed right now. 

 

"To have some version of yourself that everyone else remembers and you can’t possibly live up to. To be told how you should feel and what you used to be like. To only have bad memories." 

 

Draco swallowed and took a step closer. "Not all bad, I hope?"

 

Harry glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, lips quirked up in a small smile. "No. Not all bad. But the more I remember…I can't help but wonder about all the things I kept from them.” He exhaled heavily, eyes pinched up unhappily. “My two best friends in the world, supposedly, and yet it seems I didn’t tell them much of anything.”

 

Draco felt out of his depth. "Well, I don’t know about that. You always seemed…private. But those two were always with you. Before, during, and after everything that happened. I didn't know you well enough when we were young to say what you were like then, but everyone has their secrets."

 

"We're still young aren't we? I mean, I'm only twenty-four. I know that now." He smiled. "My birthday was on my driving permit. July 31, 1980."

 

"We're still young," Draco agreed. "At least, in theory."

 

Harry blinked, eyes dark and unreadable. “Even so…I feel old. Sometimes. A lot. Every time I remembered, just for a couple days when the wards reset…it was like aging a decade. Sometimes I thought it might be better not to remember at all.” 

 

Draco licked his lips, searching for the words that would make all this better. In all his imaginings of what reuniting the golden trio would be like, he never anticipated…this. 

 

"For what it's worth,” he began, “I do think you wanted to tell them. Ron and Hermione, that is. About what you were doing here, what you were looking for. You weren't allowed to share the truth about your mission, from what I gather. We had to get the signatures of the Minister for Magic and the heads of two ministry departments before they would even tell us what you'd been sent off to investigate. Hermione and Ron had been trying to get approval for months before I came along with your wand and your memories…"

 

Harry hummed, barely audible over the sound of the rain.

 

"It's strange," he reflected, "how much I want to trust them, how much I feel that I do, and yet…they keep trying to tell me what I'm like, and how I feel about things. I get the sense that I don't live up to the Harry they remember. What if I don't ever remember it all, and that person they loved is lost? What if…what if I never really was that person?"

 

Draco’s heart ached at the uncertainty of Harry's voice. "Oh, Harry. Who you are at heart hasn't changed. And even if you don't remember, or if you aren't exactly the same as before all this, it's alright—"

 

"It really isn't though, is it?"

 

Draco stepped up next to Harry so he could look him in the eye. "People change all the time for all kinds of reasons. Loving someone doesn't mean holding them to a standard of who they used to be. It means…oh, I'm no good at these things." Draco sighed, trying to put his thoughts into words that didn't sound like platitudes. "I think…loving someone means accepting who they are now, and the many iterations of who they become through the years. Through grief and anger and loss. Through changes, good and bad. And they do love you, Harry. You have to know that."

 

"Yeah," Harry said softly, “I know.” It sounded like he meant something else, his hand snaking down to find Draco's, holding it and not letting go.

 

Draco leaned his head on Harry's shoulder. "What am I going to do with you?"

 

“I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Harry teased. For a moment, it felt like it had weeks ago, when it was just the two of them, hidden away in a flat that was too dark and too small and too cold but still felt warm and bright and boundless for the company.

 

“I shouldn’t have said that to Hermione,” Harry said after a long minute. “That she doesn’t know me. She hates not knowing things.”

 

Draco chuckled, in spite of the fact that it wasn’t really that funny at all. Laughing was always better than crying, in his experience. “Yes, well. She can learn again, if you’re really so different now that she needs to.”

 

“I wasn’t completely wrong though, was I?”

 

“Perhaps not.”

 

Harry nodded, but didn't say anything.

 

“Maybe you just need some time apart, for a bit.”

 

Harry snorted. “As if we have time for anything right now. Though I guess I might as well be useless up here instead of useless down there.”

 

“You might do a better job of convincing her if you have an actual plan.”

 

“I do have a plan—”

 

“A plan that isn’t ‘go to the church and bust down the walls, hexing villains left and right’, no matter how sexy a picture that makes.”

 

Harry grumbled something that sounded suspiciously like ‘I wasn’t going to bust down any walls’, but Draco let it pass, enjoying the moment with Harry’s hand in his.

 

“I just don’t understand," Harry said, frustrated. "She was on-board with the plan to stop Cyril until she got fixated on ‘solving the riddle’ and ‘passing the test’.” Harry hummed to himself. “I should never have showed her the map. I just thought…we were on the same page, or something."

 

"And what page would that be?" Draco asked, taking in the way the diffused light softened the edges of Harry's face.

 

"That I’m not interested in escaping. That I want to tear all the wards around this place to the ground. That I want to get rid of the dementors, and the despots running this nightmare town, and take the Net back where it belongs. I want everyone to be free, and she just wants to leave.”

 

“She doesn’t know anyone else here. Not like you. Not at all, really. Getting you home is her highest priority, and everything else comes second,” Draco explained. “I imagine she also doesn’t see the point in trying to fight off dementors without a solid plan.”

 

“I did it before,” Harry protested. "Fought off the dementors. I was good at that, I recall."

 

“But do you remember how?”

 

Harry grumbled something unintelligible. Draco was getting an idea, but he wasn’t sure about it yet…

 

“In any case, leaving to get help from people who do remember and can do something about the dementors is her solution. She wants the same things you do—”

 

Harry raised a dubious eyebrow.

 

"—mostly.  She just wants them in a different order than you do, and to do it in a different way."

 

“Yes, but that's the thing: what if she’s wrong about the puzzle? What if we cross that boundary and all our memories of Gleyma get wiped?”

 

“I doubt she’s accounted for that.”

 

Harry nodded. “I can’t take that chance.”

 

“Hmm,” Draco said, unwilling to comment on what he thought about that lest Harry start a fight with him, too. “You know, I might have an idea for dealing with the dementors.”

 

Harry turned sharply to look at him. “You do?”

 

Draco nodded. “I think so. It’s not foolproof, but I think I can bring Hermione around to the idea. Just let me do the talking, alright? I’m very persuasive.”

 

Harry smiled, the first genuine one Draco had seen from him in too long. “If you say so.”

 

— — — 

 

Ten minutes later, they were all gathered in front of the stove, four cups of mostly untouched hot chocolate steaming on the coffee table. Even though Hermione complained that it ‘wouldn’t help anything’, Ron insisted that it couldn’t hurt.

 

If nothing else, it was something to look at while they were all studiously avoiding each other’s gazes for various reasons.

 

“We’ve been approaching this the wrong way, I think,” Draco began, once all four of them had settled on the sofa. Hermione’s eyes were red and puffy, but otherwise there was no indication of what she’d been doing down in the pocket lab. Harry was staring at his feet awkwardly, and Ron was just…being Ron, and fussing over Poppet endearingly. Which, at this moment, was most welcome.

 

There would be time for reconciliation later, once everyone realized they were being bull-headed Gryffindors with annoying ways of expressing concern for each other.

 

“The thing that worries me,” Draco began with an arch wave of his hand, “is how two squibs with minimal magic at best were able to take down centuries old wards in an afternoon. However, I think we have to admit that taking down the wards isn’t the tricky part. A squib took them down from the Ancestral Black home and erected them himself here in Gleyma. We took down the wards around Cosmic Latte this morning easily enough. Clearly, anyone with a wand or a decent understanding of blood magic can dismantle the Net.”

 

“What is the problem then, oh enlightened one?” Ron said with a grin that was only a little forced.

 

“Cyril’s goals,” said Draco. “Most notably, why he’s taking down Gleyma’s only source of protection. I think we ought to worry about whatever the ritual is that he wanted to perform with Queenie.”

 

Harry nodded but, as promised, said nothing, leaving the persuading to Draco.

 

Hermione tutted. “How many times do I have to say it, why does it matter? We have the ward controls, even if we can’t control the interface yet.”

 

“It matters because it appears he’s found a way to do whatever this ritual is even without Queenie’s help, going so far as to take down the Net.”

 

“You don’t think it was just a way to take over the inheritance from Queenie?” asked Ron, expression contemplative.

 

Draco shook his head. “He wanted to work with Queenie before, didn’t he? He asked her to read a book about it. She wouldn’t have agreed to help him take control from her, so most likely needing the head of the Baas family was part of whatever it was he really wants to accomplish.” 

 

“But she wouldn’t listen to him, so he switched his sights to Harry?” Ron asked.

 

Draco shook his head. “Not necessarily. I think, ideally, he wanted both Harry and Queenie to participate. I agree with Harry; I think taking down the wards is only the first step in his plan. Since he doesn’t have Queenie to participate in the ritual, he needed her out of the way. To wrest control of the wards from her grasp and claim the title of heir for himself.”

 

Harry made a distressed noise. “It’s possible that he doesn’t need control of the wards or the inheritance. He just needs the Net out of the way.”

 

Draco hadn’t thought of that. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

 

“Ugh, this just gets better and better doesn’t it?” Ron groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “So. What kinds of rituals might someone like Cyril want to perform?”

 

Honestly, Draco couldn’t think of any. At least, not any that seemed more likely than another. “Harry knows him better than I do.”

 

Harry shrugged. “The only thing he ever seemed to want was my attention.”

 

“Queenie said he only wanted you because she did,” said Draco.

 

“And she only wanted you for your magic,” added Ron.

 

“Cheers, mate,” Harry said, glowering at Ron.

 

“What if that’s not the case, though?” asked Hermione. Harry raised an eyebrow at her. “You said yourself Queenie underestimates other people.”

 

Draco watched Harry do his best to put on a peace-making face, despite the issues at hand between them. “That’s true. But knowing that doesn’t tell us what he hopes to achieve.”

 

“Well…what do all squibs want?”

 

Draco coughed delicately. “Well…to have magic, I imagine, for a start. Not that any ritual can accomplish such a feat.” 

 

Hermione nodded, warming to her theme. “But performing a group magic ritual would let him do some magic. When I found out I could do magic…all I wanted was to do as much as I could. To know everything there was to know. If he found out there was even the smallest possibility he could do magic, maybe he was satisfied with trying.”

 

“No, I think Draco’s on to something,” Harry said, pinching his bottom lip. “Think about it. This whole…Gleyma project, if you can call it that, was created on the principle that muggleborns had stolen magic from squibs, and squibs could get it back if they suffered enough at the hands of dementors. What if he’s trying to ‘get his magic back’?”

 

“What kind of ritual would be necessary to even do such a thing?” pressed Ron.

 

“Like I said, such a ritual doesn’t exist,” Draco said airily.

 

“But Cyril might believe it exists. And given what we know…” Harry grimaced. “At the very least, I imagine taking down the Net that keeps the dementors away would be necessary.”

 

“Dementors, wards, zodiac puzzles, inheritance challenges…” Ron exhaled.  “It’s a right mess, all mixed up together.”

 

“It seems to me we’re having a triage problem,” Draco said, pleased that they’d arrived at this point so neatly. He did always have a knack for conversation, even if he hadn’t gotten to use it much in the post-war years. “I think we need to consider what our biggest priority should be: escaping Gleyma or defeating the dementors.”

 

Harry shot him a look that said ‘I hope you know what you’re doing’. Draco tried to give him a reassuring smile, but Harry would just have to trust him.

 

“They’re both our biggest priority,” Hermione said through gritted teeth. Even admitting that had to be difficult. “Unfortunately, we’re at an impasse with both.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Draco said softly. “Even without Harry’s memories of the first time they exterminated the dementors, there might be another way. One that doesn’t require anything more than what we have here.”

 

Harry turned his full attention to Draco now. “What is it?”

 

“Well…to be clear, I’ve never heard of it being used on dementors, but that’s possibly only because no one knew dementors used to be human.”

 

“What’s the method?” Hermione asked, curiosity overtaking scepticism.

 

“It’s a sort of group magic used to cleanse a soul. It’s intended use is…well. If a family member’s own magic turned against them for using too much dark magic, you could use the ritual to free them from its effects. Of course, if it fails, it could kill the afflicted, but one wouldn’t resort to such a method if they weren’t at risk of death anyway. In theory, it should work on a dementor. What is a dementor if not a collection of magically corrupted souls?”

 

“Have you tried the spell before?” Harry asked, hopeful.

 

Draco glanced at him, trying to maintain the casual-and-comfortable front. Answering this question was, unfortunately, revealing, but…nothing ventured, and all that rot. “…Well, no. But I have done a lot of research on it. Quite a lot, if I’m being honest. I thought—I hoped—it seemed possible it might be something one could use to rid oneself of the negative influence of others’ dark magic…but I never had the opportunity to test it. It requires seven casters in addition to the one having the dark magic cleansed, and there were not seven people I could ask to try it. Not seven people I trusted enough.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened slightly and he glanced at Draco’s left arm. Draco grimaced and gave a small nod, just for Harry. 

 

“I was reminded of it when Hermione mentioned the old ways people used to do magic. Gathering in a runic circle and casting together. I don’t know if it would work against a dementor, but it could.”

 

“Only one problem,” Ron said darkly. “We only have five casters. And that’s if we somehow found a way to get Amos inside the wards.”

 

“We have enough casters,” Draco countered, “if you are willing to be a bit…flexible.” Draco over glanced at Queenie and back at Harry.

 

“You want us to let Queenie participate?” Harry said dubiously. “You trust her?”

 

“Of course I don’t trust her, but we have no choice. We need seven casters for it to work.”

 

“Even if we include Queenie and Amos, that still only brings us up to six,” Hermione pointed out.

 

Harry made a happy sound that said he'd figured it out. “No, we do have enough. There’s Mrs. Frond,” Harry said brightly. “Her mind is addled, but she can still cast.”

 

Draco smiled. “That was my thought as well.”

 

“So let me get this straight,” Hermione began, “You want to recruit a witch with dementia and another witch who trapped Harry and everyone else in this town here to help cleanse the dementors in a ritual that might not even work?”

 

“To be fair,” Harry said, “Queenie only maintained the trap her ancestors created.”

 

“I don’t feel like being fair to the one who took my best friend away from me,” Hermione growled. “Why would she even agree to help us?”

 

Harry crossed his arms, tapping his fingers rhythmically as he considered. “All Queenie wants is to leave this place. She said herself leaving is impossible as long as the dementors exist. But if we show her we can get rid of the dementors, I think she’ll agree to help. Especially because this lets her be party to her own liberation. She wouldn’t want to owe us anything.”

 

“She’s going straight to prison when we get out of here. You know that, right?” asked Ron. “Or the Janus Thickey Ward, at the very least.”

 

“We don't need to discuss the particulars of what happens afterwards,” Harry said. “It’s a good plan.”

 

“We don’t even know if it will work, though,” said Hermione, lips pursed. “This…purification spell. It wasn’t meant to be used this way.”

 

“We won’t know unless we try,” Draco pleaded. “Please. It’s worth a shot.”

 

“And if it doesn’t work?” she challenged.

 

“If it doesn’t work…we’ll do it the way we did it before,” said Harry. “The way I did it before.”

 

Draco, Ron, and Hermione turned to look at him. “You remember?”

 

Harry squirmed in his seat, staring at his hands. “If I take my wallet out of the Net configuration, my memories should come back. I’ll remember, and this time I’ll tell you.”

 

It was a non-answer at best, but Draco was willing to take it. Especially if his suspicions turned out to be true. 

 

Hermione still wasn’t convinced. “This is insane.”

 

“You said we’re a team. If that’s what you want, you have to act like it.” Harry held her gaze, expression pleading but defiant. Nothing she said would change his mind, and he wanted her to know it.

 

Hermione’s eyes darkened, but she nodded. “Are we going to ask Queenie first, then?”

 

“No,” said Draco, “I think we should get Vivien first. In fact, we need to. She banished Amos, so only she can invite him back. Once we’ve got everyone gathered…then we get Queenie involved.”

 

“She’ll like that, feeling as though she’s in a position of power, being the one to either say yes and make the plan work out or deny us,” said Harry. “She’ll make demands, no doubt—”

 

“Not that she has any right,” Ron groused.

 

“—but ultimately, she’ll agree,” Harry concluded. Considering that Draco hadn’t told Harry anything of his plans beforehand, he was playing along extremely well. He felt a swell of pride and affection in his chest at the thought of them working so well together.

 

Hermione snorted. “We can promise to give her whatever she wants to ensure her cooperation. Doesn’t mean we have to deliver.”

 

Harry sighed. “Fine by me. But we shouldn’t give in too easily. She’s smart; she’ll see through a false promise.”

 

“Fine,” said Hermione tersely.

 

The lingering silence was just long enough to be awkward.

 

“Right,” said Harry. “Well, Draco and I will be off then—”

 

“Just the two of you?” Ron said.

 

“Someone has to stay here with Queenie, and that someone shouldn’t have to do so alone. Besides, Mrs. Frond is mentally frail. It might put her in a bad way to have a whole group of strangers show up at her house unexpectedly.”

 

“Alright…” said Hermione. “As long as you promise not to get…distracted.” She nodded her head meaningfully at them. 

 

“Right, well, thanks for that, we’ll just be off then, cheers!”  

 

— — —

 

“What’s wrong? You’re making a face like a frog has died in your mouth.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t quite hide the way his lips quirked up in a grin, which was gratifying, really, except for the fact that there was very little to smile about at the moment, given what Draco was certain Harry was thinking about.

 

“You always say the nicest things to me,” Harry chided, bumping Draco with his shoulder.

 

“Harry,” Draco began, brow furrowed and eyes darting around nervously, “I think…well. Maybe I’m wrong, but…you’ve remembered how you destroyed the dementors, haven’t you?”

 

Harry stumbled over a root, and Draco almost smiled. Harry had always been far more graceful on the Quidditch pitch than off it. “What?” he choked out, utterly failing to be casual.

 

“You have a tell,” Draco continued, certain that he didn’t need to repeat the question that wasn’t really a question. Draco lifted his left hand. “You look at that lovely souvenir from Umbridge when you lie.”

 

Harry looked at it now, grimacing, before looking away. “I still don’t remember how I got this.”

 

“An unpleasant memory, no doubt,” said Draco, dodging a poor attempt at a change in topic. “You don’t have to tell me about the dementors, but why are you pretending you haven’t remembered?”

 

Harry was quiet for a while, kicking the odd pinecone or rock as they walked along. Harry looked at Draco, expression earnest and considering. “I’m afraid.”

 

“Afraid?” Draco repeated.

 

“I’m afraid you all will want me to do it again.” He sighed, shaking the damp hair out of his eyes. The rain had let up to a drizzle, but paired with the wind it was a fool’s game to try to stay dry. 

 

“It’s one of the few memories that came back every time I remembered. Forgetting it was almost a relief.” He stopped walking and took Draco by the hand. “Please don’t tell Hermione and Ron. It’s…” Harry pressed his lips together, searching for the words. “If it comes down to it, I’ll tell them myself, but what we did back then…it’s not something that should ever be repeated.”

 

Draco swallowed, more curious than ever. But he wouldn’t press Harry on this, not now while things were so tenuous. “Aright. I promise.”

 

Harry nodded. “Thank you. Now let’s get going. We have a small pit stop to make on the way to Mrs. Frond’s.”

 

“Pit stop?”

 

Harry smiled apologetically as they emerged from the woods. “Just someone else we need to pick up first.”

 

Draco felt his stomach turn to ice at the sight of the old farmhouse, far more ominous now that he knew more about it. What it represented. But if they were here, it could only be for one reason. “Ah, of course. Beatrix.”

 

They didn’t speak any more as they walked along the perimeter, making their way to the Red door and flowery garden of Harry’s basement flat. 

 

“We won’t stay long,” Harry promised, pushing open the front door.

 

Draco remembered the last time they’d been here, how differently things had gone. “It looks like you’ve tidied up a bit since I was over last.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes and swept off to the bedroom, making hissing sounds as he went along. Draco almost considered just waiting in the doorway, but it put a bad taste in his mouth. This place had been a source of comfort for him during his short stay in Gleyma, after he got over the initial bout of mind poisoning. 

 

He followed Harry into the bedroom, where the man was currently lying on the floor with his head under the bed, hissing sweetly. It looked exactly the same as it had looked the previous times he’d been in there, including the most recent, when he’d seen it in a memory. Harry’s memory.

 

Harry crawled out, Beatrice wrapped around his hands and leaning towards Draco. “She missed you, you know,” Harry said, tone disgustingly fond. “She kept asking me where ‘the lemony one’ had gone.”

 

“Lemony?” Draco scoffed. “I’ll have you know I only use citrus-based fragrances during the summer, and it is now thoroughly autumn.”

 

Harry shrugged. “It didn’t make much sense to me either. But the memory wipe didn’t affect my little princess, did it my sweet?”

 

Draco smiled. “It’s good you didn’t try to foist your ‘little princess’ off on my person along with your wand and your memories.”

 

Harry sobered at that. “Yeah, well…she wouldn’t have gone with you, otherwise I might have tried.” He shook his head, as if to clear a thought, and wrapped Beatrix around his neck, where she curled up happily. “I can’t believe you got the phial open. It was supposed to stay sealed until I died.”

 

“Yes, well. I am far cleverer than you think.”

 

Harry took Draco's hand, brushing his lips against Draco's palm. An apology. A distraction. “Clearly.”

 

Draco blinked, face burning with pleasure and embarrassment. He would have agreed to leaving the tent hours ago had he known Harry would pull out all the affection when they were alone together. “It was baffling to wake up with a phial full of memories I couldn’t get open, you know. I thought they were mine. I was so desperate to remember…”

 

“I wonder what that’s like…” Harry said dryly.

 

Draco turned his hand over, brushing Harry’s palm with his long, cool fingers. “Can I ask you something?” 

 

“You’re full of questions today,” Harry remarked, which wasn’t exactly as yes, but wasn’t a no, either.

 

“Why was it imperative that I leave Gleyma the day that I did? Other than what Vivien said…you were desperate.”

 

“Ah. that.” Harry swallowed. “Well…you remember that I gave you your green mug?”

 

Draco nodded. “I still use it every day.”

 

Harry smiled. “It suits you.”

 

“And you sent it with me because?” Draco recognized a stalling tactic when he saw one.

 

“The wards reset at the equinoxes and solstices. They take a sort of…inventory, I suppose, of everyone in town. If you’d stayed…one of two things would have happened. Either you’d have been taken into the fold and gotten stuck here, or you'd have been taken by the dementors. Honestly, the second outcome was more likely, so you can understand my insistence that you leave immediately.”

 

Draco stumbled. “Taken?”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know there’s a lure for muggleborns, yes? Well, that’s how the dementors knew who to take, supposedly. Those who’ve sacrificed memories to Gleyma will be spared, but an outsider wouldn’t have done so. They owe a debt, hence Debt Collectors.”

 

“And what if there is no outsider to take?”

 

Harry sighed. “Well, I’m not too clear on the details. Sometimes the dementors don’t take anyone, sometimes they do.”

 

Draco was quiet for a moment. “Who did they take instead, this time? Since I wasn’t there.”

 

“That’s not exactly how it wor—”

 

“Was it Loretta Moretti?”

 

Harry swallowed, but didn't respond.

 

“I saw the memorial to her in the coffee shop,” Draco continued. “And when you showed us that empty spot in the Net, I couldn’t help but to wonder…”

 

“Ah. Right.” Harry stared at his hands. “She was Murph’s wife. She’d been sick for a while. Cancer. The doctor said she was getting better, but she took a sudden turn for the worse.”

 

“Let me guess, last Saturday?”

 

“Look, Draco, it’s not—”

 

“I would have stayed, you know.” He spoke quietly, but his confession felt earth-shattering in the following silence. “If there hadn’t been a way to save you, I would have stayed.”

 

Harry looked at him, expression a mixture of fondness and frustration and understanding. “I know. And that’s why I banished you.”

 

Draco’s lips curled into a satisfied smirk. “Good thing I’ve never listened to you and came back anyway.”

 

“Yes, good thing,” Harry replied with a sarcastic eye-roll. “And if we can't get out this time…well. Worst case scenario, we can live out here in the woods in your beautiful tent for the rest of time, with no one the wiser about where we’ve gone.”

 

“Kingsley knows. The Minister for Magic, that is. And Amos Diggory.”

 

“I’ve been meaning to ask…how did you get Amos involved in all this?”

 

“He’s the head of one of the departments who sent you here. He’s also the only reason we were able to find our way back here.”

 

“I thought Mrs. Frond banished him. How did he return?”

 

Draco sighed. “Well…he had to leave us in order for us to get inside, but he’s just on the perimeter, monitoring things and ready to send for help if need be.”

 

“She banished him to get him to stop trying to save her,” Harry said. “She was determined to figure this place out, even if it killed her. It nearly has.” 

 

Draco hadn’t thought of Mrs. Frond since getting his memories back, of all that she’d given up to beat Gleyma. It was a bit of wilful ignorance on his part, as he’d been entirely focused on Harry. But now that Draco had him back, he was willing to admit that Harry was not the only person in this nightmare place that Draco cared about.

 

“Well. Let’s go get our girl, then.”

 

Harry smiled, and took him firmly by the hand.

 

---

 

"There's one thing that keeps bothering me about this." 

 

"Only one thing?" Harry teased. They skirted around the north side of town, avoiding the Church and Cosmic Latte both. Harry didn’t want anyone catching onto their plan before they enacted it, and as he didn’t know where, precisely, Cyril was hiding, stealth was key. 

 

Draco rolled his eyes. "Would you like an itemized list, or do you want to hear what I have to say?" 

 

Harry mimed zipping his lips and gestured for Draco to continue. 

 

"It's something Queenie said. How Cyril told her he only needed one more person to help him with his ritual. One more in addition to whom? Just Cyril? The Old Man has been here all along. Why would he only agree now to help Cyril?" 

 

Harry picked at the skin around his nails. "It is a bit odd…" 

 

"Isn't it? I mean, maybe she just phrased it strangely, but assuming Cyril needed one more magical person in addition to the old man, who would it be?"

 

“Well, he did want my participation…”

 

“Yes, and he failed to get it. And yet here he is, proceeding with his plan.”

 

Harry hummed, speculating. “Maybe he still thinks he can…lure me in somehow. Convince me with a show of power or something.”

 

“Do you think that likely?”

 

“Not really,” he admitted. “I shut him down pretty hard the last time we spoke.”

 

“When was that?”

 

“Yesterday. He actually looked pretty upset. He stormed out of the shop, instead of his usual disappointed puppy act…”

 

Draco raised an eyebrow. “What did you say to him to elicit such a reaction? He always seemed so…persevering.”

 

“Well, nothing too out of the ordinary. Though I did turn on the espresso machine to drown out the sound of his voice, and spelled out in no uncertain terms that I preferred the company of Beatrix to him…”

 

Draco smirked. “What did he say about that?”

 

“I don’t know, I couldn’t hear him!” Harry chuckled.  “Alright, so perhaps it was a bit harsher of a rejection than in the past, but he was practically inviting himself over.”

 

“Perhaps he was desperate to get you onboard with his plan, and knew time was short.”

 

“Perhaps.” Harry hadn’t given much thought to the exchange until now. To any of his exchanges with Cyril, really. It only irritated him to think about his clueless admirer, though now he was starting to regret that he hadn’t paid more attention. Perhaps there had been a sign, something he might have caught if he’d thought to look closer…

 

“Stop that,” Draco admonished, flicking him lightly on the ear.

 

“Stop what?” Harry grumbled, rubbing the spot. Beatrix hissed a note of protection. Harry soothed her with a finger pet on the head.

 

“Overthinking. You couldn’t have known he was anything other than an incompetent stalker.”

 

“I guess,” Harry said, unconvincingly. “I’ll feel a lot better about it once we’ve stopped him. Or know what he’s actually doing. This whole thing could be an overreaction on my behalf.”

 

“Do you really think that?”

 

“No. But I’ll admit it if I’m wrong.” He sighed. “And I hope I’m wrong.”

 

They rounded the corner, Mrs. Frond’s yellow townhouse greeting them at the end of the lane. It was a relief to see it now, cheerful and bright as nothing else was in Gleyma. Harry had been hoping for a reason to come see her anyway, to convince her to leave with them if it came to that. He liked this plan better.

 

Even so, Harry got an uneasy feeling as they approached the house. Beatrix coiled tighter around his neck. Perhaps it was paranoia, or perhaps it was instinct, but something wasn’t right. It was dark—too dark. Normally Mrs. Frond watched the telly at this hour, but her front room was completely devoid of the flashing blue lights of some terrible soap opera.

 

Quietly, he pulled his wand out, comforted slightly by the sound of Draco doing the same without asking why. He remembered, then, that Draco wanted to be an auror. That Harry wanted that for him, too, and had for a while, even before all this. A tattoo, a mad mission…

 

Not a terribly convenient time to remember that, but a cold comfort that if they got out of this, Harry would have irrefutable proof of Draco’s proficiency in the role.

 

Harry had a standing invitation to let himself inside Mrs. Frond’s house, and for that he was grateful. There’s someone here, Beatrix hissed in his ear. Intruder. Caution.

 

He cast a silent homulus revelio in the dark house, unsurprised but anxious nonetheless about the red lights indicating an occupant in the sitting room.

 

“Extraordinary,” a deep voice called out. “I never fail to be impressed by magic.”

 

Harry and Draco turned their wands on the man sitting on the sofa—on Vivien’s sofa, that had been a gift from Armando Dippet himself.

 

“Now, boys, there’s no need for that. I’m just here to talk.”

 

He smiled in what Harry might have called a winsome way, had it been anyone else.

 

“Mr. Baas.”

Notes:

WELL. I hope you're all staying safe (or as safe as possible) during this pandemic. The world has changed a lot since I started this fic. I'm sorry this chapter wasn't exactly *relaxing*, but I hope it was satisfying! (and frustrating. Sorry for all the bickering...)

First of all, let me say thank you to everyone who gave their condolences over my cat. Thank you also for your kindness and patience in waiting for the end of this story. The next chapter is the penultimate, so this mystery isn't quite wrapped up yet. I'll save my more heartfelt comments for the end, BUT I just wanted to acknowledge here that I'm really grateful to you all for not giving up on me and Cosmic Latte.

This chapter was the hardest one to write yet. There exist about 15 different versions of it. Writing conflict between people who care about each other is hard, especially when they're both right in their own way. Things have to get worse before they can get better, to say the least. I know some might be frustrated with the lack of progress this chapter, but I wanted to portray an honest depiction of these characters, frustrating human flaws included.

As always, I'm on tumblr if you want to chat @noir-renard

Thank you for reading, for your kudos, comments, and subscriptions!!

Chapter 20: Like Boiling A Lobster

Summary:

The gang gets an offer they can't refuse from an unexpected party. Or can they refuse? Like, is that an option? Asking for a friend.

Notes:

well it's the penultimate chapter, folks. Hold onto your hat!

 

content warning: body horror; blood; blood magic; implied elder abuse
please heed the warnings, I really really mean it.
You know that thing they say about not wanting to know what sausages are made of? Yeah.

Harry and Draco stumbled back through the town without hardly exchanging another word. If Draco didn’t know him better, he’d say Harry was in shock. As it stood, Draco suspected Harry was thinking of a plan. That, or of every way he could exact justice. It had taken every diplomatic skill Draco possessed to get Harry to agree to go back and explain everything to Hermione and Ron instead of charging off after Cyril and The Old Man immediately.

 

Just as they entered the woods, Harry punched a tree. Rather on-brand of him. As was the cursing that followed when the bark proved to be tougher than even his Auror-and-coffee strengthened fists.

 

"Why is it always old white men who hold and withhold all the answers?" he spat.

 

It didn't sound like he expected an answer, which Draco was grateful for, because he didn’t have one.

 

"I should have known better," Harry continued, “than to hope something could go right for once.”

 

"To be fair, you didn't even know your own name," Draco offered. "Blaming yourself won't help any."

 

Harry growled under his breath and continued his angry trek through the woods, clenching his (still bleeding) fists.

 

“You’re back!” Ron said cheerfully as Harry threw open the tent flap and stormed into the living area, Draco close behind him.

 

“We were beginning to worry. You were gone a while,” said Hermione, then she frowned. “Where is Amos’ mother? Is that a snake around your neck, Harry? Good lord, are you bleeding? What on earth happened out there?”

 

“He took her,” Harry grit out, fists clenched so tightly more blood oozed out. “That slimy bastard took her!”

 

“Who?” asked Ron, brow furrowed.

 

“Cyril,” Harry spat. “He’s taken Mrs. Frond as some kind of—collateral, conduit—” he cut himself off with a hiss of pain from clenching his (still) bruised and (still) bleeding fist.

 

“Well, shit,” Ron surmised.

 

“That’s not all,” Draco informed them. Harry, clearly, was too distraught to be very forthcoming with the full picture at the moment. “The Old Man—Mr. Baas, that is—has offered us a deal. Well, a request, really, with a reward.”

 

Ron squinted. “Mr. Baas as in Cyril and Queenie’s father-slash-uncle?”

 

“I really wish you would stop phrasing it that way,” said Hermione. “I’m getting Fire and Ice flashbacks.”

 

“Yes,” Harry hissed, “That Mr. Baas. Though that’s not his real name. And technically, he’s their great-uncle, not that it matters.”

 

Ron and Hermione exchanged a nervous look.

 

“I’m going to need one of you to tell me the story from the beginning. Where did you see him? How did he know where to find you? And why do you have a snake, Harry?”

 

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. “This is Beatrix. She’s my pet. A rescue.”

 

“Beatrix?” Ron repeated, wrinkling his nose.

 

Hermione, unexpectedly, softened. “Like Beatrix Potter?”

 

Harry smiled, weak but genuine. “Yeah. We picked her up en route to Mrs. Frond’s.” He sighed, stroking a finger on her wedge-shaped head. It seemed to calm him some, but not enough. “I was worried Cyril might try to do something to her. He never liked Beatrix…” Harry grimaced, obviously still blaming himself.

 

“Great, so you have two snakes now,” Ron mumbled, casting a quick glance at Draco. “What happened with The Old Man?”

 

“What did he say?” Hermione pressed, focusing her attention on Draco.

 

“Well, it’s all a rather long story if you ask me, but the long and short of it is he wants us to rescue Vivien, and in exchange he’ll give us the missing pieces of the Net,” Draco explained.

 

“Surely that’s not all,” said Ron, “Cos’ obviously we’d rescue her anyway.”

 

“He also wants us to give him control of the wards,” Harry growled.

 

“Oh. Well, we can’t do that, obviously,” said Hermione.

 

“Obviously,” Draco agreed, “Only, he said he’d help us take down the wards from the outside and give us the key to solving the puzzle, the way to get out of here…he’d give us everything.”

 

Ron snorted. “And why should we trust him?”

 

“Well,” Draco hedged, glancing over at Harry, “Because apparently he and Mrs. Frond are married?” 

 

Hermione and Ron exchanged baffled looks.

 

“Yes, that was my reaction as well,” Draco said mildly. 

 

“I’m going to need you to explain that for me,” said Ron.

 

Harry jumped into action. “I’m going after him.”

 

“Which one?” said Ron, while at the same time Hermione said, “What? No!” 

 

“Cyril. Do you know what he’s going to do with her?” he switched his wand to his left hand, healing the busted one, before striding towards the tent flap. Of course he was ambidextrous.

 

"We would if you'd bloody well tell us!" Ron mumbled, following closely behind.

 

Harry didn't respond, didn't stop moving. “We shouldn’t have waited, shouldn’t have come back here. He’s had her all this time, and now he’s—” he cut himself off with a growl.

 

“Harry, wait!” Hermione called after him, following him through the tent. “Think this through!”

 

He rounded on her. “We’ve done nothing but sit around and think! I tried doing it your way, being logical and trying to puzzle our way through this calmly, and it’s gotten us nowhere but knee-deep in shit! The whole reason I came here is for that bloody thing. If I can get it from him—”

 

“Don’t you think he knows the Net is what you’re after?” she pressed. “This could very well be a trap.”

 

“Actually, I’d say this has ‘trap’ written all over it,” Ron opined.

 

Harry’s jaw clenched. “That’s just a chance I’m going to have to take!”

 

“Mate,” Ron pleaded, “you’re smarter than this!”

 

“I can’t lose anyone else!” Harry shouted.

 

No one said anything, the only sound the falling of rain and far-off roar of the ocean.

 

Draco approached Harry slowly, not caring about the rain soaking through his coat. “Harry, you won’t lose her. Vivien’s not in any immediate danger, alright? That’s what the Old Man said.”

 

Harry's jaw worked. “And if he was lying? Or worse—wrong?”

 

“How many of the ward lights were still up, last you checked?” Draco asked, glancing back towards Ron and Hermione, both thoroughly soaked now.

 

“There were six still up, last I checked. That was about five minutes before you got back,” said Ron.

 

“See? We still have time,” Draco said. 

 

“Half of the wards are down already,” Harry protested. “The more he takes down, the weaker they’ll be. And if the wards drop, and dementors surround the town, and there aren't enough of us to stop them—”

 

“We only got this far with their help. I only got this far with their help.” Draco squeezed Harry’s hand, hoping it would be enough to convince Harry. That he would be enough to convince Harry. “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to do this by yourself.” 

 

Harry hesitated, gripping Draco’s hand back.

 

Draco pushed a little more. “Let’s at least tell them what the Old Man said, alright? We can be quick about it.”

 

The tension seemed to dig its claws into Harry’s shoulders before he slumped, nodding. “Ok. Let’s—you have a pensieve, don’t you?”

 

Hermione nodded, looking teary. “It’s in the kitchen.”

 

“Then let’s go. A woman’s life hangs in the balance.”

 

---

 

The memory began exactly as Harry remembered it. Which made sense. It was his memory, after all.

 

It was strange, standing there next to Draco, and Ron, and Hermione, watching his past self and past Draco stand dumbfounded in front of Vivien's sofa bearing The Old Man. Harry had never watched his own memories like this. It was…uncomfortable. Like being a ghost in your own life.

 

“Mr. Baas,” Past-Harry spit out. Present Harry wondered if he always looked this frightening when he was angry.

 

The Old Man nodded to the both of them, cordial and polite as always.

 

“Where is Vivien?” Draco asked, decidedly less cordial.

 

“Not here,” said Mr. Baas.

 

“Yeah, no shit,” Harry growled. “Where. Is. she?”

 

Mr. Baas sighed, expression troubled. “She’s not in immediate danger, don’t worry. That’s why I’m here. I’ve been waiting for you, Harry.”

 

"Oh. That's ominous," said Ron. It helped Harry relax, a bit. Maybe he could pretend this was just a film they were watching together…that was something they used to do, wasn't it? Before all this?

 

Harry grunted. One thing that could be said about The Old Man was that he had unwavering respect for the names people chose to call themselves. However, it did not escape Harry’s notice that The Old Man had dodged the question. “You knew I would come?”

 

He shrugged, an affable grin fixed on his face. Past-Harry was too focused on wondering where Vivien was to notice it, but now Harry could see the Old Man looked decidedly nervous. Tired. Weary, but determined.

 

Harry couldn’t decide whether that improved his opinion of the man or not.

 

“I hoped you would. When we found Cosmic Latte closed, and the desk gone, and Queenie missing…figured you had something to do with it. Cyril said the wards around the shop were messed up, so. Had to be someone with magic, right? Didn’t know what your plan was, taking the desk with the ward controls. And Queenie. Not leaving any of her blood.” His face did something complicated, emotions too fleeting for Harry to process, even now with distance. If Harry didn’t know better, he’d call it gratitude, maybe.

 

“Thought you might come back for here for Vivien, though. Escape with her maybe. I know you care about her. Help her like no one else can. I’ve been grateful for that…” he trailed off, expression unreadable in the dark. Then again, he wasn’t easy to read even under the best lighting conditions.

 

“Cyril has her, doesn’t he?” Draco asked darkly.

 

The Old Man grimaced, which was enough of an answer for Harry. He trained his wand on the Old Man. “Start talking. Now.”

 

“All in due time. I do intend to tell you everything, if you’ll indulge me my story. It’s not too long, don’t worry; we don’t have time for that. I have a proposition for you.” He leaned forward, wrinkled face smiling but desperate. “Help me, and I’ll give you what you want. The key to get out of here, the locations of the remaining anchors for the Net, a way to take down the wards keeping all of us trapped here.”

 

“Remaining anchors?” Harry pressed. It had seemed the easiest thing to address out of everything he said, Harry remembered thinking that.

 

He tossed something to Harry, who caught it easily.

 

"Nice catch," said Ron.

 

"Seeker’s reflexes," Hermione commented.  

 

That's right, Harry thought, I have those.

 

It was a roof shingle, covered in a green-blue patina copper. “What is this?”

 

“It’s one of the anchors. A common object, as you can see. You won’t find the others if you don’t know what they are. You can tear this town apart brick by brick and you still won’t find them. If there’s still a town around to tear apart. If you’re still around to look.”

 

"We already found the room full of objects inside the desk," Past Draco said. "Try again."

 

The Old Man shook his head. "Sounds like you found the altar. That's just a directory of who the Net protects. The anchors are what roots the Net to Gleyma, understand?"

 

Past Harry pocketed the shingle, intending to examine it later. He pulled it out now. It just looked like a normal roof tile. Old, somewhat precious, perhaps. But utterly ordinary. “Why? Why give us an anchor? Why tell us any of this?”

 

“A show of good faith,” he said easily. "Besides, that anchor has already been unmoored by Cyril. Won't do any good staying where it was before."

 

The silence after that declaration was a palpable now as it had been in the moment. Heavy, dense, irrefutable.

 

Draco’s grip on his wand tightened. “You say you want our help. What’s the catch?”   

 

“There’s no catch at all. You just have to make me the Custodian of the Wards, for a little while.”

 

Past-Harry laughed. It sounded bitter, acrid. Harry didn't like it. He didn't like this image of himself. He couldn't remember being like this in the past. 

 

Then again, much of his past still remained a mystery to him. “And why would we do that?”

 

“Because we want the same things, you and me. At least, I assume we do, since you’re here. You came back for Viv.”

 

Harry watched his past self share a look with Draco. Even now, they really didn’t have time for this, but…what alternative did they have?

 

Draco frowned, like he was working out one of his morality puzzles. “Viv? As in Vivien ?” he tutted, dissatisfied with how the pieces weren’t lining up. “Why do you care what happens to her?”

 

Unexpectedly, The Old Man smiled at that. Fondly. “You don’t know my real name, do you?”

 

Harry tried not to feel embarrassed. He reminded himself it wasn't his fault he hadn't known. That it wouldn't have made a difference even if he had known. “Everyone always called you the Old Man. It’s Mr. Something Baas, isn’t it?” It's not as though he'd ever bothered to introduce himself in the past. Not that Harry could remember, anyway. An uncomfortable theme in his life as of late.

 

The Old Man shook his head. “Not exactly—”

 

"Alright, so it’s Mr. Something-Unsuitably-Pretentious, then," Draco interrupted, impatient.

 

"Aye, my given name is unsuitably pretentious, among other problems. I suppose everyone forgot my original name, which is just as well. Ceridwen Baas is better off forgotten. If I have anything to be grateful for, it’s that no one remembers that name or the girl it belonged to." He smiled.

 

“Did he just tell you his dead name?” Ron whispered loudly. “Why would he do that?”

 

Harry had been wondering the same thing, really. “A show of trust, I suppose.”

 

“Or a trick,” Hermione said slowly, “though I doubt it, in my experience you don’t share that sort of thing with just anyone.”

 

"Everyone, shush," Draco chided.

 

The Old Man continued, "The name I chose instead—Cuithbrig, if you can believe it—suited me no better, but in time I came to choose another, though Viv is the one who picked it out." He sat up straight as he could on the sofa, looking years younger for the effort. "My name is Roger."

 

Harry thought he heard Past-Draco make a soft noise of surprise. Or perhaps protest. He'd missed it the first time around, for the ringing in his ears.

 

"Roger?" Past-Draco said softly. "Vivien's Roger?"

 

"The very same."

 

Past Harry and Draco said nothing.

 

Ron said, “Alright, even though you told us before, I’ll admit, I didn’t see that coming.”

 

“None of us did,” said Harry, while past Draco noted, "Everyone said you died."

 

Past Harry found his voice, then. "Why? Why did you leave her? She's been all alone here, confused, lost—"

 

"Well, I don't look how I did fifteen years ago, do I? She forgot who I was—who I am. It frightened her, waking up next to a strange old man claiming to be her husband. I couldn’t keep doing that to her. The kinder thing was to leave, let her think I was gone. In her mind, I'd already left her, anyhow. As for everyone else thinking me dead…" he sighed, looking incredibly sad. "They didn't remember Ceridwen, or Cuithbrig, and no one ever really took to calling me Roger except for Viv. They barely remembered who I was at all, especially after Queenie took over the wards. Why do you think everyone calls me The Old Man?"

 

“Because there's no one older in Gleyma?” Ron whispered to Hermione. She nudged him playfully and didn’t comment.

 

“So you’re the infamous Roger Frond.”

 

“We’re both Frond-Baas, actually,” the Old Man said fondly. “Frond was Viv’s family name. She took it up again after her first husband died…she said she always regretted not hyphenating the first time and wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. I was happy to go along with it. I never liked being a Baas much. She was helpful with the children, though I’d already half-spoiled them by the time she came into the picture. She knew far more about raising children and children with magic, naturally. She also thought Queenie was incredible. She told her all about Hogwarts, and Gringotts, and the world outside Gleyma. The world all of us should have been a part of. I'd never really given it much thought, before Viv. Living and dying in Gleyma was just what everyone in Gleyma did."

 

He sighed, fiddling with something in his pocket. "That wasn't good enough for Viv. She was determined to break the curse, get us all out of here. That was what she did for a living, before coming here. Breaking curses. She always liked puzzles." He sighed. "I did try to get her to leave, you know. I didn't want her getting stuck here like the rest of us, once I understood how stuck we truly are. That staying was never a choice. Rather, that leaving was never an option. But she wouldn't hear of it. Said she was staying until we were free, and that was that. No use arguing. I never won any argument against her, anyway."

 

Harry had missed it before, how affectionate The Old Man sounded when he spoke of Viven. He'd been too focused on how he'd never heard the Old Man say so much at once before, that of all the things to wax on about, it was his love for a woman who couldn't recognize him.

 

"We worked tirelessly for years, going over texts, analysing charts…she was the one who figured out that the real test was the puzzle. She was the one who helped me find all the runic circles. Who thought to investigate zodiacs, astrological charts…she knew members of the Black family from school and society. Called them a bunch of ‘star fanatics’. And she was right.”

 

Roger laughed.

 

“She was right about it all. It took us years, but together, we worked out the key to leaving. But by then, she already knew memories are fickle things here in Gleyma. Still, she was cleverer than me by half.  She figured out people here don’t forget their daily habits. She told me I had to commit the path to memory, Roger, one that won’t fail you. Muscle memory’. She told me that every day, and every day we walked the path. All around town, tracing the circuit for leaving. Sometimes twice a day, just to be sure it stuck. Of course, you can’t just walk out. It’s a rotating key, and it only unlocks the way out if the path is activated.”

 

“How do you activate it?” Past Draco asked at nearly the same time as Hermione.

 

Roger smiled. “You need four people with the right kind of magic. That’s all I’ll say for now—if all goes to plan, I’ll explain the rest later.”

 

“Later?” Draco asked. “Why can’t you explain now?”

 

“Because time is short, lad, and I can only buy so much time before Cyril gets suspicious. This is our only chance to talk.”

 

“We haven’t agreed to anything yet,” Harry pointed out.

 

“And I won’t know if you will until it’s too late,” Roger agreed. “But I can’t leave again. Cyril needs to believe I am one hundred percent on his side, as I always have been. He won’t suspect me. In fact, he sent me out to find you, Harry. To bid your cooperation one last time. The ritual works best with willing participants, after all, so he won’t force you to come.”

 

"Ritual?" Draco pressed. "What ritual? I thought Cyril only wanted to take control over the wards. An inheritance challenge." It was a bluff, a clever search for more information. Or at least, confirmation of what they already suspected.

 

"That's only a prerequisite for what he's really planning."

 

"What is he planning?" Harry demanded. "And what makes him think this time will be any different than the last hundred times he’s asked?” Past Harry said with a scoff.

 

Harry, watching this again, shook with fury.

 

“Leverage.” Roger gestured to the house.

 

"What the hell is Cyril doing?" Past Harry pressed. "You said she wasn't in any danger!"

 

"Not immediate danger," Roger confirmed. "As long as you show up to help Cyril with the next part of his plan."

 

No one said anything, past or present.

 

"It’s my fault,” he confessed, breaking the silence. “I shouldn’t have helped him. I…I always saw myself in Cyril. The younger brother, the less talented one, the romantic.”

 

Harry snorted at this. Cyril was about the farthest thing from romantic Harry could imagine.

 

“All he wanted was to read some books,” the Old Man continued. “Queenie would go on and on about her magic, and Cyril could only listen and hope that one day, he’d have the same. I knew what that was like. But my brother shared the books with me. Queenie did not do the same for Cyril. 

 

“Of course, Queenie has what neither I nor my brother had: real magical talent. She saw no reason to share when no one else could use the knowledge. She was hungry. Reckless. Ruthless. But she was not always so…unkind. Perhaps…it’s my fault she’s like this. I indulged her too much as a child. I understood some of what her life would be like, and I wanted her to have better. Her and Cyril both.

 

“Their parents died when she was still young. Too young. And my brother was gone before she ever knew him. She had no one who could really tell her anything. No aunts or grandmothers, either. The only family they had left my me. I never had children of my own. Never got around to it. I was already old by the time they came into my care, and I…I just wanted them to have a better life than any other Baas. Not a terribly high bar, given the givens, but even so, overcoming an ancient curse intent on making you suffer isn’t easily done. And when Queenie’s magic showed up…well. No one in living memory had ever had magic before. I was in over my head. So I let her read the books, develop her skills. Encouraged her as much as I could, all while trying not to leave her brother by the wayside or let the town fall into disrepair. It’s not easy, maintaining magical wards without a lick of magic yourself. Like driving with a foggy windscreen…” he sighed, looking exhausted.

 

“Before Viv came, I didn't encourage Queenie to think too much about leaving. But I indulged her, I admit. Let her believe she could escape this place, that one day a Black would show up to give her the test, let her escape. Hell, I thought if anyone could do it, it’d be her. I didn’t realize it gave her a bit of a complex until…well. Until too late, I reckon. There didn’t seem to be any harm to her ambition until there was. It came out in how she treated Cyril. Poor Cyril, who never wanted anything but to come along for the ride. Who believed he, too, would wake up with magic one day. He really admired his sister. But she didn’t have the time of day for him, so he picked a new hero.”

 

“Let me guess, Abnus Black?” Draco asked.

 

The Old Man nodded. “The very same. Cyril wasn’t too far off the mark, I imagine they were fairly similar. Both of them were the brother of more talented siblings. Abnus couldn’t use a wand, and neither can Cyril. Abnus had a knack for wards, and Cyril isn't too bad at it either, far as I could tell. Readin’ them, specifically. And I wanted to support him any way I could.”

  

“So you stole books for Cyril to read.” Past-Harry sighed.

 

Current Harry watched Roger, The Old Man, trying to understand. He’d overlooked him in all his months here in Gleyma. He’d always seemed unwilling to engage, too focused on whatever tasks he set himself. Technically Harry had been living under the same roof as the man the whole time, and he hadn't even known the man’s name.

 

“I didn’t steal them; I borrowed them," Roger continued. "Besides, at the time, I was in charge of keeping the wards, so the books were mine to do with as I pleased. Still. I only gave Cyril the books Queenie wasn’t interested in, anyway.”

 

“Like the books on group magic?” Draco surmised. “I imagine Cyril would have been very interested in those.”

 

The Old Man nodded. “Yes. I thought it was harmless to indulge his curiosity. He always said he was fine as he was. But when you arrived, Harry…something in him changed. Not that it’s your fault. But I suppose it gave him hope.”

 

“It gave him options, you mean,” Draco corrected.

 

“Queenie wasn’t going to try group magic with him,” Past-Harry said. Harry, now, remembered now all the ploys Cyril had tried to get Harry to spend time with him. He remembered with some satisfaction how disappointed Cyril had been when he first realized Harry didn’t remember anything about having magic, much less how to use it.

 

“He became fixated. I did try to stop him, to direct his energy elsewhere, but I couldn’t watch him every hour of every day. Especially not around the Work.”

 

Harry exchanged a sceptical glance with Draco.

 

“The Work?”

 

The Old Man smiled. “The walking, memorizing the routes, working on the puzzle. Trying to make life in Gleyma better, if only by inches. I think I did alright, all things considered. Suffice to say the mind is weak, but the body remembers. I couldn’t count on the things I might forget, especially after I was no longer the custodian of the wards. 

 

“In any case, you’re a capable lad, Harry. I didn’t think Cyril would be able to force you to do anything you didn’t want to do, especially—”

 

“What’s any of this got to do with Vivien?” Past-Draco cut in. Harry heard his present self huff in frustration. Harry reached out a hand to squeeze Draco’s hand.

 

The Old Man looked only mildly irritated at being interrupted. “The rituals Cyril was interested in can be completed with a minimum of two individuals, as long as said individuals have more magical capability than he or I. I assumed anyone else would need to be a willing participant. But I never read the books as obsessively as Cyril. Or Queenie for that matter—”

 

The Old Man sighed. “I didn’t realize how bad his fixation had gotten. I should have been paying more attention. I see that now. But I was too short-sighted, too focused on my own goals. And later, my own misery. He came to me in a fit yesterday, said he was done playing nice, especially because he suspected the newcomers had something to do with you.”

 

Ron and Hermione flinched, though their guilt was misplaced, in Harry’s opinion. It’s not as though any of them could have predicted this.

 

“He said it was time for drastic action. I didn’t realize what he meant until it was too late.” He fixed Harry (past Harry) with that strange, cold stare. “I cannot fix this, nor can I stop him. I need your help, or we are all lost.”

 

“What’s he doing to her? What the hell is this ritual?” Past Harry demanded, stepping forward and balling Roger’s shirt in his fist.

 

He stood up, slowly, defiantly. “I’ve told you, he idolized Abnus Black. Sees himself as the spiritual successor to his cause. But Cyril wants to do the one thing Abnus never managed,” Roger paused, staring up at Harry, whose face was frozen in horrified understanding. “He wants to get his magic back.”

 

“Why does he need Vivien to do that?” Past Draco whispered.

 

“He needs an anchor, but more importantly he needs magic to draw from. First, to take down the wards. And once the wards are down, and he's installed himself as the Custodian…he wants to liberate Gleyma and make it a new haven in his image.” 

 

“He wants to be a hero,” said Draco.

 

“He wants glory, aye. He thinks no one will want to leave once he ‘pays off Gleyma’s debt’. An ultimate act of sacrifice to bring about the apotheosis of his soul.” Roger shook his head. "As much as this place is a prison, he can't help but to love it, in a twisted way. I understand, I think. It's the only home we've ever known. Why wouldn't we want to save it?"

 

“He’s just going to get himself killed, and everyone here along with him!” Harry released Roger, stepping back in disgust. “There is no way to get magic back,” he hissed. “It’s not stolen in the first place—”

 

“I know that! This isn’t about facts, it’s about his delusions!” Roger exhaled heavily, placing a hand on his brow. “To be honest, I don’t fully understand what his ritual will actually do. I only know it requires a debt collector and someone with magic to assist him. Viv is…not as strong as she used to be. Her mind is addled, her body is frail, and her magic has sustained heavy damage from her time spent here. A willing anchor is best,” Roger explained, “but all he needs is someone magical. And Viv is plenty magic enough for his ritual.”

 

“So he forced her—”

 

“No. She went willingly.” He squeezed his hands together, grief warring with anger. “He told her he was there to escort her to the Memorial Remembrance Ball.”

 

“The memory she gets stuck in?” Hermione asked, voice falling. 

 

“Yes,” Draco said.

 

“What do you want?” Past-Draco asked, voice cool and cutting.

 

Roger ignored Draco, focusing on Harry. “You’re a smart lad. I’m sure you know what I’m asking you for.”

 

“You want me to volunteer myself to Cyril’s cause,” past-Harry said neutrally.

 

Ron and Hermione stared at current Harry with fear and outrage. “Harry, you aren’t seriously going to—”

 

“Listen,” he hissed, gesturing to the scene. There was a reason they’d gone to the trouble of watching the memory instead of just explaining it.

 

“There’s a reason he wants you, Harry,” Roger continued, “the heir to the Black Family, a powerful wizard in your own right, and if you come, he’ll have no reason to keep using Viv—now I’m not saying you should actually go along with it, he just needs to think you will. That’s half of why he took Viv in the first place.”

 

“Leverage,” Harry said bitterly.

 

“You realize this looks incredibly suspect?” Draco said. "You've admitted Cyril sent you here to find Harry. This could all be an elaborate—ploy."

 

"Do I strike you as the type to set up elaborate ploys?" Roger asked. He turned to Harry. “You’re a Gryffindor, aren’t you?”

 

Past Harry narrowed his eyes. Even now, he still didn't fully understand what it meant. Telling him he had gone to a school he didn't remember was as useful as telling him about his childhood home, which he also did not remember. “What makes you say that?”

 

“Viv told me about the houses of your school. She said she always picked yellow because she’s a Hufflepuff. You always pick red. She told me Gryffindors are stubborn, rush in, and have hero complexes.”

 

“Not all of us,” Hermione huffed.

 

“He’s got you pegged,” Past Draco said, “but that’s why Gryffindors have Slytherin friends. To keep them from doing something stupid.”

 

“You’re a Slytherin, are you?” Roger eyed Draco critically. “You think you’re incapable of making stupid choices? When you came back here?”

 

Both past and present Draco flushed. “I—that’s not—”

 

“I know I’m asking for a lot. But I don’t have anyone else to ask. Time has run out.”

 

“How can we trust you have a plan to escape?” Harry asked. “How can we believe anything you say?”

 

“You have Queenie squirrelled away somewhere, don’t you? She can corroborate my story. At least, the parts about my identity.”

 

“Maybe we already have a plan,” Harry countered. “Maybe we already have a way out of here.”

 

Roger smiled. “Aye, maybe you have a plan, I’ll give you that. But however you think you’re getting out, you won’t. Not with all pieces of yourself present and accounted for.” He tapped his temple knowingly. “I don’t think you’d risk all that on a whim, either. Besides, if you were willing to leave without the Net, you’d have done so already. You came here for a reason, and you intend to see it through, don’t you? I won’t tell you how to take the Net if you won’t help. Take it or leave it, lads.”

 

“You’d just give away your only protection like that?” Draco questioned, having recovered somewhat. “Leave all of Gleyma vulnerable to the—what do you call them? Debt Collectors?”

 

“Of course not. But we’re going to be dealing with them one way or another, given that Cyril has started taking down the wards and he can’t be stopped until he’s finished. Ah, but you have a plan for the debt collectors, don’t you? You Slytherins always do.”

 

“He’s good,” Ron said, sounding almost impressed.

 

“What do you mean, we’ll have to deal with them, one way or another?” Draco asked, ignoring the latter half of Roger’s statement.

 

“I meant what I said. You can’t interrupt what Cyril’s doing right now. He’s inside the Church, sealed off himself and Viv from outside interference. Ah, but you knew that, didn’t you?”

 

“We assumed,” Draco admitted.

 

“I’m sure we could find a way to stop him,” Harry said. “We’re the ones with the wands.”

 

“So you are. But even debt collectors can’t get in once the doors are sealed. You think you have any chance? Without risking Viv’s life?”

 

Neither of them responded.

 

“That’s what I thought.”

 

“Say we go along with this. Trick Cyril, save Vivien, get rid of the dementors. How does that help us escape? Why do you need to be the Custodian?”

 

"Well, it's not a condition of mine, understand. I just won't be able to do anything if I'm not linked more intrinsically to the wards. The magic won't work."

 

"Oh, really? Then—"

 

"You'll have to forgive me, lads. I can't explain the why or what of it. I didn't get educated at Magical Eton like you. I just know it needs to be someone from my family, and neither Queenie nor Cyril are capable or willing."

 

"I'm from the family, technically," Harry pointed out. "So is Draco."

 

Roger scowled. "If you had the right…qualifications, you wouldn't be in this predicament. And before you ask, Mr. Malfoy, you can't do it either. It's about blood, bond, and magic. That's all I know." He rested a hand solemnly over his heart. "It has to be me."

 

Past Harry eyed him warily. He felt Draco come up behind him, not quite touching, but a supportive presence, nonetheless. Watching it a second time wasn't any easier than the first.

 

Roger, it seemed, decided that was all he had time to say.

 

"I've told you my story, thank you for indulging an old man. If you decide to help me, help Viv, then come to the Church at Midnight. Bring your best acting skills, I suppose. Maybe your friends, assuming those outsiders really did come here for you. Otherwise…well. Good luck with whatever doomed plan you choose instead. I hope you’ll make the right choice.”

 

He walked out without waiting for a response, disappearing into the fog with a certainty borne of years of familiarity as the memory dissolved and the four of them pulled their minds from the pensieve.

 

"Well," said Ron, "shit."

 

— — — 

 

“Well,” Hermione began, “this is certainly not ideal.”

 

“Understatement of the century, that.” Ron blew a raspberry. “Do we really have to let Cyril finish taking down the wards? Like, is that our only option? Risk killing an old woman or risk letting her die in some ritual and letting a whole horde of dementors inside?”

 

“You forgot the part where the only person we can ask to corroborate is a known pathological liar,” said Draco.

 

“And a narcissist,” added Harry.

 

“Not to mention that we have to come up with a plan for stopping Cyril on our own, should we choose to go along with this daft plan that is almost certainly a trap.”

 

“To be fair, he did admit he knew how it looked," said Ron. "And that he wants us to trick Cyril.”

 

“He also doesn’t know what Cyril is trying to do, exactly, or so he claimed. If I just knew what ritual he was attempting—whether it was truly viable or not—”

 

“Either way, we can’t just let Harry go up there,” Hermione said decisively. "Because whether he was lying about his intentions or not, what he wants Harry to do is the same, and I can't trust that."

 

“Last I checked,” Harry grit out, “I am the one who decides what I will and won’t do.”

 

“We have time, right?” Draco interrupted. “To figure it out. Together, ” he added, casting a knowing look at Harry and Hermione both.

 

“We have two hours until midnight,” Harry corrected. “But it’s pointless to make a decision about trusting him when we haven’t done any basic fact checking.”

 

Draco nodded and looked at Hermione. “Well, it seems there’s only one thing we can do. We have to ask Queenie if he is who he says.”

 

“Even if we do ask her, and she tells us the truth, and we believe her—lots of ifs, might I point out—one part of his story being true doesn’t mean the rest is,” she said.

 

“Honestly, if he really is married to Vivien, it makes the rest. Well. Make sense,” said Ron.

 

“Our original plan has fallen apart,” Draco countered. "We won't be able to use the seven person method without Vivien."

 

“Yes, our 'plan', if you can call it that, for defeating the dementors—which it seems is going to be an imminent problem for us—has fallen through. And if you recall, our back-up plan for if our plan fell through—which is has—was that Harry would tell us the way he and his team originally got rid of the dementors, but until he remembers or feels like sharing—”

 

“I’m right here, you know,” Harry interjected. Even though he’d said it, he didn’t feel fully there. He felt somewhere behind and slightly to the left of himself. Like watching a pensieve memory as it was unfolding for the first time.

 

Hermione took a deep, bracing breath. “Well, then, Harry. Have you remembered? Will you tell us, finally, what happened with the dementors?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth to argue before Harry’s words caught up with her. She didn’t seem to know what to do with compliance. “Oh. Really?"

 

Harry nodded, but didn’t look at her.

 

"Did you know they can speak?"

 

Draco, Ron, and Hermione exchanged troubled looks. They weren't trying to hide it, exactly, but Harry felt excluded, nonetheless.

 

It was an unhelpful sentiment in this moment, however.

 

"Given their origins, it's not surprising," Draco offered.

 

Hermione picked up a quill, fiddling with it absentmindedly. "I always assumed they must be able to communicate somehow, given everything that…happened."

 

Ah. More Things Harry Didn’t Remember. "What we—what my team did back then, to destroy the Dementors…I don't think we can repeat it here. I don't want to," he clarified. "Now that I know what they are…” he sighed. Talking about this was harder than he’d imagined it would be. There was a reason he’d buried it deep in his heart and refused to tell anyone what had happened. It left a blight on his very soul. Regardless, he had to tell them, if only to stop them from attempting it.

 

He continued, “It felt wrong back then. And now I'm certain it is."

 

“Surely it can't be that bad," Draco hedged, tone conveying he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

 

Harry didn't blame him. It was that bad. Worse. "We didn't realize they could speak until…" Harry shook his head. "They were screaming, I think. I remember someone saying…Dawlish, probably…He kept saying not to let it get to us. That it was like boiling lobsters. Steam through the shell, nothing more." They can't scream, they don’t feel pain, and even if they can, what does it matter?

 

“Lobsters don’t scream,” said Hermione, a wrinkle forming in her brow as she tried to puzzle out what Harry wasn’t saying. He wished she’d stop; he’d get there soon enough.

 

“No. But changes in water temperature are one of the few things they’re sensitive to.” Harry had looked it up, following the incident. It hadn’t made him feel better. He hadn’t been able to eat lobster since. “So really, boiling them alive is the cruellest thing you can do to them. If they could scream in boiling water, they would.”

 

Ron frowned. "Did you boil the dementors, Harry?" 

 

"No." It was all coming back now in vivid, horrifying detail. Why this should be one of the few memories he’d recovered felt like a cruel joke. On the other hand, it was a wonder to him that he ever forgot. "We burned them." He didn’t say ‘and they screamed’; he didn’t think he needed to. “We burned them until there was nothing left but a great black circle of ash and tar and—corruption.”

 

Even now, Harry knew exactly where the cursed plot lay hidden. Dawlish and Diggory and whoever the hell the head of the Department of Mysteries was had pooled resources to effectively delete the location off any map. It wasn’t quite a fidelius charm—nothing so pure would have taken to that horrible place. But no one save the ones who’d been there that day had any hope of finding it again. Not that he wanted to find it again.

 

"So you burned them,” Hermione said with a resolve that only seemed mostly forced. “Did you do it with fire? Acid? Incendio?" Hermione would probably list all of the burning methods she knew if Harry let her.

 

It was tempting. But he wasn't sure what would be worse: to hear her guess what they'd done, or for the thought to never occur to her because it was too unthinkable.

 

Better to just admit it then. For some reason, he'd never told them before. He'd kept it a secret. There was no question why, not really. But somehow, he had a feeling it was more about shame than anything else. That he didn't want their opinion of him to change because of it. 

 

But they needed to know now, even if Harry had resolved himself that he'd never do anything like it again. They needed to know, and if he didn't tell them now, when he couldn't remember whatever false idealized version of himself he didn't want to corrupt, he knew he'd never tell them.

 

"It was fiendfyre." 

 

There was no sound after his admission, save for the wind and rain pounding against the tent. Harry didn't blame them.

 

The silence was unbearable, however, and if he didn’t get it out now, get the confession over with— 

 

Well. It would keep doing what it had always done. Fester.

 

"It took a long time for them to burn. I didn't expect that. Maybe because they aren't entirely corporeal, or because they're more than corporeal…it just went on and on. And the voices, the screams—” he cut himself off, throat burning. Even now, he could taste the not-quite ash of burning despair. “I thought it would be instantaneous. It was a comfort, I suppose. Thinking they wouldn't suffer. If they even can suffer…well. I'm fairly certain that suffering is all they've ever felt, I suppose. Is the agony of the soul worse than that of the body?"

 

Harry chanced a look at them and wished he hadn't. Hermione had a hand over her mouth, and Ron was positively green.

 

And Draco…Draco's eyes had a glassy look to him, lips parted as if asleep.

 

"It gets worse," Harry promised, voice soft. It felt loud, regardless. "It was my idea."

 

Harry scratched at his scar, eyes cast to the floor. He couldn't bear to look at them anymore. It didn't escape his notice that none of them were rushing to reassure him or offer him any sort of comfort.

 

"I didn't think they'd consider my suggestion seriously. They didn’t take any of my other suggestions into consideration. So I just…threw it out there. Stupidly. I suppose I shouldn't have overestimated the moral fibre of Unspeakables."

 

"I was almost an Unspeakable," said Hermione. It was the first thing anyone had said since his confession.

 

"I'm glad you chose a different path. The Unspeakables…let's just say secrecy isn't the only reason no one talks about what they do."

 

He summoned a chair to sit down in, partially just because he could but also because he didn't want to get closer to them to fetch one, unsure of how they might feel about him at the moment. 

 

"Why? Why fiendfyre?"

 

Harry hadn't expected Draco to be the one to ask. Harry was fairly sure that Draco might be the only one who had ever seen him clearly. At least, without some kind of hopeful ideal cast over his actions.

 

Even now, there wasn’t quite judgement, or resentment. He did look haunted, however. An understandable sentiment.

 

“I haven’t quite remembered why I thought fiendfyre would work,” he began, too tired to be anything but honest, “but…somehow, I knew fiendfyre had destroyed something…something indestructible…and what is more indestructible than the very embodiment of fear itself?”

 

"What else did you try?" Draco asked. He was looking very pale, but still so beautiful. Harry hoped this wouldn’t change anything between them, but…well. Hope was a rare commodity.

 

 Ron nodded, ever encouraging. "Surely they didn't go straight for fiendfyre. Even Unspeakables aren’t that mad."

 

Harry sighed, closing his eyes. "I may have forgotten some of the details. My recollection is still fuzzy…"

 

It hurt to try to remember, like pushing a muscle to stretch beyond its flexibility.

 

Harry took a deep breath. The memories were there, he could sense them if he tried. Something so horrible could not—should not—be easily forgotten. “When we were doing raids on Death Eater safe houses, we found some documents outlining how Voldemort used to control the dementors, as neither he nor any of his followers could produce a Patronus.”

 

Draco’s shoulders shifted uncomfortably. Ron and Hermione were very pointedly not looking at him. 

 

“Snape mentioned it once, that there was a way other than a Patronus to counter dementors,” Ron mused. “Guess you finally learned what that was.”

 

“I’d rather not know,” Harry said honestly. “If anything, the notes we found only confirmed our working theory." 

 

"Which was?" Hermione pressed, eyes full of curiosity that, frankly, Harry resented in this moment. 

 

"Some of the Unspeakables on the team thought that because dementors can communicate to a degree and take direction, they must have a mind of some sort. And if they have a mind, they have a will. And if they had a will, then that will could be changed." Harry paused, taking a moment to gather himself. "Like I said, finding the documents only confirmed their suspicions. And they wanted to try it. Of course they did.” He laughed once, a bitter harsh sound. His mouth was dry, and he didn’t want to have this conversation— 

 

But they needed to know, he told himself. Keeping secrets hadn’t done him any favours, clearly. “The Death Eaters used imperio to control the dementors. So of course the Unspeakables wanted to try it, too.”

 

Hermione blinked, surprised, while Ron only sneered. Draco’s expression was carefully blank. This much, he’d known, Harry realized. Draco couldn’t produce a Patronus. That was the reason Harry had—

 

He felt a sharp pain at the back of his head, the attempt to remember too much for this moment.

 

“I don’t imagine it was difficult for Voldemort to get the dementors to do his bidding—they are attracted to dark magic," Harry rushed to say, worried now that if he stopped he'd never start again. "But we discovered through the Death Eater's…research notes that they prefer to feed on souls corrupted with dark magic. Whether that be their own corrupted magic or someone tortured by the dark magic of others didn't seem to matter much. Probably why they were so keen on guarding Azkaban.”

 

“Why wouldn’t they just try to suck the souls out of the Death Eaters, then?” Ron asked, darting a glance at Draco. “Wouldn’t that have been a temptation?”

 

Harry grimaced. “Given free reign, they probably would have. Hence the imperio.

 

“When we found the documents, there was great debate as to whether it was still unforgivable to use dark magic on dark creatures. I said it was. Others said it was justified. We argued about it for weeks, which really put a stall on progressing the case. They made good points, but…it just felt wrong. That wasn’t a good enough reason for the Unspeakables, though.” 

 

“Is that why you started reading philosophy?” Hermione asked, trying to suppress a smile. “To argue with Unspeakables?”

 

Harry shrugged, blushing a little. “Sounds like something I’d do. I believed—believe—that dark magic is harmful not only because of what it does to others, but what it does to the user. A spell that only exists to harm others is dark. The intent is what matters, and willingly embracing a spell that only does harm to the user and recipient wasn't the sort of thing I thought we should pursue. Especially since we were supposed to be reforming the Ministry, making it better. Robards, on the other hand, argued that if a creature’s will is only to do harm, then it is not only not dark magic to stop them, but it is our duty to do so at all costs, even if we have to use an unforgivable to do it. I tried to explain that I wasn’t against getting rid of the dementors, only the method used to do so, but no one was interested in my ‘boy who lived’ nonsense.”

 

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “In the end, one of the Unspeakables went behind our—well, my back, and attempted to imperio a dementor. She wasn’t concerned about what it might do to her mind, or her magic, or her soul. She was only curious about the outcome, to see what happened.” 

 

“What happened?” Ron, Hermione, and Draco asked in tandem. It warmed Harry somewhat, for reasons he couldn’t quite name. 

 

But still, the memory was a sobering one. “She ordered the dementor to never attack another person’s happiness ever again, and it worked, for a time. She had to release it after only a quarter hour. The dementors’ will to harm is too strong, and trying to counter it was having negative effects on her own mind and magical core.”

 

Harry paused again, both for his own composure and to give the others the chance to process. “The conclusion was that dementors could only have their will redirected, not changed, and only temporarily. You could tell them ‘harm these people, but not these people’, and they’d comply, but they wouldn’t listen to an order to never harm anyone ever again. I suppose it's similar to ordering someone to hold their breath underwater versus ordering them not to breathe.

 

“Prior to finding the documents, we'd been researching ways to purify them, or nullify their powers. But nothing we tried in that vein worked. A Patronus doesn’t destroy a dementor, it only stops it from feeding off you, and scares it away with positivity, or something. How do you destroy the personification of fear?” Harry looked down, ashamed of this next part more than anything. “I never considered they could be saved, not really. They’re dark creatures for a reason. Purified out of existence is really just a nice way to say ‘destroy’. 

 

“But we— I didn't think they were alive, exactly. I thought they were a manifestation of every bad emotion. Destroying that couldn't be wrong, no matter what it felt like. I mean, how do you even kill an idea?" He sighed. "They are something much worse than an idea, as it turns out. And now that I know there is something else we could have done, could have tried —" he cut himself off with a grimace. He glanced up at Ron and Hermione, before staring down at his hands again. “…but then I had a thought. I regret it now. I remember telling them that I had destroyed the darkest, foulest kind of magic known.”

 

“Blimey," Ron whispered, "the horcruxes?”

 

Draco paled at the word, looking between them with an expression of horror. “Horcruxes, plural?”

 

They were all quiet then, Harry for his lack of memory about what happened, and the others for what they did remember. Harry only remembered that he knew about horcruxes, not the specifics around them.

 

“I don’t think I ever told them about the horcruxes, only that it had something to do with Voldemort. The more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that what could destroy a horcrux could destroy a dementor. They’re both perversions of the soul, after all. Even if I didn't realize then how true that was. So I offered the information: basilisk venom and fiendfyre might work. If we could get them congregated in place, and if someone who knew how to control it could cast…so that’s what we did. If I’d known they were people —”

 

“They’re not people, Harry,” Draco said, taking Harry gently by the shoulders. “Not anymore.” 

 

“He’s right,” Hermione said softly. “If anything, they’d probably be grateful, Harry. You’re stopping them from hurting more people. It’s like inferi, or zombies—” 

 

“Or werewolves?” Harry said. “They don’t want to hurt people either, don’t mean to.” 

 

“It’s not the same!” Hermione insisted. “Werewolves are only dangerous one night a month, and with wolfsbane—” 

 

“But what if there’s something like wolfsbane for dementors? No one’s ever thought to find that kind of solution, because they didn’t know dementors were people! There was a time when the popular opinion was that all werewolves should be executed for the threat they posed.” 

 

“It’s not the same Harry,” Draco said firmly. “And even if werewolves were dangerous every moment of every day, it would be different still. Werewolves have a soul. They are not an abomination. Lycanthropy is a sickness. A great misfortune, certainly. But werewolves, on the full moon, do not have a mind. And if what you’ve told us is true, then dementors do have a mind. A mind filled with nothing but the will to harm.”

 

Hermione nodded in approval.

 

"It was still wrong. I knew it was, but I couldn't convince the others—" he sighed. “I as good as killed them.”

 

"Oh Harry,"  Hermione said tearfully, "you aren't a killer! They’re dark creatures. Former people at best—”

 

“I still can’t—it’s hard to think anything but that mine is a legacy of destruction,” Harry whispered. He didn’t remember who Voldemort was. Not exactly. But Harry knew he was responsible for his death. And it had been celebrated as a good thing, but it only made him feel tired and careworn. “I was conflicted about it before, but now that I know they were people once—people I knew, even—I just don’t know if I can condemn them to such an end. Even if they are beyond salvation.”

 

“I would want you to do it. If I were a dementor," Hermione said, strong. Defiant. 

 

“Me too,” said Ron, wrapping an arm around Hermione. 

 

They both looked at Draco expectantly. He swallowed. “I don’t know what I would want in that situation, Harry, because that wouldn’t be me . You said it yourself: dementors don’t want to do anything but hurt others.” 

 

“Because they themselves are hurting!” 

 

“That doesn’t make it forgivable.” 

 

“Of course it doesn’t, but—” 

 

“But nothing. You are too kind for your own good, Harry.”

 

Harry sighed. He wasn’t convinced but was too tired to argue. Apparently, he'd never be good at convincing anyone of anything. "Even if we go through with it, we still have the problem of finding a suitable location and enough people who can cast fiendfyre and control it." 

 

“I know the spell,” Draco said. “And the counter-curse.” 

 

“So do I,” said Hermione. “I looked it up after…well, after what happened last time.” 

 

Harry wondered, now, what exactly had happened last time. Clearly, all three of them knew and remembered. Did he even want to know? What could have happened that would make Hermione and Draco and possibly Ron look up the spell and counter-curse of such an obscure, terrible spell? "Have you ever tried to cast it? Ever tried to control it?"

 

They didn't answer, which was answer enough in itself. "It's not something you can just do. It takes something from you. It's not a normal fire, after all. We all had to take turns, you know, making sure no one cast it too long and burned themselves up from the inside in the process. If there's any other way to do it, no matter how slim the chances are, we have to take that chance." He gripped his shirt, feeling his heart beating rapidly. "Out of everything I forgot, the fiendfyre is the one thing I always remembered first. It's burned into me. I can't forget it. And I don't deserve to; no one who did such a thing deserves to forget it,”

 

“You didn’t know before, Harry," Hermione pleaded. "You can’t possibly hold yourself responsible for it.”

 

“Perhaps not,” he conceded, “But I know now.”

 

“Harry,” Hermione began in a way that might have sounded condescending.

 

“When you don’t know what’s right or wrong, make the choices you can live with. That’s what…Sirius told me that. I can’t live with this—”

 

He stopped, with a burst remembering Sirius. Sirius was the one who gave him his house. Grimmauld Place was all he had left of Sirius. It was why he’d done everything he’d done so far, why he’d come to this godforsaken place anyway.

 

“I can live with giving Queenie clemency in exchange for her assistance in purifying the dementors,” he said decisively. "I can live with pretending to help Cyril in order to save Vivien, and to get an attempt at releasing the curse that has everyone trapped here. What I can't live with is—" his voice cracked, a terrible sound. He hoped they understood, that he didn't have to spell it out for them.

 

“We don’t even know if it will work,” Hermione pointed out, eyes rimmed with regret.

 

“We have to try. That’s all I ask.” 

 

No one responded for a long moment. That was fine by Harry. 

 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Draco said at last. "Maybe once we break Gleyma's curse, the dementors will just…disappear, or something."

 

Harry smiled, a small, precious thing. It was sweet, hearing Draco trying to be an optimist about this.

 

“Yeah, Maybe," Harry offered. "Now that I’ve told you…do you see why we have to talk to Queenie?” his asked, voice dark and pleading. “I don’t like it any more than you do, but if Draco’s spell with seven casters could work…we have to try it. It’s the only path we have.”

 

Hermione stared at him for a long moment. “Harry…”

 

“You know what we need to do.” Draco stepped up next to Harry, taking his hand in a show of solidarity. It wasn’t a comfort Harry was expecting. Perhaps not one he deserved, either, but one he desperately needed. “It’s like you said: the dementor problem is coming for us, one way or another. I’m not exactly eager to unleash fiendfyre again, either…” he turned to Harry. “I did learn the counter-curse, though. I'm confident in that ability, at least.”

 

Hermione stared at him for a long minute before exhaling sharply. “I understand where you’re coming from, Harry, but there’s no point talking to her if she’s only going to lie!” she insisted. “It’s a waste of time we don’t have.”

 

“Well, it’s not like we have veritaserum handy, so we’ll just have to threaten or cajole her into telling the truth,” Harry countered. Why was she so stubborn? “Queenie still wants something out of this. All we have to do is promise to give it to her.”

 

“Oh, yes, because that’ll end well. She’s responsible for who knows how many deaths, not to mention poisoning everyone who came to cosmic latte, and stealing wands, and—we can’t trust her.”

 

“Um,” said Ron, face red. He scratched his cheek self-consciously. “What if we did have veritaserum?”

 

Hermione huffed. “Well, that would change things, but—”

 

Ron held up a clear vial full of a milky, shimmering fluid. “Lucky us?”

 

Hermione did not look pleased. She levelled a glare at Ron as if he’d admitted to tax fraud. “Ronald Bilius Granger-Weasley. Where in the nine hells did you get that?”

 

“Robards gave it to me,” he said too innocently.

 

“When?”

 

“Erm.”

 

“When did he give it to you, Ron? ”

 

“Well. Back when, y'know. I was still with the Aurors.”

 

“And you kept it?”

 

“I didn’t mean to!” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “It must’ve fallen out of my work gear when I took off my Auror robes, and by the time I realized I still had it, I’d been resigned for a few months already. A bloke can get in a lot of trouble for keeping Ministry property for personal use!”

 

“You should have put it in down the drain, then!” she insisted.

 

“It’s too valuable to waste like that!” Ron protested.

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “If you’ve had it all along, why didn't you say something sooner?”

 

“Erm. Well. I knew you’d be mad. And honestly, I didn’t think we needed it. I thought you’d solve the puzzle, and with two shakes of a lamb’s tail we’d be out of this horrorsville. There’s not very much left, anyway. Maybe two doses at best.”

 

“Well, we have it now,” Draco pointed out, “and we happen to have an Auror with us to oversee its application. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

 

Harry tried to suppress a smirk. It wasn’t going well. “At this point, it would be foolish not to use it, I think. We need answers—answers we can trust—and we have a way to procure them. Even you can’t deny that, Hermione. The more we know, the less we have to rely on blind trust.”

 

She bristled and looked like she was ready to fight, but Ron cut her off. “You stole McGonagall’s pensieve for similar reasons. You really don’t have the moral high ground here.”

 

"At the very least, Queenie understands more about the magic of the wards here than Roger ever did. Maybe she'll know of a way to stop Cyril that he didn't," Draco offered.

 

Harry nodded. "I am very much in favour of stopping any ritual where he uses Mrs. Frond as an anchor and source of power."

 

She glared at them all in turn, more in defensiveness than anything, but the anger was tinged with guilt. “Fine. Fine. But you have to give the rest of the veritaserum back to the Ministry when we get out of here.”

 

“Sure. I’ll give it to Harry.”

 

---

 

Hermione hummed speculatively, looming over a veritaserum-hazy Queenie. For all that she’d protested using the veritaserum, she certainly wasn’t holding back now. Perhaps the lure of answers she could trust was stronger than Draco had realized.

 

“Tell me something,” she began, “What keeps you in Gleyma? Why not leave? Sure, you'd forget, but isn't forgetting better than…all this?"

 

“I can’t leave. None of us can,” Queenie hissed.

 

“Draco left,” Ron pointed out. “And you must’ve left at some point to go pick up the coffee beans and stuff.”

 

Queenie glared daggers at Ron.

 

“Technically, I was banished,” Draco pointed out. He hoped he would not always need to remind Ron of the fact that he did not leave by his own will.

 

“Yes, you were lucky,” Queenie sneered. “Lucky to be born into a magical family. Lucky to go to a magical school. Lucky The Black Family Heir cared more about your life than keeping you close.”

 

“So you can leave if someone banishes you?” Hermione pressed. “Not that that’s the ideal solution…” She said it while surreptitiously watching Harry out of the corner of her eye. As if worried he'd blow up or think she's insensitive.

 

Harry didn't look like he was about to blow up, however. He looked ill. 

 

“No, you stupid girl, you can’t leave if you’re banished. This is a land people are banished to. ”

 

Hermione bristled, but pushed on ahead. “Then how did you leave? To go on your restocking trips and the like.”

 

Queenie smiled maliciously. “The benefit of being in charge of the wards means you can manipulate certain aspects. Make sacrifices for certain rewards. But I couldn't really leave. I could only…temporarily go outside the wards. As long as I came back quickly enough, I wouldn’t forget, and I wouldn’t be punished.”

 

“Punished?” Harry pressed. “Is there a worse punishment than having all your memories wiped?”

 

She turned to him, not unkindly. Apparently there were no hard feelings for him knocking her out and dragging her here and keeping her in an opaque bubble in a state of semi-conciousness. "There are worse things than forgetting. Forgetting all this might actually be a blessing. Your paramour was able to leave because he does not belong. You made sure of that. With nothing to tie him to the Net, he was free to go. Oh, he could have stayed. The wards made a place for him, but with nothing to fill it…they took something else instead. Someone else.” She smiled, showing all her teeth and malice. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

 

Harry paled, expression awash with horrified understanding. No doubt thinking of Loretta. 

 

Draco tried not to think of her as the one who paid his debt. He hadn't known; he hadn't even wanted to leave, and such thoughts would do him no favours here.

 

Queenie nodded. “So you do understand the price of your mercy. No one would have died if you hadn’t been so selfless. But you see, don’t you? You couldn’t have gone with him. Still can’t.”  She glared at Draco as she said this, though he hadn’t the faintest idea what, specifically, she meant.

 

Good thing she was drugged with veritaserum and he could ask. “What do you mean? Explain.”  

 

She grit her teeth, but the compulsion of veritaserum was too strong to resist, especially for one who'd never had to try. "If you belong to Gleyma and you leave anyway…the debt collectors will hunt you down. Relentlessly. And you won't even see it coming because you've forgotten what you owe.”

 

“You took that choice away from me by tying me to Gleyma,” Harry said, eyes dark.

 

“And by doing so I saved your life," she countered. "I did try to warn you when you arrived. When you could have still left. You could have avoided all this by giving me the test, or bonding our cores—”

 

“There is no test!” he cried. “Don’t you get it? The Black Family never meant to let anyone leave this place!”

 

“That’s a rather convenient excuse for you, isn’t it?” she snarled, rocking the chair as she attempted to lunge for him. “My whole life has been dedicated to leaving!”

 

“If you want to leave—” Harry slammed the cubic key on the table next to her “—then tell us how to find the Net anchors!”

 

“No! Then you’ll just leave me here!”

 

“I wouldn’t wish this place on my worst enemy,” Harry said quietly. “Not even you.”

 

Blood started to run from her nose again, but she didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes were darting wildly around the tent, unfocused and crazed. “I can’t, I can’t…”

 

“Tell me Queenie. How do I find the Net?” 

 

"You can't take the Net!" She pleaded. "It's not here, not here…" tears streamed down her face. "Only the interface…the altar. The old wards…you can't take them down. I tried it. We all have. The Net is all we have…"

 

"The Net is stealing everyone's memories!" Ron bellowed. "We can't help you if you don't tell us! We can bring people here to get rid of the dementors. You'll be free if you—"

 

"Taking the Net won't save your memories," she said viciously. "It only keeps the debt collectors out."

 

"Then what is this?" Harry said, shoving the cube in her face. "What does it do?"

 

She looked at him miserably, all the fight gone out. "It just…shows where they are,” she grit out, tears streaming down her face. "The ties that bind the Net to Us, and Us to the Net."

 

Harry grimaced, rubbing a hand down his face. “So it's true, then. That room, with all the objects…”

 

Draco remembered what Roger had called it. The Altar. He hadn't realized it had been so literal.

 

She laughed. “So you found the Altar. You didn’t take anything, did you?”

 

“No,” Harry said defensively. “But I did find my wallet. You’ve known who I am for months now.”

 

“Just a name, as easily forgotten as all the rest,” she sneered.

 

Harry’s knuckles turned white with the force of his clenched fist. “What does it do?”

 

“I already told you. It ties Us to the Net. It takes your happiest memories to build a wall to keep the Debt Collectors out, but in return it extends its protection over those it takes from. If you aren’t tied into the Net, you aren’t protected. How else would the Debt Collectors know who to collect?”

 

“Loretta was protected—”

 

“Until she wasn’t. It’s so simple, removing a single item you never remembered losing in the first place.” She smiled cruelly. Draco thought she looked remarkably like Aunt Bellatrix. He wondered how either of them would feel about the family resemblance.

 

“So you decide who lives and who dies?” Ron asked.

 

“It’s not a task I relish! But Gleyma requires sacrifices of us all.”

 

“Tell me, what sacrifices did you make?” Harry leaned over her, frightening in his calm fury. "To go to Lynmouth, to escape just for a bit with your mind intact, you had to sacrifice something.” 

 

She looked up at him, doing a passable but ultimately unconvincing job of pretending not to be scared. “I did what was necessary. I took only the tithes I was owed as the Custodian of the Wards.”

 

“So you lost nothing of your own, then,” he summarized.

 

She glowered at him but didn’t deny it.

 

“Your brother is putting all of us at risk, using blood magic to pull magic out of Vivien to take down the wards. So if you know anything about what he's planning, or how to stop him, I recommend you start talking.”

 

“Why should I? The way I see it, I’m safer than anyone else." She lifted her head, as though she were the Queen she thought herself to be. "Hidden in a tent, inside a runic circle? Surrounded by four wand bearers both willing and capable of expelling any trouble? The Debt Collectors sound like someone else’s problem.”

 

“We can't stay in here forever," Draco said. "I wonder, would the dementors recognize you as the one responsible for their fate? It might buy us enough time to escape, if we handed you over…"

 

"You wouldn't," she whispered, eyes wide.

 

"You don't know what I would do. I am a direct descendent of the ones who created this hellish place, after all."

 

Her eyes darted rapidly around the tent, but there were no allies for her to find. 

 

She swallowed, licked her lips. “You might be able to stop Cyril, if you become the Custodian of the Wards. Bind yourself to this place. I don't know what he's planning,” she added, desperate, "but i-if you untie me, I could help you."

 

"So you don't know anything useful then," Hermione said. "In that case, we might as well—" 

 

“Blood!" Queenie shrieked. "You need to put your blood on the altar! Please, that's all I know…” she whimpered. "That will make you the custodian of the wards. Not that it matters. Whatever Cyril is doing to take control of the wards, clearly he doesn’t need the altar to do it. B-but it will buy you time! He'll have to start over!"

 

Draco was almost disappointed. “What is it with you people and blood magic?”

 

"I will not sacrifice Vivien to buy us more time," Harry replied, voice soft and cold. "Is there anything else useful you can tell us? About the Net, about the Wards, about the Debt Collectors. About Abnus Black—"

 

"The Net was never meant to hurt anyone,” she said quietly, eyes wide. “They used to come all the time, the Debt Collectors. Whenever anyone was a bit happy, they’d swoop in, starving as they were for a drop of happiness. The problem was, there just wasn’t enough here for them. No one in Gleyma had ever been happy. Not really.”

 

“How did anyone live like that?” Hermione mused aloud.

 

“They didn’t, did they?” Ron answered. “Not really.”

 

The grim silence was enough of an answer. Queenie continued, “The problem is, they have a hunger that can never be satisfied. A hunger for joy, love, happiness. They hunger for a soul of their own. But they don't have one any longer. Only fractured pieces of an old identity.”

 

Draco frowned. “How do you know that?”

 

“I asked them,” she spat, the words pulled from her unwilling lips. “No one knows the Debt Collectors like I do. I know their names, their secrets, how they’re made.” She laughed maniacally, eyes wild. “Oh, I could tell how much they wanted me. But they can’t touch the Custodian. They hate the Custodian as much as they love them, need them. The best kind of love, really. One that won’t—can’t abandon you.”

 

Draco, for his part, felt ill. He could guess the sentiment was shared, based on everyone’s expressions. 

 

“No one knows how dementors—how Debt Collectors breed,” Hermione said, seemingly more for her own comfort than because she believed it.

 

“Officially, no one knows how. But…I stayed and watched, once. When I lost someone…I was only a child. And even though I was in the church when the Old Man closed the door, I just wanted to see what happened, so badly. that I did.”

 

“Accidental magic,” Hermione whispered.

 

Queenie continued as if Hermione had not spoken. “I saw them emerge from the woods, all dressed in those black rags. They floated in the air over the ocean where we’d lowered the body from the boat, laden with rocks and silk, where we'd rang the bell. They gathered there and…they waited.”

 

“For what?” asked Ron, brow furrowed.

 

“For the body to rise again,” she said, “and when it did, they all swooped in, one by one, taking little sips of her soul, and grabbing onto a part of her body, stretching her into a grotesque, inhuman shape, all the while chipping away at her. That’s why they put the body in the water first, you know. So it stretches.” She paused, a kind of manic glint in her eye. 

 

Draco wanted to retch, sweat cooling on his skin.

 

Queenie licked her lips, gaze distant. “It didn’t take long before her body became long and reedy like theirs, covered in tattered silks. That’s when I saw it—a dim light rising out of her mouth, flickering like a candle in the wind. Just when I thought it would go out…that’s when they did it. The debt collectors all…breathed out a cold, horrible mist, and she inhaled it with that horrible, rattling sound…and when it was all gone, she rose, identical to them in her horror.”

 

“What’s the point of it all?” Hermione asked, face bloodless. “Why do they keep making more of themselves?”

 

“You don’t know?” Queenie sneered. “Misery loves its company. That's reason enough. But for that small moment, before the final breath, they can feel again, just a little bit. Happiness. Sorrow. Hope. Anger. They chase that feeling forever, sucking out souls when they can get away with it, and the happiness of others when they can’t.”

 

“How would you know?” Hermione asked, tone neither judgmental nor sympathetic.

 

“Because I asked,” said Queenie, voice dull and flat. “I wanted to see if there was anything left of them inside…”

 

“You spoke to them? Why?” Draco shuddered. “Why risk your very soul—”  

 

“They don’t attack the custodian of the wards,” Harry answered. "Or anyone the custodian designates as off-limits. Isn't that right?"

 

Queenie glared. “Everyone in town has lost someone to the Debt Collectors, even if most people in town are ignorant of their existence. Have you never lost someone? Never been willing to risk it all for a chance to speak to them one last time?”

 

No one replied, which was really rather telling. 

 

“Your parents?” Ron guessed.

 

She grit her teeth, trying to resist the veritaserum, but it was no use. “I never knew my mother. My father told me she was brought here to return the magic she stole to those it rightfully belonged to.”

 

“She was a muggleborn, then,” Hermione concluded. 

 

“Yes.” It looked like the words had been ripped from her, the way her eyes burned in fury. “My father joined her when I was six years old.”

 

“So The Old Man took control of the wards, then.”

 

“Not control. He doesn’t have enough magic for that. Just enough to sustain. He was only meant to be a temporary measure. Until I was old enough. But he didn’t want to just be a placeholder; he wanted to tear them down, to figure out how to leave. He was willing to risk all our lives to do it. He spent years obsessing, all for nothing. Here we are, still stuck.”

 

“He must have stepped down eventually,” Ron reasoned. 

 

“Oh, yes. He did. Trying to dominate a system that rejected him was hard on his health. He nearly died in the attempt when I was sixteen. So he ceded his control to me, grudgingly. He should have submitted himself to the Debt Collectors then. That’s what a responsible Custodian does when they step down. Better that way, prevents an inheritance challenge down the line. But The Old Man refused. Apparently, Cuithbrig Frond Baas had better things to do than pay his debt.”

 

“So it’s true, then,” Harry said quietly. “The Old Man is Roger. Vivien’s husband.”

 

Queenie’s face spasmed violently as she realized she’d revealed something she could have used as a bargaining chip. “What do you know about it?” she hissed.

 

"You must not have wanted him gone either, since he's still alive," said Harry. “Why not sacrifice him to the dementors yourself?”

 

Queenie gnashed her teeth. "There are secrets to Gleyma he won't tell me. His bargaining chip to stay alive."

 

“Like what?” asked Hermione.

 

Queenie tried to resist, but once again she was helpless against the veritaserum. “The locations of the Net’s anchors.”

 

“He was telling the truth,” Harry whispered, sharing a meaningful look with Draco.

 

"So, had he shared this information, you would have sacrificed him?" Draco clarified.

 

"Yes," she said, without remorse. "And someday, I will. Gleyma requires sacrifices of us all . But I've extracted my due, in ways more painful than it would have been if he'd just done his fucking duty."

 

"What did you do to him?" Harry asked, voice low.

 

"That's the beauty of it." She giggled. "I didn't do anything to him. Didn't have to. Knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it was his punishment. Watching her fade away, forget him. Eventually she didn't recognize him, his face old and weathered with age. He had to tell her he'd died, because she kept asking, where's Roger? Where is he?" she laughed, eyes glinting maliciously.

 

"You made Vivien forget?" Draco hissed. 

 

Queenie smiled, proud like her self-proclaimed namesake. "I didn't. Technically, The Net did. You see, being the Custodian has its perks. You can manipulate certain aspects, for a price, but you don't have to pay them yourself. All these people in town don't know how much they owe us. How much they owe me. They live on in ignorant bliss, believing that they choose to stay here."

 

She laughed again, maniacal and unhinged. "All I had to do was pick whose memories to use as a shield, to venture out in little trips beyond the wall. To see how shite everything in Gleyma is in comparison. Oh, but I made Gleyma better. I made it shine. Dull, but present. I turned Cosmic Latte into an actual coffee shop instead of the overwrought tea shack it was. I brought the espresso machine, the internet, the schoolbooks that weren't over a century old. We got to add new maths courses to the curriculum! New books in the library! Things I'd only heard of—"

 

"And how did you hear of them?" Harry asked, rage barely contained. 

 

“I used to look up to her, you know,” Queenie seethed. “A smart witch from the outside world, ready to give it all up for love. As if she could save us. And then—the gall of it, to think she could mother me. Every parent I’ve ever had left me, or betrayed me—”

 

“You don’t deserve her,” Harry spat.

 

"It's all her fault!" Queenie screeched. "If she hadn't told me, I wouldn't have known what I was missing! If she hadn't promised, I never would have dreamed—but she did! She ruined everything! It only seemed right she should pay for my happiness with her own."

 

“Enough,” Harry said quietly, “I’ve heard enough.”

 

“Harry,” Hermione hedged, taking a tentative half step closer.

 

“This perfect love you imagine doesn’t exist,” he said, glaring down at Queenie. “Sometimes people leave because they love you.”

 

She smiled. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

 

Harry clenched his fist and didn’t respond.

 

“We’re going to destroy the debt collectors,” Draco cut in. “Release them from this torture. You could be a part of that, you know. Or, we could leave you here, and tell you nothing.”

 

Her eyes flashed. “You think you can destroy them? An embodiment of an idea? There’s no way—”

 

“Actually, there are, at least, two ways,” Hermione corrected.

 

Queenie’s eyes darted around, looking for something. "Well. If you have a way to destroy them, you should. Once they're gone, they won't come back. And if you do it…I'll give you the Net."

 

Ron scoffed. "That's not what you said before."

 

She sneered. "Yes, well, things are different now, aren't they? I had no reason to think you could get rid of them before!"

 

“How can we trust anything you say?”

 

“I can’t lie, can I? I promise I will give you the Net. Just get rid of the Debt Collectors. We won’t even need the stupid thing anymore if there’s nothing we need to be protected from.”

 

“You don’t even know where the Net anchors are, do you?” Harry asked quietly.

 

“I’m the Custodian,” she replied. “I know everything there is to know about Gleyma.”

 

Her non-answer, it seemed, did not go unnoticed. “I’ve heard all I need to,” Harry said quietly. He stared at her coldly before throwing the containment spell back up. 

 

“It’s clear who we ought to trust in this situation,” he said decisively.

 

“Is it though?” Ron mumbled.

 

“The Old Man,” Harry said at the same time that Hermione said “Queenie.”

 

Draco groaned internally.

 

Hermione stood up straight. “Harry. This has ‘trap’ written all over it.”

 

“Yeah, but Queenie doesn’t know how to get out of here. The Old Man—Roger does. Isn’t that what you want?”

 

Hermione pressed her lips together. Leaving was all she’d talked about; she could hardly deny it now.

 

“I don’t like it,” she said finally. “What if he’s lying?”

 

“Oh, he most certainly is,” Harry agreed. “But we’re smarter, and more powerful, and there are more of us. And—” he sighed "—if nothing else, I do believe he loves Vivien. You can't fake that kind of devotion."  

 

“And we have at least one more dose of Veritaserum,” Ron said cheerfully. “You know. Just in case.”

 

“Something about this doesn’t feel right,” Hermione tried again.

 

Draco rather agreed, unfortunately. “Getting the Net is important, but even if she holds up her end of the deal, that doesn’t solve all our problems. The Net is tied to the old wards here. She can’t just give it to us—”

 

“And even if she thinks she can, do we really trust that she understands it?” Harry cut in. “She’s only had ancient books to teach her.”

 

“So who do we trust more?” asked Ron. “A delusional narcissist proven both willing and able to kill people for her own benefit, or a sad old man who just wants to save his wife?”

 

“We don’t know what he wants,” Draco pointed out. “The only person who I would trust to corroborate is unable to do so. So really, the better question is: the devil we know, or one we don’t? After all, Roger was the Custodian before Queenie. He definitely is also guilty of tying people into the Net that steals their memories and traps them here as well as sacrificing people to be made into Dementors.”

 

“But Roger knows the way out of here—” Harry said.

 

“Allegedly,” countered Ron.

 

“Whose side are you one?” he demanded.

 

“There are no sides here,” Draco said, cutting off an argument before it could begin. “Either we all win, or we all lose.” 

 

Ron turned to Harry. “What do you think, mate? Who should we trust? You know them best.”

 

Harry didn’t answer right away. He barely moved, arms crossed over his chest. “Whether Queenie knows what she’s talking about or not, there was at least one thing she said that is definitely true: she doesn’t know what Cyril is trying to accomplish. Roger does. And whatever he’s doing, there’s no guarantee that changing the Custodian to someone else would stop it. Whatever this ritual is, he’s using Vivien to do it.” He sighed heavily, running a hand raggedly through his hair. “I can’t trust either of them, not really. But I can’t leave Vivien there with Cyril, either.”

 

“So age before beauty it is, then,” Draco concluded.

 

— — — 

 

The only thing left to decide, really, was how the fuck they were going to pull this off.

 

“I think I should go in alone,” said Harry, because of course he did. “The rest of you should stay outside as back-up.”

 

“Okay, that’s a good plan, except for the part where it’s a terrible idea,” said Ron. “Never go in alone. Don’t tell me you forgot that part of training?”

 

“I wouldn’t be alone. You’d all be there. Just. Outside.”

 

“And what happens if Cyril closes the door to start his ritual before the rest of us can rush in to help?” asked Hermione. “There’s no way in once the door closes.”

 

“Alright then, what would you do? The invisibility cloak can only hide one person, and who knows what kinds of magical fuckery his ritual has done inside the church. It might automatically dispel disillusionment magic. If I show up with any of you, he’ll be suspicious, and we lose the element of surprise.”

 

“Not necessarily,” Draco said, a stupid but plausible idea forming. “I could go.”

 

Harry gave him a look that was equal parts fond and frustrated. “He hates you, remember?”

 

“What if I didn’t go as myself? What if he thought I was someone else he wanted for his ritual? Someone like, say, Queenie.”

 

Harry frowned. “No.”

 

“It could work! We even have the Polyjuice potion, shitty as it is. You wouldn’t be alone, and he’d be sufficiently distracted.”

 

“You can’t Polyjuice yourself into Queenie! You said yourself you doubted it would last for more than three minutes!”

 

“If we play our cards right, three minutes is more than sufficient. I could even drink more right in front of him, and he’d be none the wiser.”

 

“Like Mad Eye,” said Ron, sending Draco an impressed smile. “Or. Well. Barty Crouch Jr pretending to be Mad Eye.”

 

Draco didn’t know what that meant, specifically, but he could always ask later. And there would be a later.

 

“Cyril certainly never had access to the potion books Queenie did, if what Roger said is to be believed,” Hermione mused.

 

Harry ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t like it.”

 

“Yes, and I don’t like sending you in there alone,” said Draco. He took Harry by the hand, watching him instantly soften. “Let me help you. Let us help you.”

 

Harry eyed him warily. “It’s still not much of a plan.”

 

“Sure it is. Go in the church, bamboozle the incel, stupefy the incel, and rescue Amos’ mom.” Ron shrugged. “It’s a better plan than like, 50% of the plans we’ve come up with in the past.”

 

“It’s better than at least 70% of the plans we came up with during the war,” Hermione added thoughtfully. “This one, at least, probably won’t get us killed.”

 

“There is the part where we have to let Cyril take down the Net and risk letting all the dementors into town,” Draco pointed out. It felt like an important detail not to leave out.

 

“We’ll have a small buffer. Not long,” Harry added, “but enough. The Net has only had about a week to build itself up since the last time it was reset. But hopefully it’ll keep the dementors occupied long enough to enact the plan, transfer Custodianship to Roger, then do…whatever it is his plan is for leaving.”

 

“Are we going to go through with that part?” Ron asked sceptically. “I mean, sure, go along with it while he tells us the plan, but it’s all a bit iffy, innit?”

 

“It’s all we can do. And once we escape, then we can get Amos inside and…make the dementors disappear. Hopefully.” Hermione didn’t sound even half convinced, but Draco supposed she was doing her best.

 

“And if that doesn’t work, we’ll burn them up with cursed fire, because all of us have had enough poor life experiences to know how to cast fiendfyre,” Ron added cheerfully. “Problem solved.”

 

Harry looked ill at the thought, but nodded. “Right. Well. That’s as good of a plan as we’re going to get, I think.” He glanced thoughtfully at Queenie. “I suppose we’ll have to take her with us to the Church. We can’t leave her here unattended, and if I understand correctly, we’ll be leaving shortly after dealing with Cyril.”

 

“God, I hope so,” Draco sighed. “Guess I’d better go get the Polyjuice potion, then.”

 

“I’ll transfigure some clothes for you,” Hermione offered. “Have you ever polyjuiced into a woman before?”

 

“I’ve never polyjuiced into anyone before,” Draco said, offended. “It’s not something you just do, is it?”

 

All three of the Gryffindors looked away guiltily. That wasn’t something he wanted to think about at the moment.

 

“Right. Well. Chop chop!” said Ron, clapping loudly. “Time’s a-wastin’!”

 

“I’ll go get one of Queenie’s hairs,” Harry offered.

 

“Maybe a vial of her blood, too,” said Hermione. “Just in case.”

 

“Remind me to give you all a lecture on blood magic and why it’s bad when we get out of here,” Draco called behind him as he disappeared down into the pocket lab. He didn’t hear whether any of them responded, which was just as well.

 

He approached the bubbling cauldron, still rank and viscous and not at all something he wanted to put into his body. It struck him as ironic that he was doing the very thing Queenie had made this concoction for. Only…inversed, or something. He hoped he could pull off her whole persona well enough to fool Cyril. But, in all likelihood, Cyril would be too distracted with Harry to notice Draco.

 

Draco, gamely, decided he just wasn’t going to think about it too deeply.

 

He summoned a vial and enlarged it slightly, scooping a frankly disgusting amount into the glass before capping it. The green-brown sludge seemed to glare back at him. He could only hope adding Queenie’s genetic material improved the taste.

 

Back in the living area again, Hermione was holding a bundle of lacy black clothing while Ron sported a bag of ice to his nose.

 

“Queenie tried to headbutt me when I took this,” he explained with a smile, holding up a vial of blood. “I’ve got a thick skull.”

 

He gestured to the sofa, where Queenie lay unconscious, back in a stasis bubble. “Probably for the best she’s out of it,” Draco said idly. “From what I know of inheritance challenges, the worst is ahead.”

 

“What do you know of inheritance challenges?” Hermione asked curiously.

 

“Nothing I want to think about too much right now.” He hoped he would not suffer any repercussions for taking on her shape during such a challenge. As he understood it, the important part when it came to such things was magical cores, but everything about this town defied reason and sense and magical logic as he understood it.

 

“I got the hair,” said Harry, offering him a few curly black strands. “We should, er. Probably check. That it works. Just in case.”

 

“And time how long it lasts,” Hermione added.

 

Draco hated that he didn’t have any reasonable objections. “Very well.” He added the strands to his vial of Polyjuice, wishing he had at least some idea of whether it had been brewed properly enough not to poison him.

 

At the very least, Queenie was good enough at potions to make a powerful brew that amplified the effect of the wards on the people who drank coffee, all without suspecting a thing.

 

The potion made a belching sound and turned an inky black in both colour and consistency. It rather smelled like ink, too. It did not inspire him with much hope for the taste. “Well. Bottom’s up, I suppose.”

 

He drank a swallow, forcing it down his throat with a shiver. “Blech.”

 

“What’s ol’ Essence of Queenie like, then?” asked Ron.

 

“Stale black liquorice.”

 

With another shiver and a throb of pain, he swayedon his feet. “I don’t feel so well,” he admitted, before falling over.

 

“Blimey,” said Ron. At least, that’s what it sounded like. Draco was senseless to the outside world for a long minute, feeling everything shift and shrink and stretch in unnatural ways. 

 

He felt soothing hands on his back, patting and fretting away. Harry’s presumably. “You’re nearly through the worst of it now,” he said lowly.

 

Draco choked out a laugh. “How many of your plans have involved Polyjuice potion, exactly?” His voice didn’t quite sound like his own. It was thoroughly disconcerting.

 

“I have no idea,” Harry admitted.

 

Ron made a contemplative sound. “Oh, let’s see…second year, seventh year, seventh year again—”

 

“Technically none of us had a seventh year,” Hermione reminded him dutifully.

 

“Yeah, well. Only about a third of our plans have had Polyjuice as an integral factor. So, not bad.”

 

“Not great, either,” Draco spat. He blinked his watering eyes and sat up. The world looked…different, through Queenie’s eyes. For one, she was slightly nearsighted. Not a problem he was used to having. He squinted at Hermione’s face. “How does she get by like this without glasses?”

 

“She probably wears contacts,” said Harry, looking him over.

 

Draco looked down at his small, dainty hands. Not his hands. Strange. He nearly fell over as he stood up, unused to his centre of gravity being somewhere else. “Oh, this is terribly unpleasant.”

 

Ron towered over him, and Harry was at least a head over him as well. Even Hermione seemed taller, which was odd. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what it was like to be shorter than everyone—he’d been on the short side until he had a growth spurt at fifteen—but it had been long enough that he’d forgotten how it made him feel.

 

He’d only just gotten the hang of walking on feet smaller than he was used to when the pain of stretching and growing hit him again. “I think it’s wearing off,” he said, gritting his teeth through the sensation.

 

Hermione nodded. “That was about fifteen minutes. You might want to take another swig—it’s easier to maintain a Polyjuice form than to have to go back and forth a lot.”

 

Draco decided he neither wanted nor needed the context for how she knew that. He took another swig. The discomfort of shifting cells lingered, but the pain of stretching and shrinking went away more quickly. “Right. I suppose I should change clothes and we should get underway, then.”

 

They all exchanged grim looks. “We have half an hour to midnight. Let’s make it count.”

 

---

 

Harry spared one last glance at his friends. This was it—the last chance to turn back before…well. Before there was no turning back. He turned to Draco, who nodded once and took a swig of the Polyjuice potion. 

 

He shivered and made a face of disgust, which was quickly replaced by revulsion and discomfort as his form settled. Queenie was significantly shorter than he was, emphasized by how his clothes had hung off his transformed body after his initial shift. He looked uncomfortable now, plucking and pulling at the clothing Hermione had made for him. To her credit, it looked almost exactly like what the (still unconscious) real Queenie was wearing. Harry doubted Cyril was observant enough to notice something like that, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

 

Harry pulled out a pair of cuffs from his Auror coat, newly restored to him since remembering…well. Not everything. But enough to know that the coat was imbued with protection spells against most hexes. It probably wouldn’t do anything if dementors showed up, but it at least gave him an illusion of safety. “Best put these on. I won’t lock them, but for appearance sake…”

 

“Right,” said Draco, in Queenie’s voice. “You know, if you’d told me these would be the circumstances in which Harry Potter put me in handcuffs would come to pass, I’m not sure I’d have been so keen.”

 

Harry laughed. “Something to revisit later, perhaps.”

 

“Please, please, do not do this right now,” Ron hissed. “I’m traumatized enough already as it is.”

 

Harry tried to find it in himself to feel embarrassed, but he just…wasn’t. “I’m sure you’ve said worse.”

 

Ron didn’t comment, which was telling enough.

 

"You have the vial of Queenie's blood still, yes?" he asked, holding out his hand. "We should probably put some on Draco's face. Cyril will expect to see it."

 

"Must we," Draco asked, but sat patiently while Harry applied it under his nose. "That should be enough. I really don't want any going in my mouth."

 

Harry nodded and corked the vial, sticking it in his pocket. "Remember, Queenie has been dismissive of Cyril her whole life, and her pride has been wounded, so don't speak a whole lot—"

 

"Worry about your own acting, darling," Draco said with a wink. "I was born to perform."

 

"Right." Harry took a deep breath, trying to get into character. At least, to get into the mindset that he was here to work with Cyril, and had brought Queenie as some kind of hostage exchange, which would be all kinds of fucked up if it were true—

 

“Wait!” Hermione hissed. “Shouldn’t we have some kind of…code word? In case things go pear-shaped?”

 

“I’ll remind you we’re on a time limit,” Draco said, shifting uncomfortably.

 

Harry sighed. “Can’t you just use your best judgement?”

 

“I don’t know Harry, can I? Do you trust me to do that?”

 

He didn’t want to start another argument. “Hermione—”

 

“If something goes wrong…I’ll say Jenga, alright?” Draco offered.

 

Harry shrugged. “Fine. You two will be close behind, yes? As soon as we go in the Church—”

 

“One of us will come in behind you under the cloak, and the other will stay out here with Queenie,” Ron confirmed. “Now go, before Draco turns tall, blonde, and poncy again.”

 

Draco had some choice words for Ron as they stepped out of the woods. Harry couldn’t see his face, but he was probably scowling. All the better to put him in character as Queenie, really.

 

As they approached the church, it became clear that Cyril was expecting Harry, sitting on the stone steps outside cradling his head in his hands. He looked…bad, to say the least. His skin was grey, his hair was limp and stuck to his sweaty forehead, and there was a faint trickle of blood running down his nose that he hadn’t seemed to notice.

 

Roger was standing next to him, keeping a watchful eye out.

 

“Where is he?” Cyril asked petulantly. His voice was hoarse, as though he’d been speaking for long hours. Based on what Harry knew of rituals, he probably had been. Perhaps since the inheritance challenge began that morning. “You said he’d come.”

 

“He’ll be here,” Roger said easily. “He won’t leave her here.”

 

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Cyril leaned back on the steps, massaging his temples. “I really don’t know what we’ll do if he doesn’t come. The old bat is far weaker than I thought. I could barely get anything out of her. It’ll kill us both if I try again.” More quietly, he added, “Heroes don’t kill people. Only villains do that. A hero can only kill a villain.”

 

Harry heard Draco snort. “Read some better comics,” he mumbled.

 

"Stop talking," he hissed, "and start stumbling. You're meant to have come from a terrible inheritance challenge."

 

Draco huffed, annoyed, but started dragging his feet a bit.

 

Cyril stood up when Harry and Draco stepped into the light. “Heard you were looking for me,” Harry said gruffly. “I brought you a present.” He shoved Draco forward to his knees, sending a mental apology. They’d agreed to do it this way, but it didn’t make him feel any better about it.

 

“You came,” Cyril said, voice almost reverent.

 

Roger grunted. “I told you he would.”

 

“Yes, well. Seeing is believing.” Cyril stepped forward, eyeing first Harry, then Draco (or rather, Queenie) speculatively. “What is the meaning of this?”

 

“From what I understand, you need magic users. I’ll trade you one witch for another.”

 

Cyril shot him an amused grin. “I assure you, Harry, that’s not necessary. Vivien has served her purpose. Though, the more magicians, the better, I suppose.”

 

“Where is she?” Harry growled. This, at least, he didn’t have to pretend at.

 

“She’s quite alright. She’s sleeping off the effects now. She’ll probably need a good meal or two before she’s back to fighting shape—well, as close as someone of her age can get to fighting shape, but all the same. I’d never do her any serious harm. She is family, after a fashion.” he sighed. “Still, I thought there would be something different. A colour, or a smell, or something. But witch’s blood is no different than anyone else’s, after all.”

 

Harry felt himself go cold. “You took her blood?”

 

“Yes,” Cyril replied, frowning. “How else is one meant to do blood magic without it?”

 

“You could only achieve anything by taking from others,” Draco said woozily.

 

Cyril turned his gaze on Draco. “As if you’re any different, sister dearest,” he sneered. “I suppose it will be satisfying, making you watch me achieve everything you ever wanted. Did you enjoy feeling me strip away your power over this place, bit by bit?”

 

“I didn’t notice,” said Draco. “Must’ve slept through it.”

 

Cyril looked furious approaching Draco with a raised hand, but he stopped himself. “No. No, a hero does not raise his hand against others, especially in anger.” With a deep breath, he recentred himself. Or tried to, at least. “Tell me you brought the Reliquary, Harry.”

 

Harry froze. Was this something Roger had mentioned? He didn’t think so. “Reliquary?”

 

Cyril rolled his eyes. “Yes, the Reliquary. The ceremonial chamber enshrining the Right to Lead Gleyma!”

 

Harry stared at him. "Er—"

 

“He means the desk, boy,” Roger said gruffly.

 

Harry, fortunately, did have it. He’d stuck it back in his apron after they deconstructed the tent. He probably should have taken the apron off, but he’d just…forgotten.

 

So, he had it. However, the desk was not part of the plan. “Show me Vivien first.”

 

Cyril laughed like was dealing with a child. “Very well, if you insist. But be quick about it, and no funny business. She is still my anchor, you know. The spell notes said it should be a mother, and she’s the closest thing I’ve got. She's somebody's mother, at any rate. Ah, but no touching. Either her or the ritual space. If you mess it up, I might just forget how much blood she’s already donated to the cause, and we can’t have that, can we?”

 

Harry gritted his teeth. “I just want to see if she’s alright,” he confirmed. “Then you can have the stupid desk.”

 

Cyril nodded, a satisfied smile on his face. "Well then, follow me."

 

Roger cast a quick glance between Draco and Harry, as if to say, ‘I hope you know what you’re doing’ before entering the church as well.

 

Harry pulled Draco to his feet and entered the church after Cyril. He kept calm by imagining what he'd do after all this was over. He could go to the cinema with Draco. Maybe repaint the foyer. Maybe it would take this time. He could—make lasagne again. 

 

The inside was much as Harry remembered it from the post-funeral services, the braziers lit up but the light not quite reaching the far corners. Now that he knew what to look for, however, the runes in the ceiling were obvious. He didn’t know what they said—he didn’t think ancient runes had ever been something he knew about, though. 

 

Still, it was obvious now that this place was magically similar to the bonfire pit. Or would have been, were it not for the agitated magic field, the blood painted on the ground in sigils Harry didn’t recognize, and the figure collapsed on the floor in the middle of the church.

 

He made an aborted step forward as he recognized who it was.

 

"Welcome to my seat of power!" Cyril cheered, throwing his arms out wide. "I really personalized it, wouldn't you say? I had to work quickly, you understand, after poor Loretta Moretti's funeral. I'd been storing things here for weeks when she went. Had to really scramble to get it all moved out in time. I didn't want my plan discovered prematurely." he sighed. "Anyway, it really does feel different inside a runic circle, wouldn't you say? Alive, almost. I don't want to think of it as a church after all this is over, though. It's more of a castle, really."

 

Harry was barely listening. It smelled strongly of iron and copper and burnt hair, the air buzzing with something frenetic and waiting for release. "What did you do?" he asked quietly. It just felt…wrong. There was no other word for it.

 

"I suppose you could say I painted it with my colours," Cyril said proudly. "Nothing can hurt me here."

 

Well. There went the plan to stun him immediately once his back was turned.

 

"At least, as long as I have ol' Viv here acting as my anchor. But once you take her place, Harry, once we complete Abnus' unfinished life work…well. Then no one can hurt me anywhere. I will be as intrinsic to Gleyma as Gleyma is to me. Don't you see, Harry? This place can be a paradise. Abnus has been waiting, all this time, for someone worthy to inherit his title to come along, and here I am: the One True Heir."

 

Harry scoffed. "What makes you think you're worthy?"

 

Roger cleared his throat meaningfully. Harry ignored him.

 

"I understand why you have your doubts. No one can ever truly believe until they see. But I have seen. If muggleborns can steal magic, why can't I? There's a whole horde of Debt Collectors just waiting there, filled to the brim with magic they aren't using!" he turned to Harry, eyes gleaming like a child on Christmas. "Why should I be satisfied with the magic of one soul when I can possess the magic of many?"

 

Ah. So he was properly mad, then.

 

"Um, Jenga?" he said. Surely this called for it.

 

Nothing happened.

 

Cyril didn't seem to notice. "As for why I'm worthy, well. I should think it's obvious. Everyone else just wants to leave Gleyma, but not me. I want Gleyma to live up to it's name."

 

Harry looked to Vivien, lying prone and still surrounded by blood. "I suppose you're going to drain me, too, for the sake of your vision?"

 

"I need an anchor to open the gate, yes, but once the gate is opened, it will flow into my core like a river into the sea." He turned to Harry then.

 

Harry wasn't sure what his face was emoting, but Cyril must have found it lacking. “Oh, don’t make that face,” he admonished. “Is it the blood? I'm not going to make you bleed that much. That’s mostly my blood. I’ve been saving it up for a while. The notes I have mention blood replenishing potions, but I don’t have access to that sort of thing. Still, nothing said the blood had to be freshly drawn. I took a little bit every week and kept it in a freezer. So fortunate that the nurse who came here to help you conveniently forgot all his gear here.” Cyril laughed, like they were all in on a joke.

 

Harry was doing his best to keep calm. “You’ve certainly been planning this a long time.”

 

“Years,” he agreed cheerfully.

 

“Can I go to her?”

 

Cyril gave Harry an indulgent smile. “Oh, sure, why not? But remember: don’t touch her. She cannot be moved from the centre until we start the next bit and you take her place. Ah, be careful not to disturb any of the sigils, either.”

 

He gestured to Roger. “Old man, hold my sister for dear Harry a moment, won’t you, while he checks on the old bat? We wouldn’t want any accidents, would we?”

 

Roger sighed and yanked Draco over to him with a bit too much force for Draco, who had barely mastered walking in Queenie’s body. Draco tripped, caught only by Harry’s firm grip in his arm. “Careful,” he grunted. He noticed now that one of Draco’s feet had returned to its normal size and shape. That…probably wasn’t good.

 

Roger, clearly, had noticed. His eyes went wide. Ah. So he’d thought Harry had brought the real Queenie.

 

“Go on, then,” Cyril prompted. “Do your thing and check on her. Remember, no touching. Looking only.”

 

Harry carefully made his way through the blood-drawn symbols, doing his best to ignore the smell, peering over at the sleeping figure when he got to the centre. She was deathly pale, but otherwise unharmed. Vivien Frond. He breathed a sigh of relief.

 

“Mrs. Frond?” he said softly. “Vivien?”

 

She stirred but did not wake.

 

“We’re going to get you out of here,” he promised. “Just sit tight.”

 

“Satisfied?” Cyril called.

 

Harry nodded. He hoped Draco had a blood replenishing potion in his tent somewhere, or if not, the ingredients to make some. He didn’t think it took long to brew, but potions had never been his thing. That was something he remembered about himself, his life, even if the details still evaded him. 

 

“By the way,” Cyril said casually as Harry returned to his side, “You don’t have any of your little friends hiding in the woods waiting to ambush us, do you?”

 

“Friends?” Harry repeated, hoping desperately Cyril wouldn’t notice Draco’s feet. He also desperately hoped either Ron or Hermione had managed to make it inside the Church by now. Probably not, though.

 

“Those Londoners. I know they came here for you. The day after they show up, the wards around Cosmic Latte were all…weird. Deconstructed.”

 

“Like a Jenga tower?” Draco asked, a little louder than necessary. Draco didn’t exactly sound like Queenie anymore, which meant his Polyjuice was definitely wearing off. Apparently it was not only weak, but inconsistent. Just their luck really.

 

He waited a moment, hoping desperately that Ron or Hermione would jump out and stun Cyril, but they didn’t.  

 

“What’s Jenga?” Cyril wondered aloud.

 

“My friends don’t know I’m here,” Harry lied, hoping to distract Cyril. “They think I’m out looking for—”

 

Cyril waved him off. “Spare me the details. As long as they aren’t going to surprise us during our little operation. Ah, unless they could be convinced to help us?”

 

“I don’t think so. It’s not worth the risk.”

 

“Like pulling a bottom piece from a Jenga tower?” Draco asked. Still, no help came.

 

Where are they? Harry wondered. More importantly, what were they going to do about this?

 

Cyril frowned, before shaking his head. “Too right!” 

 

“What, exactly, am I meant to be doing here? As an anchor, I mean,” Harry asked. He was not the best at stalling, but Cyril was dense enough not to notice. All he knew was he definitely did not want to let Cyril inside the desk.

 

“I did try to tell you,” Cyril replied idly. “All those invitations to lunch and dinner and tea and breakfast weren’t only about enjoying your company. That was only an added boon.”

 

“I understand there’s some ritual, something with the dementors—the debt collectors, that is," Harry tried again, "but Roger wouldn’t give me any details, only that my compliance needed to be…voluntary.”

 

Cyril chuckled. "Of course he didn't tell you. He doesn't know. 'It's important to keep the details close to the chest lest jealous parties attempt to seize the crown'," he quoted. Probably from whatever notes he kept referencing. He turned slightly, glancing coyly at Harry. “But I'm happy to share the glory with you, Harry. Now that your little dalliance has left you behind, perhaps things can be different now.”

 

“Give it up, Cyril. He wasn’t interested before, and he won’t be now,” Draco growled.

 

“He will be!” Cyril hissed. “No one can resist a hero. Even you won’t want to leave once I fix this place up. No more gloom, no more debt, just Gleyma as it was always meant to be. Me as I was always meant to be.” He stopped his self-aggrandizing long enough to remember he was there for a reason. “I do hope you have the Reliquary, Harry. Taking down the wards is one thing, but taking them over without the Chamber and Altar would be such a drag. It really takes it out of you, staging a one-man coup like this.” He sighed deeply. “All this suffering is worthwhile, though, when I shall be so handsomely rewarded.”

 

Harry reached into the apron and pulled it out. He wasn't sure what Cyril would do if Harry lied and said he didn't have it, but he suspected it would not be very fun for Harry in particular. “Roger, will you keep an eye on Queenie for me? This is a two-handed operation.”

 

Roger raised his eyebrows but did as Harry asked. Harry noticed him frowning at Draco’s hair, now returning to its platinum blonde at the roots.

 

Cyril watched Harry indulgently set the shrunken desk on the floor. “I really don’t think that jacket is up to company dress code,” he teased. "We'll have to find something better suited for the anchor of a king to wear."

 

Harry grimaced. “I could really go for a game of Jenga after all this is over,” he tried one last time.

 

Nothing.

 

With a helpless look at Draco and Roger, he enlarged the desk. As slowly as possible, but there really wasn’t a slow way to do it without making it way too large.

 

Cyril clapped indulgently when the desk settled at its full size. “That never ceases to amaze me. I wonder, will it be so effortless for me, when my magic finds me? Oh, what am I saying? Of course it will!” He laughed jovially and approached the desk, running his hands over the top of it. “I’m going to be far more powerful than any Baas ever was. Than any Black, even.” 

 

He started tugging the drawers open, searching blindly. Harry felt no compulsion to help.

 

“You know, Harry, I wonder what your motivations are, coming here, bringing Queenie,” Roger began, raising his eyebrows meaningfully. “Surely you had plans, in case things didn’t go as expected.”

 

“I always have plans,” Harry said, which was blatantly untrue. “But sometimes the best laid plans rely on things you have no control over. Like—”

 

“Jenga?” Roger offered. “You’ll have to show me what you mean. I’ve never heard of Jenga.”

 

Cyril made a noise of frustration, throwing pens and what looked like tax statements out of the drawers. “I know it’s around here somewhere,” he said, voice full of false cheer.

 

“It’s a great game,” Harry said, “full of surprises and cunning. Things invisible to the eye. You might think you know what the pieces are going to do, but then they don’t.”

 

“Is it a gambling game? Cards?”

 

“No. More like tempting fate. Or gravity? Invisible forces,” Harry settled on. Jenga wasn't a great metaphor, all things considered, but it was what he had to work with.

 

Roger scanned the church. “How do you know when invisible forces are at play?”

 

“They find ways to make themselves known. Like, right now would be a great time for that to happen. Really great, to know they've been listening and understand what a new threshold of pear-shaped might look like—” Harry felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Thank Merlin. “— but, in fact, I think they might be here already. Ready to help. Somehow.” 

 

Roger nodded jerkily. He didn't seem relieved. “Ah, but if invisible forces are helping, how do they know that it’s important that things happen in the right order? That pieces are moved when other players can’t stop you?” Roger jerked his head towards Vivien, gaze drifting to Cyril. 

 

Harry nodded in understanding. “I think anyone with enough understanding can easily see that once a central piece of power is removed, even if it looks inert, the whole tower will topple when the next player attempts to make a move.”

 

“So you think it’s clear that if you move a central piece too soon, then you will be the one to fail.” 

 

Harry received two taps on his shoulder before the warmth retreated. “I think the message was received.”

 

It occurred to Harry, briefly, that his and Roger’s conversation would sound like complete nonsense to anyone who thought they were actually talking about Jenga.

 

Cyril, meanwhile, still had not solved the mystery of the pocket desk. Normally, Harry would have been content to watch him continue to struggle, but they were on a time crunch. If they took too long, they'd have a whole horde of dementors on their plate. “Do you know how the desk works?”

 

“Of course I do,” Cyril said hastily, “I was just…familiarizing myself with it, but feel free to show me. You’re going to be playing a much more active role in the next part of the ritual. Best get used to voluntary participation.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes and removed the false bottom from the lower drawer, revealing the stairs. “After you.”

 

Cyril didn’t need telling twice.

 

“Why don’t you stay up here with…Queenie?” Harry said to Roger, nodding meaningfully at Draco.

 

“I don’t think so,” Roger responded. “The next bit is the most important part. Claiming Custodianship with blood and oath.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

 

That’s right. Queenie had mentioned something about blood sacrifices and wards. Honestly, Harry was starting to get sick of it all.

 

Roger didn’t wait for Harry to agree or acknowledge him, hauling Draco down the stairs after Cyril.

 

Harry sighed and followed them. Just as he disappeared down the stairs, he saw Hermione whip off the invisibility cloak and approach Vivien. Good. Only a matter of time, then. 

 

Cyril was examining all the books gleefully, pulling them off the shelf to flip through them before dropping them carelessly on the table. “I can’t wait to look at all these,” he said with reverence. “To think you’ve been hiding all this away from me!” he glared at Draco, who was looking less and less like Queenie by the moment. Fortunately, Cyril was too distracted by everything to notice. “So, where is it, then? Is there another set of hidden stairs inside one of these drawers? Oh, don’t tell me, do I pull on the chains over here in the right sequence—” he paused. “Or maybe there’s a pass code?”

 

He started pulling books off the wall randomly, looking for a “trick book”. It didn’t work, obviously. Unfortunately, it did move the wall, since Harry et al had never reconfigured the black-and-white Rubik’s key to keep the altar room hidden. It hadn't seemed important, at the time.

 

“Oh,” Cyril said, sounding strangely disappointed. 

 

He led the procession into the half-circular room with all the stolen items.

 

“Look at it, Harry,” said Cyril, “isn’t it magnificent? To think, my direct ancestor set all this up for our sake. He understood that you don’t need a wand to accomplish incredible feats.”

 

Harry swallowed, throat dry. “I doubt he was thinking of anyone but himself when he installed the Net.”

 

Cyril scowled. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’ve always had other people around to take care of your needs.”

 

“Actually, I think you know fuck-all about me.”

 

Cyril either ignored him or was simply too invested in his own cleverness to pay attention. Cyril ran a hand along the shelves, scowling at the empty space. “I suppose this spot is where that blonde interloper should have been tied into the Net, if you hadn’t scared him away.”

 

“Yes, I suppose so,” Harry replied, taking a moment while Cyril was distracted to slip Draco his wand.

 

“No matter. Once I take control, you won’t care about him, anyway.” He chuckled cruelly. “Old man, where is the knife? The altar?”

 

“This would be a great moment for some of those invisible forces to act,” Draco whispered.

 

Not quietly enough, apparently. Cyril froze. “Do you hear that?”

 

The sound of distant shouting wafted down the stone steps of the pocket lab and into the chamber.

 

"I don't hear anything," Harry lied. Was it too soon to act? He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like—

 

“No, it’s definitely something—are they saying Jenga?”

 

“God, I hope so.” 

 

Two bright flashes of red light and a book to the head, and Cyril toppled to the ground, stunned and unconscious.

 

Harry approached him, nudging him with his boot.

 

Ron rushed down the stairs and into the chamber, wand drawn. “Jenga!” he cried, sending one last stunning spell at the now thoroughly incapacitated Cyril. “Oh,” he said, lowering his wand. “That’s it? A bit anticlimactic, really."

 

“That,” said Roger, “was the easy part.”

 

Notes:

*vibrating with the energy of a thousand suns* I WILL FINISH THIS FIC BEFORE THIS YEAR ENDS.

(In case it isn’t clear: Roger is a trans man, because fuck JKR and her transphobia that’s why. Also, blink and you miss it implied trans-Hermione, but I leave that up to your interpretation. Anyone and everyone in this story could be trans. Why not? )

This was a big chapter. I’ve been sitting on all these secrets for so long ;w; sorry it took me so long to update, it's been a rough year, don't you know?

ONE CHAPTER LEFT. the next chapter is already written I swear it just needs to be edited I'll post it tomorrow if it's the last thing I do this year and I'll write a very heartfelt THANK YOU

Chapter 21: Ingress and Egress

Summary:

What is a centuries old zodiac based puzzle to some very tired veterans who just want to go home and do some interior design in peace?

Notes:

content warning: intrusive thoughts, mentions of abuse (mostly emotional), claustrophobia, unreality, nyctophobia, vertigo, arachnophobia, trypophobia, scopophobia

(all very brief but still. stay safe, If you want to skip most of the phobia-inducing bits, skip over the section that starts with "No way out but through, then." and resume reading at "He carried on in what felt like a vaguely downward direction for about fifteen minutes")

“Oh,” said Ron, lowering his wand. “That’s it? A bit anticlimactic, really."

“That,” said Roger, “was the easy part.”

 

Roger turned to Ron, looking him over and seeming to evaluate him. “I take it you’re the invisible force?”

 

“Uh…yes?” Ron glanced at Harry. “And you’re the Old Man-Slash-Uncle-Slash-Father-Slash Husband?”

 

Hermione came around the corner, wand brandished. “There’s got to be a better way to phrase that.”

 

“Ron, Hermione, this is Roger. Roger, this is Hermione and Ron,” said Harry, gesturing impatiently between them. “Now please tell me you actually have a plan for getting out of here.”

 

“I have a plan," Roger grunted, "and if luck is on our side, it’ll work. But first things first.” He produced a schist and pearl engraved blade from his pocket and held it against his hand, slicing down in a quick motion. He let the blood pool in his palm before tipping it and dumping the blood on the floor.

 

With a flash of white light all the items on the shelves disappeared. Roger nodded, expression grimly satisfied. “Will one of you drag Cyril upstairs? These old bones aren’t good for much lifting anymore.”

 

“We could always make use of the shackles and chain him up down here,” Draco suggested.

 

Roger chuckled. “He might deserve it, but I don’t trust leaving him anywhere close to the Altar.” 

 

“Where’d all the stuff go?” asked Ron, hoisting one limp arm over his shoulder while Harry got the other. “The ties? Anchors? You know what I mean.”

 

“Sacrificed.” Roger shrugged. “Not sure where it all actually ends up. If this were a normal transfer of Custodianship, I’d have to go out and steal new items to place on the Altar myself. As it stands, now no one is protected by the Net. And hopefully, no one will need it.”

 

“Yeah, about that…we got a Patronus message from Amos while you lot were in here dealing with Mr. Hero-Complex.” Ron jerked his head towards Cyril, whose head lolled on his comatose body. “The dementors are apparently circling around the perimeter of the town, or something? It didn’t sound great.”

 

“Is that what took you so long to get here?” Draco stretched his back with a groan, now almost completely back to himself. He pulled off the too-small shoes and held one in each hand—he'd need to change out of the dress before the seams ripped. The only thing that could make this any less dignified would be shredded clothing. "We said 'Jenga' so many times…" 

 

“The debt collectors do this every time the wards reset,” Roger explained, ushering them through the pocket lab. “There’s nothing more tempting to them than a town that’s unprotected. Normally, we’d distract them with a new sacrifice while we gather everyone in Gleyma here in the Church where the collectors can’t get them. During that time, it’s easy enough to go into everyone’s houses and take something small and personal and to place on the Altar.”

 

“We’re definitely not doing that this time, right?” asked Hermione. “Because I am very much not okay with that.”

 

“Definitely not,” Roger confirmed.

 

"Where is Mrs. Frond?” asked Harry.

 

“I’m right here,” a voice said cheerfully. Sitting on what could only be a conjured chair was Vivien, watching over an unconscious Queenie. “This has been the worst Remembrance Ball in my life, I think.”

 

Hermione frowned at her. “I left you resting outside.”

 

“Yes, dear, I found the biscuits you left. Oh, and the blood replenishing potion! Who brewed that, by the way? Tastes much better than I remembered.”

 

Draco waved.

 

“Ah, of course. Abraxas’ progeny. I should have known.”

 

“How are you feeling?” Draco asked. He still had his manners, after all.

 

“Like I went for a bout with a manticore,” she replied.

 

“We were only gone for five minutes,” Hermione whispered, mostly to herself. “How?”

 

“Vivien,” Roger said, voice softening. Draco didn’t get the impression Roger’s voice was one that did things like soften all that often. 

 

Vivien's eyebrows rose in awe. “I know that voice…Roger? Do my ears play tricks? Am I dreaming?”

 

“No. It's me.” Roger shifted awkwardly, smile pained. “I didn't expect to see you like this. I’ll explain everything later. We have a town to save.”

 

“You’re going to attempt it, then.” Her gaze drifted to Cyril, still thoroughly knocked out. 

 

“Vivien, I—yes. This has gone on for long enough.”

 

They stared at each other for a long time. Draco rather thought they could have avoided questioning Queenie over Roger’s identity if they’d just put him and Vivien in a room together. Even with age and memory faded, they acted like an old married couple.

 

Finally, she nodded. “Good. I suppose you’ll need someone to watch over these two nincompoops? I’m not much good for anything but sitting right now, anyway.”

 

“If you’re willing to take these two idiots off our hands, we’d be eternally grateful,” said Ron, shaking the unconscious Cyril. 

 

“Best we lock them up somewhere they can’t hurt anyone. Including themselves.”

 

“There is a, uh, holding cell in the tent,” Draco offered. 

 

“Of course there is,” Ron mumbled. “Is it a sex thing? No, actually. I don’t want to know.”

 

“It belonged to my grandfather originally—”

 

“I SAID I DON’T WANT TO KNOW.”

 

“We can set the tent up inside Cosmic Latte, then,” suggested Harry. "It's closer to here than the bonfire pit."

 

"We'll be needing the bonfire pit for other things, anyway," said Roger, eyes darkening. Draco tried not to find anything ominous about it.

 

Vivien and Roger caught flirty glances at each other while arranging who would levitate whom and whether Vivien could walk (she said yes, Roger said she didn't need to prove anything, to which she said she knew). It was decidedly very sweet. Draco had gone soft, clearly. Being a Hufflepuff was obviously catching.

 

“Draco,” Hermione whispered, pulling him aside, “what just happened down there?”

 

Draco sighed. “Well, I’m fairly certain Roger just re-installed himself as the Custodian. Why?”

 

“I just…didn’t expect it to be like that. So…simple, I guess?”

 

“What about all this—” Draco gestured to the sigils drawn in blood all over the church “—says simple to you?”

 

“Sure, displacing Queenie was a lot of work, but the rest? He just—put a bit of his blood on the ground. He didn’t even say anything!”

 

“Young lady, you have something confused, I think,” Roger interrupted. Apparently, he'd been listening while flirting with his wife. “There’s a reason it’s so simple to take over if you have access to the Altar. I’m only a Custodian of the Wards, but that’s a bit of a misnomer. The only thing any of us ever controlled is the Net. None of us are actually inheriting the title of Heir. The one who keeps the wards is the magic of the Earth itself.” 

 

“The Earth itself?” Hermione repeated. “You can’t take control from something like that.” 

 

Vivien nodded. “Right you are. You have to convince it to let go.”

 

Hermione, at least, seemed pleased to have been right.

 

“How?” asked Harry. “You said you’d explain everything later. It's later. Start talking.”

 

“So I did. And I will. But I’d prefer to explain everything en route. Time is short.” He motioned towards the door, already on the move.

 

“Is it alright to just leave all these…sigils and blood up?” asked Draco, transfiguring his clothing back to its proper size.

 

“Probably not…” Ron hedged, looking queasy.

 

Of all the things Vivien had forgotten, apparently one of the things she remembered were cleaning spells. With a quick swish of her wand, most of the bloody sigils disappeared, if not the lingering scent of iron in the air. “Oh, that felt good. Missed old reliable. That should be sufficient, I think," she said, satisfied. "Haven't had to use that one since the war."

 

They all stared at her. "Oh, don't look so surprised. If anyone knows how to get blood out of the walls, it's a witch."

 

"Do I want to know?" Ron muttered.

 

"Probably not," Harry advised.

 

They made a strange procession, with two unconscious Baases floating in front of them and Roger hovering behind Vivien as though unsure whether his assistance would be welcomed. Now that he was standing next to her, it was clear how very much Roger cared for Vivien—the way he’d brushed her hair from her face, squeezed her hand, looked at her. Draco hoped for Vivien’s sake that once they left this place, she’d get all her memories back. 

 

To his credit, Roger wasted no time in beginning his explanation once they were en route to Cosmic Latte. “Understand, my knowledge of this is piecemeal. There’s not exactly a guide written down. But from what I gather, the runic circles were made and placed to pull magic from the land itself to maintain the wards.”

 

“Is that possible?” asked Harry. 

 

“It’s in the field of ancient magic, which Hogwarts cancelled classes for shortly before we enrolled,” Hermione said bitterly. “But it should be possible, in theory.”

 

“Yes,” Draco agreed, “pulling from the earth’s energy to maintain a ward, as long as the function were simple…it could really only do one thing, I imagine…”

 

“Yeah,” said Roger. “Erase your memories of the place. Or rather, a command: forget. It’s right there in the name. Gleyma.”

 

"Oh, right, of course," Ron muttered mutinously. "It's right there in the name. How could any of us have missed that?"  

 

“I guess none of you speak Old Norse," said Vivien, amused. "Or visited the library.”

 

“I did visit the library, actually,” Draco informed them. At Harry’s dubious look, he amended, “Briefly. The librarian wasn’t a huge fan of me.”

 

“Don’t take it personally, she’s not a fan of anyone,” said Roger.

 

Harry bumped shoulders with him, a small moment of camaraderie between them. “I also tried doing some library research when I could. It wasn’t exactly a priority.”

 

“Putting that aside,” said Ron, “why would anyone name their town ‘forget’?”

 

“According to the librarian," Roger began, "Gleyma means 'to be merry' as well as 'to forget'. So I suppose the idea is Gleyma is meant to be a place to ‘be merry and forget your troubles’.”

 

Draco hummed. “That’s actually quite clever…integrating the spell into the very name itself, reinforcing the imperative every time the name is repeated…it’s an old magic. A strong one. Names have power. Why do you think the Dark Lord was so choosy about his?”

 

Ron shrugged. “I dunno. Probably because he thought 'Tom' wasn’t special enough. Who cares?”  

 

“Dumbledore always said fear of a name inspires fear of the thing itself…” Hermione mused.

 

"Dumbledore?" Vivien repeated. "Albus Dumbledore? He's still relevant?"

 

"Not anymore," Ron said darkly. "He died during the— "

 

Harry interrupted him. "Can we stay focused, please?"

 

“Okay.” Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. “So, let me see if I have this straight. The old wards are connected to the runic circles, maintained by the name and the natural passage of time. 500 years ago, along comes Abnus Black, a squib convinced he isn’t a squib, with a stolen magical artifact from his ancestral family home. He doesn’t have enough magic to maintain it himself…but if he somehow connects it to the pre-existing wards, the magic of the earth it will maintain the Net.”

 

“Yes,” Roger agreed, “but while the old wards are self-sustaining, the Net is not. As you saw, it needs ties to the people it takes from. I’m not sure if that’s how it originally worked, or if that was an effect of connecting it to the wards already here. In any case, it needs people to interface with it in order to protect the town.”

 

“How do you go from that to willingly sacrificing people to become dementors? Or, Debt Collectors, rather,” Hermione added.

 

“Well, it's not so difficult to understand. Abnus installed the Net to protect himself; he didn't care about anyone else here. But he couldn’t use the Net with only his own memories; he needed a whole town’s worth of people to maintain a shield to stop the Debt Collectors. And once a person no longer has any happy memories to give, they’re just a burden. Better to cast them out and make space for someone new.”

 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if Abnus wanted to test whether someone could ‘get their magic back’,” Harry mused, “and without the suffering element, it wasn’t possible, according to the theory Gleyma was founded on.” 

 

“Maybe so. But I also know that if you don’t pick someone, the wards will sacrifice someone of their own accord.”

 

A grim silence fell over them.

 

Hermione cleared her throat; there was no time to process everyting right now. “Why would the Blacks make a way to unlock the wards in the first place? This was their place to ‘hide their shame’, so to speak.”

 

“Perhaps in case they wanted the land back someday?” Ron offered.

 

Roger and Vivien exchanged a long look. Perhaps he was wondering if she'd remembered? She had helped him figure this out all those years ago, afer all.

 

“I don’t know much about the Black Family,” Roger admitted, “but far as I can reckon, it’s not that they wanted to be able to unlock the wards. It’s just a feature of how they constructed the wards. To be strong, it needed structure, and anything with structure can be. Well." 

 

"De- constructed,” Vivien finished.

 

“Great,” said Ron. “Let’s get to it, then. What do we need to do?”

 

Roger smiled, and for the first time, Draco could believe he was related to the Blacks. “First, I need to know: when are your birthdays?”

 

— — — 

 

“Talk me through the plan once more.”

 

Draco bit back a sigh and explained (for the third time) the plan. “The four of us set off from Cosmic Latte, we walk in a straight line in a predetermined cardinal direction, we find our designated runic circles, we go inside them, we send up sparks so Roger knows we’re all in place. We don’t leave the circles until the wards are unlocked. It’s not that complicated, Ronald.”

 

“Yeah, but see, the part I’m confused about is the part where everyone decided that I was the man for the job when it came to finding the one that’s in the ocean where all the bloody dementors are made!"

 

“You’re the tallest, and the best swimmer,” Harry said, glossing over the dementor bit.

 

Draco's stomach was still turning from that explanation. He’d managed to put it aside to deal with everything else, but there was only so long he could ignore it. I’m going to need some major therapy after this, he decided.

 

“Do you actually know that?” Hermione asked. “Ron is a great swimmer, I mean. Just. Are you remembering things?”

 

Harry smiled. “I'm fairly sure I almost drowned once. Ron saved me, yeah?”

 

“You do remember!” Ron beamed, but it quickly morphed into a frown. “That was different, though. It’s not like you can’t swim. I mean, you did save me from the bottom of a lake once, not that I was really at any risk but you didn’t know that—” 

 

Draco had had quite enough. “It has nothing to do with swimming ability or height and everything to do with the fact that your zodiac sun sign is a water sign, Ron. If you want to blame someone, blame your parents for making you a Pisces.”

 

“I still can’t believe we just so happened to have a Virgo, a Leo, a Pisces, and a Gemini: a sign for every element and runic circle! Sounds like a set-up for a joke. Or a set-up for something, anyway,” Ron mumbled. 

 

It was incredibly lucky. That, if nothing else, gave Draco hope that this was meant to be. Not that he put much stock in divination, but it was hard not to be at least somewhat of a believer when you were acquainted with the Boy Who Lived, known prophecy-filler. 

 

“It’s convenient, I’ll give you that. Almost too convenient.”

 

“There’s nothing convenient about trying to find an underwater runic circle at night while being swarmed by dementors,” Ron grumbled to himself, again.

 

“Dementors can’t swim, Ron," Hermione offered. "They have to wait for the bodies to float up again. Like killer bees. If anything, you’ll be safer than anyone once you get down there.”

 

“Hermione, I love you, but that is the furthest thing from helpful you’ve ever said.”

 

“At least you have a general idea where to go,” Draco pointed out. “I just have to wander through the forest, hoping for the best…”

 

"The four of you will be fine," Roger said, decisively ending the conversation. "You can defend yourselves if it comes to it. Besides, as long as you're in one of the circles, and as long as you don’t dilly-dally on your way to the circles, you should arrive far before the debt collectors make it through what remains of the Net."

 

"But you won't be fine,” Ron pointed out. “If you get attacked by the dementors while doing your—walking, thing—then where will we be?"

 

"They can’t attack the Custodian—” Roger began, but he was quickly cut off.

 

“What about after the test ends?” asked Harry. “When the wards ‘unlock’, won’t your designation as 'Custodian' end? Won’t that leave you vulnerable?”

 

Roger shrugged. “Guess we'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

 

According to Roger’s (somewhat dubious) claims, the dementors should "leave once the wards dissipated", without anything keeping them there, “alive or otherwise”. He’d then told them to “let me worry about it” because “you youngsters have enough to focus on.”

 

By that point, they’d arrived at Cosmic Latte, and hadn’t had the time to discuss it any further. 

 

“I don’t know what will happen to you once I start walking the path,” Roger admitted, “but from what I understand, old magic like this doesn’t like to be undone. According to Abnus’ writings, the wards here have something of a personality.”

 

“The wards at Hogwarts are like that,” said Hermione, nerves pushing her to fall back on the things she did know. “According to ‘Hogwarts, A History’, the founders put elements of their own personalities into the wards.”

 

“If the ancient Blacks did that here I imagine we’re in for a fuckening of some kind,” said Ron.

 

Roger sighed, removing his hunter’s cap and running a hand through his hair. “Aye, I don’t imagine it’ll be a cake walk for any of us. The wards might try any kind of trickery to get you to abandon the effort, but I cannot stress enough that you four are the linchpins holding open the door to the maze, so to speak. There is no test run. This is it.”

 

“No pressure,” Harry said lightly.

 

“How will we know that you’ve managed to complete the circuit?” Hermione asked.

 

“Hopefully, it’ll be obvious. Fail that, it’s never taken me more than an hour to walk it, even with these old joints.”

 

“And if you should fail?” Draco pressed. “Encounter unexpected obstacles?” He didn’t like being the pessimist, but someone had to be.

 

“I won’t. But if I do…Viv knows the path. You can try again.”

 

“What happens if the Custodian dies without transferring their title?”

 

“Then there is no Custodian until someone else claims the responsibility. But, if I walk this path, and unlock the wards, and we convince the earth to let go of the ties binding us here…there shouldn’t be any title left to claim. It’ll just go back to being a dormant, normal town, and the debt collectors should leave. And then you can take the Net,” he added, nodding to Harry. “Everybody wins.” 

 

“Ok, but—”

 

“Enough questions; we’ve dawdled long enough. I’ve told you everything I know, and everything you need to know. We need to get started.”

 

The plan was…less solid than Draco liked. But it was better than the alternative—which, there really wasn't, anyway. Rounding up all the dementors and destroying them wouldn’t solve the problem of all of them being stuck here. So hopefully all the dementors would just…leave. After the wards were taken down. And the Net was uninstalled. 

 

Alright, so that didn’t seem likely, but they were going to have to do something about the dementors, anyway. After all this. Draco couldn’t see Harry just accepting letting dementors just roam free across the British Isles again. And at least they had two methods. Maybe. Hopefully.

 

One problem at a time, Draco.

 

"So. Do we have an accord?"

 

"Give us a moment to discuss, if you would," Hermione said primly.

 

“Fine. But be quick about it. Every second we stand around talking about it is a moment those debt collectors get closer to collecting.” He pointed out the window to emphasize the fact that there were most certainly dementors out there, circling around the town, searching for a weakness.

 

Hermione nodded. They huddled around her. “So, what do we think?”

 

"I don't like it," Harry said immediately, "but I don't see a better alternative."

 

"I don't see any alternative," Ron admitted. "Much as it pains me to admit."

 

"Will you be alright, Draco?” Hermione asked. “How's your Patronus?"

 

"Well. I can reliably cast it non-corporeally when there's not any dementors around. And I almost cast a corporeal one this morning, before I was knocked over the head and dragged to Queenie’s office. So. Obviously, I’m not worried at all." It felt like it had been months since he’d been practicing his Patronus in the forest. The fact that it had been that morning just didn’t seem possible, given all that had happened.

 

Harry stared at him as if thinking extremely hard about something. "I'll just have to walk you to your designated runic circle, then."

 

Draco couldn’t help but to smile. It was a wonderful thing, to be the focus of the protectiveness of Harry Potter. “You can't do that. We all have to walk in a straight line directly to our designated runic circles.”

 

“I don’t like sending you out alone like this.”

 

“You don’t have a choice.”

 

Harry looked like he wanted to argue, but he must have known it was a luxury they didn’t have time for. “Take Beatrix,” he said decisively. “She’ll keep you grounded in case…in case you need a friend.” He waited for Draco to agree before whispering something to her and placing her on Draco’s shoulder. She slithered up and coiled around him like a scarf. Only a month ago he couldn't have imagined feeling comforted about a snake wrapped around his neck.

 

My, how times had changed.

 

“What about you, Harry?” Hermione asked, worry lacing her tone. “From what I understand, last time you produced a Patronus, it didn’t go…great.”

 

“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” Harry said quietly. “But if it does, I’d rather endure the agony of all my memories returning at once than having my soul sucked out of me.”

 

With nothing left to add, there was nothing to do but set out. “Alright. We’re ready.”

 

Roger nodded. “See you on the other side.”

 

— — —

 

In spite of all the planning and the chatty, jovial attitude prior to starting, they didn’t exchange so much as a ‘good luck’ as they set off into the night, each in their separate directions. Perhaps it was just the effect of Gleyma, or maybe was the daunting task ahead.

 

All told, it was far easier to get to the air-element runic circle than Draco would have thought. It didn’t call to him, exactly, but it was as though the path there was obvious now that he knew to look for it. After only twenty minutes of walking an eerily familiar trail, he arrived at a clearing, in the centre of which was a structure shaped from trees. At least, that’s what he assumed; it didn’t look like wood, exactly, but it didn't look like any material he’d encountered before, either. Whatever it was made from, the material was a perfect circle of arches reaching up to the sky. There didn’t seem to be anything above it, nor was it surrounding anything but what appeared to be a very deep pit, the gnarled roots of the trees reaching down and out of view. There was, however, a staircase wrapping around the arches.

 

Obviously, there was nothing to do but climb.

 

At the top of the stairs it became clear that there was some kind of platform above the arches, visible only for the fallen leaves resting on it. The drop wasn’t terribly far, only three metres or so. At least, three metres or so until it disappeared into complete darkness, but he could cast a hover charm on himself. 

 

Draco wasn’t in the habit of blindly trusting things like invisible platforms hidden deep in the woods. But, this was what he had come here to do. With no small amount of trepidation, he stepped out onto seemingly nothing— 

 

And found purchase. He exhaled a deep sigh of relief and made his way to the centre, because that seemed like the best place to be so as not to accidentally leave the runic circle. From up there, he could see runes carved on the inside of the arches. They were strange in the same way that the runes at the bonfire pit were strange—old and uncodified and, unfortunately, unreadable. It might have said something about ‘gusts’ and something about ‘daring’, but he really couldn’t have said.

 

Anyway, Draco wasn’t here to read. He was here to ‘hold open the lock’, so to speak. With a grounding breath in, he sent up purple sparks to hover in the sky.

 

He must have been the last one to arrive, because no sooner had the sparks crested over the treetops did something happen. The runes all lit up with soft white light, which would have been rather lovely had it not been for the groan that precipitated wind blasting him from all sides, caught like a leaf in a storm. If he hadn’t had the good fortune to quickly cast a stone tether charm, he very well may have been blown off the platform into the pit. Or worse.

 

Draco remembered, then, that this was the air-aligned circle. He could only imagine what the others were going through, each with their own elements. 

 

In the sky over Gleyma, bright lights like the aurora borealis lit up the night, visible only to those who know to look. 

 

And in an ancient townhouse in London, abandoned so many times it almost felt normal to be empty, the slumbering magic began to struggle awake. Only a house elf was around to notice, and he wasn’t one for hope, but he couldn’t help but to feel something awaken in him as well.

 

---

 

Harry tried to focus on the fact that Vivien had Pigwidgeon (at Ron’s insistence) to call for help if needed. He tried not to think about the fact that Draco was walking towards the location where they'd last seen dementors, alone and only dubiously defended. (When he inevitably did think of it, he tried to find comfort in remembering that Draco hadn’t had any problems walking through the woods, while Harry had been encumbered by trees and bushes endlessly. It would be fine. He had to believe that, or he wouldn’t be able to keep walking forward).

 

All too soon, he arrived back at the church. Strictly speaking, he’d never been there alone before. Despite the fact that they’d left the braziers lit when they went to Cosmic Latte, the interior was completely dark now, and cold like a winter’s hearth.

 

He stepped inside, unsure whether to expect a noticeable difference, but there wasn’t one. He tried to light the braziers, to no effect, which was…mildly disconcerting.

 

There’s probably a reason, he decided. With nothing else for it, he walked to the centre of the room, sending a flurry of red sparks out the door to hover in the sky. He wouldn’t be able to see when the others arrived from inside the church, but as long as Roger could see, that was all that mattered.

 

Not ten minutes had passed when something began to shift. One by one, the braziers lit up with roaring red flames, reaching nearly to the ceiling—which was impressive, given that it was by far the tallest building in Gleyma. But the fire didn’t stop there; with a burst of heat, the floor lit up as well, rushing towards him like a wildfire. A hastily cast flame freezing charm prevented any damage, but it was now more clear than ever what Roger had meant by ‘unforeseen obstacles’. 

 

He could only hope the others were faring alright. In any case, the trial had begun. All he had to do was stay here, unmoving. At least the flames aren’t green, he thought. At least it’s not fiendfyre. 

 

After about fifteen minutes of this, Harry was almost starting to get used to the feeling of flames flickering at his sides. He thought he remembered someone telling him once that it was supposed to tickle, but Harry rather thought it felt more like an itch he couldn’t scratch. Not painful, but uncomfortable all the same.

 

Of course, as if sensing this, the trial changed abruptly. The flames disappeared, the church once again going dark as if nothing had ever happened there. The church doors creaked open while somewhere behind him Harry heard the sound of stone grinding on stone. He turned to see a piece of the floor had dropped away to reveal a descending stone staircase.

 

It seemed his options were giving up and leaving or proceeding. He could probably stay in the church, but he was afraid if he didn’t take the opportunity to see where the stairs went, he might miss it. This wasn't part of the plan, but it did seem to be part of the test.

 

With a deep breath, Harry took one last look around the church. There was nothing to see, which was as disappointing as it was chilling. Best get on with it, then, he decided.

 

Somehow, he got the impression that this was his element. Rushing into the unknown.

 

The stairs descended for about three metres, levelling out flat into a hallway that led to an archway of pure darkness. He tried sending orbs of light to see what was beyond, but the black of it ate up any attempts at investigation. Just when he thought perhaps he shouldn’t have come down here after all, the sound of grinding stone returned as the ceiling closed above him, shutting him in darkness.

 

No way out but through, then. A test of courage, perhaps? Or a test of will, at the very least.

 

The dark was impenetrable to the point that Harry couldn't see his hand even when he held it right in front of his face, so he had no other option but to walk down the tunnel with one hand on the wall to guide him. It was cold and rough, and on occasion his hand brushed through something unpleasant—it was either cold, or slimy, or sticky, or covered in holes that felt like finger-sized burrows, catching at his fingertips as he walked along. As he walked he regularly experienced what could only be spiderwebs, fine enough to walk through but substantial enough to be noticeable. He could feel the strands clinging to his hair and clothing; it made him almost miss the fire.

 

Sometimes he felt dizzy, as though the ground were shifting. For all he knew, it might have been. Without any visuals to orient himself, it was impossible to tell. In those moments he was almost grateful for whatever disgusting substance was on the wall; it kept him grounded to something tangible, even if he didn't know what it was.

 

The worst part of it was the sense that he was being watched. There was almost no sound in the tunnel, other than Harry's own footsteps and breathing. But sometimes he stopped, just to listen. Just to be sure. He was undecided whether being isolated down here were better than being followed (or stalked, as it were), but he didn't want to be surprised, either. The mounting dread was bad enough that he almost wished something would happen, if only to break the tension of waiting.   

 

He carried on in what felt like a vaguely downward direction for about fifteen minutes before he saw a pale light up ahead. About three minutes later (during which he tried not to run), the hallway opened up into a round antechamber. Shimmering in the middle of the room were bluish letters in a language he couldn’t read, quickly morphing into various shapes until they settled in English, then switching to another language he couldn’t read, and another. It took a few rotations, but eventually he got the full message. Underneath the letters were four stone basins, laid out in a diamond pattern. Harry couldn't see the bottom of them, though whether that was because there was no bottom or because there simply wasn't enough light, he couldn't say. 

 

Choose your danger, choose it well.

Your pride may well your hell foretell.  

A word of wisdom: tarry not 

Or by the sands of time be caught 

 

So it was a riddle, then. And he had to solve it to proceed. If he had to guess (and he did), it seemed like there was a certain…theme here. And it wasn’t a difficult riddle, after all. Four basins, four runic circles, four magicians, four elements. And he had to pick one. Probably.

 

He sent a jet of flame into the basin closest. It burned there momentarily, unmoving. He waited, but nothing happened. Perhaps he needed to put something in every basin? What order were they supposed to go in? If he remembered correctly, fire and water weren't supposed to go next to each other. Easy enough—he sent a stream of water into the basin farthest from him. Now, how to determine where earth and air went? 

 

He thought about it for five minutes or so, but the riddle said not to take too long. He didn't know what the consequences would be, but he wasn't too keen on finding out. He sent a gust of wind into the basin to the right and conjured a pile of dirt for the remaining basin.

 

The basins sat there for a moment before the conjured elements seemed to get sucked up into a recess in the ceiling, only briefly visible from as the fire disappeared inside it. 

 

After a brief pause, Harry heard again the sound of grinding stone he was getting accustomed to, signalling that the passage he’d come through was closed. He turned around to check, just in case, but before he got a chance to look closely, he felt the floor shifting around him—the stone walls sunk into the ground, leaving him on a slightly raised rectangular platform, curved at the back. He was at the back of a much larger room, somewhat triangular in shape. More like a pizza slice, he decided, with the platform being the crust.

 

As the floor stopped moving, he saw that the chamber was actually much larger than he’d originally thought. It had about the same dimensions as the roundabout circling Cosmic Latte—about 30 metres across—and indeed he wondered if he were below that area of central Gleyma, given that he’d walked for quite a while through the creepy dark tunnel. What he’d thought to be the original walls of the room were in fact sheets of glass lit from below by unseen, flickering light. Through the glass, and similarly divided from one another by glass partitions, he saw his friends. Ron was across from him, while Draco was on his right, and Hermione on his left.

 

Ron was soaked to the bone, wet and miserable, while Hermione had clods of dirt clinging to her hair and clothes. Draco looked fine, if not wind-swept and disgruntled. It was, unfortunately, a good look on him. Harry could see Beatrix peeking out from inside his shirt, looking fine.

 

“Oh good, we’re all still alive,” Draco drawled. It filled Harry with warmth to hear him again, though it hadn’t been that long since they’d been separated.

 

“Is everyone alright?” Harry asked. “No injuries?”

 

“Only my pride,” said Hermione wearily. “Dexterity is not my strong point.”

 

“What now?” asked Ron.

 

As if waiting for those words, the ceiling rumbled as a stone pillar dropped in the centre. It had four archways, one facing each of their respective sections of the circular chamber. The arch facing Harry was covered in stone—locked, no doubt, until they'd "cleared" this obstacle, whatever it might be. If he squinted, he could see there was a symbol over the archway. It almost looked like a spade, but it was hard to say for certain.

 

As the central pillar came to rest, they all waited, barely daring to breathe, but nothing happened.

 

“Right, that’s it, then?” said Ron, cracking his knuckles and taking a step forward.

 

Across the expanse of space between Draco and the pillar, several bolts of electricity rained down from above at such an intensity that Draco would have been knocked out if not killed had he been standing there.

 

“Ok, so don’t do that,” Ron said meekly, stepping back.

 

“How am I meant to get across if Weasley's steps will literally kill me?” asked Draco.

 

“We could cross one at a time?” Harry suggested.

 

“I doubt that,” said Hermione, “look behind you.”

 

Harry did. “Oh, great. Is anyone else’s chamber rapidly filling with sand, or am I just lucky?”

 

“Sorry mate,” said Ron. 

 

Harry quickly evaluated his surroundings—the sand was rapidly building up, nearly to his ankles now, with no signs of slowing. Curiously, it was not filling up equally into the chamber before him. If anything, it seemed the point was to push him to cross. To push all of them to cross.

 

He looked across the death-chamber to the pillar, hoping for clues. All he saw was an archway, still covered with stone, with the symbol above it. And if the pattern followed… “I have a feeling those doors won’t open until we’ve all crossed. You can’t enter the next area until you complete the previous one.”

 

A gust of freezing rays struck from the ceiling of Ron’s chamber then, leaving the floor coated in ice. “Sorry, that was me,” said Hermione. “I was testing a theory.”

 

“I’m glad you were willing to kill for it,” Draco said dryly. "My chamber is filling with sand now as well. Cheers."

 

“So, as soon as one of us crosses or starts crossing, the others have to do so as well or else get stuck here?” Harry summarized.

 

“Or zapped. Or iced.” Ron groaned. “Seems like the type of thing the Blacks would do.”

 

“It was worthwhile to test it," Hermione insisted. "Look at the ground, what do you see?”

 

Harry wanted to argue that they didn’t have time for this, but it would waste said time to argue over it. “I see tiles.”

 

“Exactly. And only some of them are trapped; I checked. Only one of the tiles I stepped on triggered the trap in Ron’s chamber—"

 

"And the sand in mine," Draco interjected.

 

Unperturbed, Hermione continued, "The other tile—the one that didn't trigger the trap or the sand—turned green.” Hermione smiled. “This is a puzzle.”

 

“But if we misstep, someone else pays the price!” Ron objected. “How are we supposed to know where to step?”

 

“I’m thinking,” said Hermione. “Give me a minute.” 

 

“You have one minute, maybe two, to think, and then we’ll have to cross, ready or not,” said Draco.

 

Harry looked even more desperately for clues. On the ceiling, on the platform, along the walls, on the floor. If he looked closely, he could almost swear he saw a faint outline of some pattern on the tiles, but it was too dark to see well. 

 

Only now did he see what the riddle had meant by 'sands of time' and 'tarry not'. He officially was not a fan of riddles.

 

Ron groaned again. “No offense, Draco, but your family sucks.”

 

“I can’t argue with that.”

 

Hermione cleared her throat. “You can snipe at each other when we make it through. So when Ron takes a wrong step, Draco gets zapped, and Harry’s section fills with sand. When I take a step, Ron gets punished, and Draco’s chamber starts to fill with sand. So if Harry takes a wrong step, my section will try to attack me, and Ron’s section will fill with sand, and if Draco takes a wrong step, then Harry will get burned, and my section will fill with sand.”

 

“Wonderful. You’ve figured out how exactly we’re going to hurt each other before ultimately suffocating down here. Top marks, Granger.”

 

“There has to be a pattern,” Hermione muttered, ignoring Draco’s remark. “Everyone, look for patterns! Some basic shape to walk.”

 

Harry could barely see the platform he was standing on, but hopefully someone else would have more luck finding the pattern. "There's a spade above the arch across from me," he offered. "Is that anything?"

 

"My arch has a club above it," said Hermione. "Draco, Ron, what do you see?"

 

"I've got a heart," said Draco.

 

"And I've got a diamond." 

 

"Okay, so card suits. That's a clue. But what does it mean?"  Hermione began to pace on her small rectangle, hands in her hair and a manic glint in her eye.

 

"I could, er, try to walk in a spade shape?" offered Harry.

 

"no. It's too complicated," said Hermione. 

 

“Well, I dunno if it helps us,” Ron piped up after a moment, “but I know each card suit corresponds to an element. And a tarot suit. For the minor arcana, that is. It fits the theme.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Ron cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, uh. When I was dating Lavender, she was really into Divination and tarot. She tried to get me interested in it, so I read some books. Apparently, card suits and tarot suits have the same historical origin. The bits about the link to alchemy were actually pretty interesting," he finished sheepishly.

 

"I see," said Hermione, voice frosty. "Thank you for that illuminating bit of backstory, but I really don't think—"

 

"Hold on, I think Ron's onto something," Draco interrupted. "The playing card suits are too complicated to walk, but what about the alchemical symbols?"

 

"What about them?" asked Hermione. "Alchemy is almost as ridiculous as astrology."

 

"Yeah, but the people who made this hell-town believed in astrology. And probably alchemy."

 

"Hogwarts didn’t have an alchemy class,” Hermione pointed out.

 

Ron sighed. “Yet again Hogwarts’ cancelled curriculum kneecaps our efforts to live.”

 

“Well, that’s great and all, everyone, but how does it help us?” Harry said impatiently. “Because I’m almost knee deep in sand, you know. So any solutions would be helpful. So what do we know about alchemy? or Alchemical symbols?”

 

“Not enough," said Ron.

 

"The symbols for the four basic elements all are some variation of triangle," said Draco. Helpfully.

 

Hermione stared at him gobsmacked. 

 

"Some of us like reading things, even if they don't teach a course at Hogwarts," Draco said. Defensively.

 

"I like reading things just because! I'll bet you just wanted to make a philosopher's stone," Hermione accused.

 

"Can we please focus. Draco: you were saying something about triangles?"

 

"Yes, right."

 

They all waited for Draco to continue, but he didn't say anything further.

 

"Well?" Hermione prompted.

 

"I'm thinking!"

 

"Right, well. While you're thinking, trying to remember some book you read once—"

 

"I read it thrice, in fact."

 

"—the rest of us will just—"

 

"Hey, hey, swots?" Ron snapped a couple of times. "Stop talking a second. This thing I'm standing on has a triangle on it. Coincidence? I think not!"

 

Hermione and Draco both paused long enough to process, before erupting into simultaneous bouts of questioning and criticisms.

 

"Maybe you two should stop fighting and take a look at your own platforms," Harry advised. 

 

"Well, Harry, does your platform also have a triangle on it?" Hermione asked, tone terse.

 

"My platform is covered in sand," Harry informed her, "but while you were bickering I cleared enough of it off to see that yeah, there's a triangle."

 

"Is it upside-down or right-side up?" asked Draco.

 

"Er—"

 

"And does it have any lines through it?"

 

"It looks like a mountain?" Harry said. "One of the sides is facing me and the pointy bit is pointing at the pillar."

 

"Opposite of mine, then," Ron said cheerfully.

 

"I'll remind you both that triangles have three pointy bits," Hermione said.

 

"From what I recall of alchemy signs…that tracks," said Draco, less certainly than Harry would have preferred.

 

Hermione sighed. "My platform has an equilateral triangle with a line bisecting the top third. It's orientated the same way as Ron's."

 

"And mine's the opposite of yours," Draco concluded.

 

“Okay. Okay. Okay. What if the symbols on our platforms are the patterns we’re supposed to walk?" Hermione said, thinking out loud. "Or—it’s the pattern someone is supposed to walk?"

 

"That makes sense to me," Draco mused.

 

Harry noticed then that the sand was spilling over his platform and onto the tiles. In some areas, it had depressed the squares enough to turn them green. It wasn't triggering any disasters in the other chamber, at least. 

 

"It seems too simple for the solution to our own door to be the symbol on the platform," Draco continued.

 

"Maybe the card suit above the archways is a clue?" said Ron. "I mean, I've got a diamond, and that doesn't seem very water-like to me. But what do I know?"

 

Draco nodded, hair flopping over his forehead. "Yes, could be—for instance, what if I have Harry’s pattern, because there’s nothing else obviously linking our chambers, but there must be something. The point of this seems to be mutually assured success or destruction.”

 

“It’s better than my solution,” said Ron. “My solution is to run for it and hope for the best.”

 

“If we do that, we won’t unlock the door to the next—Harry, what are you doing?” Hermione asked, far more calmly than the situation warranted.

 

What Harry was doing was walking on the tiles in a triangle, with the pointy bit pointed at the pillar. He thought it was rather obvious, but he still explained, "I'm doing what you did. Testing a theory. Also, there wasn't any space left on my platform, on account of it being covered in sand."

 

"I know you've got the whole reckless thing going for you, Harry, but—"

 

"It was a calculated theory," he continued. "The sand pressed some tiles, and they turned green. From the sound of it, the only two orientations on the table are 'pointy bit away from the pillar' and 'pointy bit towards the pillar'. And since it doesn't seem likely they'd just give us all our own key to unlock the doors on the pillar, most likely I have the shape Draco described."

 

They stared at him. He shrugged. "I can deduce stuff, too."

 

"And if you'd been wrong?" Ron asked.

 

"Then I would have apologized to Hermione. And to you, I s'pose, for the sand."

 

Ron shrugged, and started carefully stepping on tiles of his own.

 

"Ronald! You aren't supposed to follow him!" said Hermione.

 

"I have before, and it turned out fine. Besides, I can tell my triangle is orientated with the pointy bit towards me, since I set off a trap before." He smiled. "This stupid puzzle ain't shit."

 

Draco was the next to step off his platform. "Sorry, Granger, but I've also run out of space on my platform. Following the pattern, I get an inverted triangle, and you get the most normal one of all."

 

Hermione grumbled something uncharitable about all of them under her breath, but started stepping on tiles all the same.

 

Mutually assured destruction or success, indeed.

 

They managed to pick their way across with only a couple of close calls. Hermione was the first to finish, given that hers was the most straightforward. She exclaimed happily when the club over her archway lit up and the passage opened. "I'll see you all at the top, I suppose."

 

"Best not to wait," Ron agreed. He was the next to finish, on account of his unfairly long legs.

 

Next was Draco, who didn't say anything before he left, though he did give Harry a very loaded look.

 

Then, finally, Harry.

 

As it turned out, they could only have gone up one at a time, anyway, as the pillar was a sort of lift. At least, that’s what Harry concluded based on his vague memories of lifts. There weren’t any buildings in Gleyma with lifts, but Harry knew he’d encountered at least one lift in his life. Probably more. In any case, it hadn’t seemed like they’d been that far underground before, but they must’ve been, considering how long it took the lift to reach the next level and stop.

 

Harry only hoped the next test would be a simple one. He was ready to be done with this by now.

 

He hoped, also, that Roger was faring well. 

 

---

 

As they took the lift—such that it was—Draco reflected on the past month of his life. He’d come to this place looking for moss, and now where was he? Solving riddles, risking his life, fighting ancient curses? He’d always been somewhat jealous of all the adventures of the so-called Golden Trio, but now he was realizing that it was all very well to say it was exciting, but actually living it was another beast altogether.

 

There was little fanfare when the lift ride came to an end. It simply stopped in a dark place that smelt damp and vaguely of mildew and rot. Like a marsh, he decided. Or an old dock at low tide.

 

Back in the dark again, he mused. Aware as he was that it had been the Black family who designed this series of puzzles, he was getting very sorely tired of being alone in pitch darkness. At least this time there were no disturbing sounds or smells.

 

Draco lit a Lumos—and what a relief that he was able to this time—intending to start searching for the others, but appeared to be alone again. “Hello?” he called out, knowing better than to trust his eyes.

 

“Draco.”

 

He froze. He knew that voice. He hadn’t heard it in…well. He didn't care to remember how long. “Father? What—how are you here?”

 

The figure of his father stepped into the light, looking thin and wan. Unwell. But the look on his face was the same as ever. That black cloak and cane were the same, too. “Always asking questions, wanting others to solve your problems for you. I raised you better than that, Draco.”

 

Draco gripped his wand tight and reminded himself that his father loved him. It was a ritual he was familiar with, even if he was out of practice. “That’s not true. I’m here, helping—”

 

“Helping Potter and his little coterie of rebels? How noble. What will they give you if you succeed? A prize? An Order of Merlin? Money?”

 

“Probably nothing,” he admitted. “I’m not doing this for accolades.”

 

His father peered at him, that strange mix of coldness and apathy that Draco had tried his best to forget. “And if you should fail? You’ll either be stuck here, dead, or worst of all: soulless.”

 

“I won’t fail.”

 

“Have you ever succeeded?”

 

“Yes. I've help Blaise and Longbottom with potions and ingredients—”

 

“That’s not what I meant, boy. You didn’t save me from the Dark Lord. You didn’t complete your task for him. You didn’t identify the Potter boy when it would have been our salvation. And even now, what’s changed? You want to be an Auror? You want to enforce the rules like some kind of indigent who has to beg for scraps?" he scoffed, showing exactly what he thought of such people. "And they won’t even let you do that. Instead you waste your time and talents on hunting for moss and drinking mudblood drinks and slumming it with the rabble. And for what? Another chance for them to deny you?”

 

Draco said nothing. He wanted to say none of it was true, but that would be a lie. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said at last. “You’re supposed to be in Azkaban.”

 

“Ah yes, Azkaban. The Wizard Prison which no longer has any dementors thanks to the efforts of your little saviour."

 

Draco felt then the soothing scales of Beatrix, coiling around his neck. It shook him out of the haze that talking to his father put him in. At least, the father that lived on only in his memories. Truthfully, his father had not spoken to Draco like this since fifth year. Since the first time he had been sent to Azkaban, when everything changed.

 

"I suppose they thought this a more fitting punishment," his father continued, as though he'd been put up in an unfit hotel suite instead of being wherever it was they were. Draco could hardly imagine his father, as he had been, in a place like this. "Sending me to a muggle town, locking me down here where I can easily—”

 

This isn’t real, he told himself. And it was true; this wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Draco knew where his father was—he was still on that island in the North Sea. True, there were no longer dementors there, but Azkaban had so long been steeped in misery that it oozed from the walls. 

 

“Then where are the other prisoners? Why aren’t you in chains, or behind bars? Why—”

 

“Is that what you would prefer?” His father’s outfit morphed, the tattered black and grey rags of an Azkaban prisoner. Heavy manacles appeared on his wrists and around his ankles. “Is this how you want to see your father? After everything I did for you? All the opportunities I provided that you squandered?” he snarled, an ugly, feral sound. Wounded, hateful. Rather realistic, according to Draco's nightmares.

 

Even if it were possible for Lucius Malfoy to be here in Gleyma, he would never have lowered himself to this level simply to taunt Draco. “You’re a boggart,” Draco said definitively. “You aren’t real.”

 

“Is that right?” his father—the boggart sneered. “Then why don’t you make me go away? Surely you have the ability to do that, at least.”

 

Draco remembered the lesson as much as he remembered the outcome. He’d refused to learn Riddikulus from Professor Lupin because he didn’t want anyone to see his boggart. He hadn’t wanted to know what it was, really. A known fear was nothing but a weakness—or at least, it had been. He might have thought his fear would be the Dark Lord, or Nagini. But not his father. Never that. His father loved him.

 

He remembered the basic concept behind banishing a boggart, though. Boggarts were weak to laughter. He just had to make this funny. Somehow.

 

And perhaps that was why the boggart had chosen this form, Lucius Malfoy at his peak. There was nothing funny about him. He was, and always had been, above disgrace. That was what Draco had always believed.

 

But now, he knew better. “All those failures of mine were really only your own,” he said. “We would never have been in the position we were in if you hadn’t been a bigot. Or if you had done what Severus did, worked as a spy. An informant. Or if you’d left Britain and taken us with you.”

 

“Ungrateful wretch,” his father, the boggart, hissed.

 

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand, doing something like this to help someone else. For no personal gain at all, except to protect those you love.”

 

“You really believe yourself capable of love like that? Of unlearning selfish ways? If you rescue Harry Potter, how could they deny your application to the Aurors? How could all those people who wrote you off fail to forgive you?”

 

“It’s not about the Aurors—”

 

“You really believe that, don’t you? How sad. You are a Malfoy, Draco. Everything we do is for our own advantage.”

 

“Is that why you went to prison?”

 

“I went to prison because you decided to play at having morals! To betray everything I ever taught you!”

 

And then Draco realized, his father wasn’t the boggart. Or rather, it wasn’t his father that Draco feared. It was merely the medium the boggart had chosen to deliver the message. Because were these not all thoughts he’d had himself? Fears he’d denied, but nurtured anyway in the dead of night? The insecurities that dogged him even now, in the midst of doing what could only be the right thing because it certainly wasn’t the easy thing.

 

“You will never be sorry for what you did,” Draco said. He may never get the chance to say it to his real father, but it wasn’t really about who heard it. It was about allowing himself to express it. “You’re only sorry that you got caught. That you picked the losing side.”

 

“And I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re different? That you truly are sorry?”

 

“I’m trying to be different, and that’s what matters. The trying. The world may not forgive me. I may never forgive myself. But even if I fail here, that I made the effort is what matters to me. Doing the right thing is about doing it, not succeeding at it. I don’t expect you to understand that, but I don’t need you to.”

 

“You say you do this for love, but do you think he could ever love you? Truly? After everything?”

 

“I do,” said Draco. “It’s time for you to go away now.”

 

“You can silence me, Draco, but I’ll never truly be gone.”

 

Maybe not. But Draco had had quite enough. “You still like peacocks, don’t you, father? Riddikulus.”

 

Draco admired his work. It wasn’t exactly funny, but he still tried to laugh anyway. “You make a better bird than a father, boggart.”

 

The boggart squawked indignantly and scurried away. It at least understood the basics of being Lucius Malfoy, it seemed.

 

Now to find the others.

 

He saw now that it wasn’t completely dark down here. Perhaps that had been an effect of the boggart. It was still dark, mind, but enough that a Lumos gave him a fairly decent idea of his surroundings. 

 

It looked like he was in a tunnel of some kind. A sewer, if he had to guess, though it didn’t smell nearly as bad as he would expect a sewer to smell (he'd had the occasion to visit the Paris catacombs, once. Or the misfortune, depending on one's perspective). The only direction to go was left or right, it seemed. A Homenum Revelio showed life to the left, so to the left he went.

 

———

 

He heard her before he saw her—Hermione’s quiet sobs. “Please, I had no choice—”

 

“How many evils have been justified by the claim that there was no choice?” 

 

Draco turned the corner. Kneeling on the ground was Hermione, all but begging an uncharacteristically cold Minerva McGonagall.

 

“You broke my trust, Ms. Granger. For stealing my pensieve, really, losing your Hogwarts accreditation is the least I could do. I ought to report you to the Ministry, have them snap your wand. Not to mention the fact that you lied to your husband, your child, your family. And why? So you could chase Mr. Potter off on some hare-brained scheme? Again? I thought you were smarter than that. Or knew better by now.”

 

“But—”

 

“And perhaps if you’d been paying a bit more attention to him in the first place, none of this would have been necessary. If you’d listened to his concerns, if you hadn’t discouraged him from seeking out Mr. Malfoy, if you hadn’t pushed him to give up his only remaining connection to his family—”

 

“I didn’t know,” Hermione sobbed, “how could I? He didn’t tell me—”

 

“Then you should have asked! You clearly don’t have problems snooping, lying, stealing, all in the name of helping Mr. Potter. Instead, you left him feeling isolated and alone. You really only have yourself to blame.”

 

Draco decided he’d had quite enough of that. What was it with these boggarts imitating authority figures and telling lies?

 

“Professor, if you think anyone could have stopped Harry from coming here, regardless of what they did or didn’t do, then you’re really not as clever as everyone says. Or you’re not really the McGonagall we all know.”

 

Hermione whipped her head around. “Draco?”

 

The boggart fixed its gaze on him. It wasn't nearly as powerful as the full effect of the Real McGonagall. “Mr. Malfoy, I should have known you’d be down here in the filth. It’s where you belong after all—”

 

“Riddikulus,” Draco said, transforming Boggart-McGonagall into Dumbledore. “Oh, Draco. Did you know I’ve been wearing roller blades under my robes since the fifties? It’s why I switched my fashion sense so drastically between my youth and my old age. No one can tell you’re wearing roller blades under robes. I always thought someone might ask me about it, how I glided from place to place, but no one ever did…”

 

Hermione giggled. “Riddikulus,” she said, pointing her wand at Dumbledore. He turned into ex-Minister Fudge, wobbling on Dumbledore’s skates. 

 

“Well, goodness me, I never! This is preposterous! Of all the indignities!” He went skating down the tunnel and disappeared.

 

Draco offered her a hand up. “Are you alright?”

 

“Absolutely not. I imagine I’ll need quite a bit of therapy after this.”

 

“I imagine we all will,” Draco agreed.

 

“Let’s go find the others.”

 

———

 

They found Ron quickly, backed up against the wall with a strong but failing shield charm, beset by a spider the size of a small horse. 

 

“I know you’re an important part of the ecosystem and I shouldn’t kill you, but could you give me some space? Merlin, Mordred, and Morgana! Leave me be and we can both go our own ways!”

 

“Oh, Ron,” Hermione said fondly.

 

“Weasley, it’s a boggart,” Draco informed him.

 

“Well could one of you do something, then? Boggart or not, I’m never going to get over the imagery of a giant spider trying to eat me. Again!”

 

Hermione turned its legs into wet spaghetti, after which it was easy enough to dispatch it with genuine laughter.

 

“Thanks, dearest, light of my life,” Ron said, wrapping Hermione in a hug.

 

“I can’t believe you’re still afraid of spiders after all those articles I sent you,” she replied.

 

“Yeah, well. I learned something didn’t I?”

 

“Sure, but next time you come across a horse-sized spider, just know that those aren’t the ones the ecosystem needs.”

 

“Next time?” Ron shuddered.

 

“A good rule of thumb, in my experience,” Draco began, “is that if it is actively trying to eat you, the ecosystem can sod off.”

 

Ron, at least, looked mollified. “Where’s Harry?”

 

“We still need to find him. He could be anywhere down here.”

 

They searched for fifteen minutes going down various tunnels before they found him. But, it wasn’t him they found, exactly.

 

The first thing Draco saw was a small boy at the end of a tunnel, no more than six, dusting the air at table-height. A bit farther down the hall an identical boy appeared, pushing a hoover, though it made no noise. Yet another identical boy was stood a bit farther down the tunnel, sweeping. Upon closer inspection, he looked a bit younger than the first two. Then a boy was brushing past Draco, carrying an armful of post down the tunnel and around a corner at the end. Compelled, Draco followed him.

 

Around the corner were with three more identical boys. One appeared to be cooking on a stove, one was washing the dishes, and the last was scrubbing the floor on his hands and knees. Beyond them, five identical boys tended to mowing the lawn, arranging the flowers, clipping the hedge, painting the fence, tidying the shed.

 

There was a boy in the loo, wiping down the shower, cleaning the toilet, restocking towels under the sink. There were more boys in the tunnel now, all tending to cleaning tasks Draco couldn’t name. None of them noticed each other or noticed Draco. It wasn’t that they were absorbed in their task or interested in it like a house elf. All versions looked miserable, angry, and resigned.

 

All of them were Harry. Young Harry.

 

Draco had just begun to wonder why this was what a boggart had chosen to taunt Harry with when he saw him: an exceptionally large man dressed in a muggle suit with thinning hair and a thick, black moustache. He appeared to be standing over someone, lecturing them, and sounding very gleeful about it. “You don’t even remember who I am, do you? Or what all this is? On one hand it’s a marvel you forgot, but then again you never were very bright, were you, boy? You came into this world a burden, and nothing has changed.”

 

“Go away,” said a voice. A very familiar voice. Harry. Draco’s Harry.

 

“Perhaps I should try a different voice? A face you might recall?” Abruptly, the fat man disappeared, replaced by a decent imitation of Kingsley. “I sent you here because you said you could fix it. That you had an idea where the dementors were coming from. I believed you could handle it, but I guess I was mistaken. Or were your motives selfish from the first?”

 

Kingsley morphed into Robards. “You were the one who wanted to get rid of the dementors. You were hell-bent on it, and why? For Malfoy? You can't save everyone. Some people don't deserve it.”

 

Robards changed into a middle-aged brunette woman Draco didn’t recognize. “But even when we were all doing what you wanted, hunting down the dementors, 'purging the world of evil', when it came down to it, you weren’t keen on getting rid of the dementors, were you? You couldn't do what needed to be done. Even though it was your idea! You didn't want anyone else doing it either. Didn’t have the stomach for it, but didn't want to share the glory. Is that how far your justice goes? Only to the means you’re willing to employ for your chosen ends? Must be nice to be a chosen one.”

 

“Shut up,” Harry growled.

 

“That’s right. You remember me, don’t you? But you’re not afraid of me. Not really. You’re not really afraid of anything, are you? Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself. So tell me: do you remember the difference between stupidity and bravery? Doubtful. You don’t even remember how to get rid of me, do you?”

 

“I could always set you on fire again. Worked pretty well last time.”

 

“That’s right, you just burn or destroy any problem you face, don’t you? And if you can’t destroy it, you run away. But fear is like me, and I am like fear. You can stamp it down, cut it up, or run away, but where one was defeated, ten more pop up. You can’t kill me, not truly.”

 

“I’m not afraid of you. Just annoyed.”

 

“That doesn’t make you strong. It makes you inhuman. Everyone is afraid of something. Have you lost so much of yourself that you can't even be frightened? How sad.”

 

This had gone on long enough, Draco decided. Harry didn’t seem distressed, but he didn’t deserve this. Unfortunately, getting to Harry meant getting through all the small-Harries that were wandering around, impeding his progression. He couldn't bear to hurt them, even if he knew they weren't really Harry.

 

“Clearly this face isn’t working. What about this one?” 

 

Draco stopped. So did Harry.

 

The face the boggart had chosen this time was Severus. 

 

“Ah, this one means something to you, doesn’t it? Not fear, but something almost as good. What is it? Resentment? Regret? Perhaps you don’t quite remember. All these faces, all these memories you were willing to abandon, and why? For some old house you didn’t even want? Why do you even care about the house? Black hated it. Lupin hated it. I imagine your father didn't care for it either, given what it represented. Ah, but you never knew your father, did you? Not now, not ever. You truly are blessed, Saint Potter.”

 

Harry didn’t bother with words this time, sending out a plume of fire. Apparently, the boggart knew to expect it. 

 

“You can’t destroy me, Potter. You don’t even want to, not really. You know what I’m saying is true. Even if you burn me, drown me, send me away, bury me, everything I am comes from you. You’ve done a wonderful job destroying yourself here. Why not go a bit further? Why not submit?”

 

The boggart morphed into a dementor then, though it kept Severus’ voice. “Perhaps if you joined us, you could make up for your sins? Though, I wonder, after everything you’ve been through, do you even have a soul left that’s worth taking?”

 

Getting through boggarts wasn’t fast enough. “Harry! It’s not real!”

 

Harry turned slightly, looking past the Severus/Dementor/boggart to Draco. “Upping the ante? And here I thought you’d run out of tricks.”

 

The boggart also turned to look at Draco. “Oh, I see. You don’t fear for yourself—you’ve forgotten how, haven’t you? But him…” It took a step closer to Draco.

 

“You can’t hurt Draco. He isn’t here,” Harry said.

 

Draco’s heart shattered. Harry didn’t think he was real. 

 

Harry turned his deep, green eyes on Draco, so striking even in the low light. “You already tried impersonating him. What makes you think this time is different?”

 

So, the boggart had already tried to get to Harry through him. What kinds of terrible lies had it had him say to Harry?

 

The dementor boggart took another step closer, and already Draco could feel the effects. Not as strong as a real dementor, but real enough. He felt the dread setting in, the fear, the despair. The small-Harries seemed to have caught on, that being Harry wasn’t frightening, but being fear itself? That was second nature.

 

You could always run, a small voice said inside him. Go get Granger or Weasley. 

 

Or, Draco thought to himself, he could fight back. He knew how to cast a Patronus. He could do this. He knew he could.

 

He focused on the strongest memory he had, complicated though it was. Harry had told him, “I don’t want you to leave me,” and meant it. No one had ever wanted Draco like that before. Most people wanted him to just go away.  But not Harry. True, Harry had sent him away, but he’d done it to save Draco.

 

Harry had given Draco his memories to protect. Harry had gotten a tattoo so Draco could join the aurors. Harry had tried to get rid of all the dementors in Britain, perhaps not just for Draco, but certainly with Draco in mind. I've been very happy with you, Draco. Thank you.

 

Draco gathered up all the complicated, broken, happy, wonderful pieces of joy, and love, and hope inside himself—pieces he’d only just begun to discover, to mend, to nourish—and he held them together, and he let it go.

 

“Expecto patronum.”

 

---

 

Harry was by a lake. Sirius was next to him, unconscious, dead, or as good as. All around him, dementors were closing in. He’d been here before; he knew that on an intellectual level, but he couldn’t place the exact when-or-where. He didn’t remember what came next, only that it wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d expected to die. He was always expecting that, to some degree, and who could blame him? He’d had more brushes with death than he cared to count.

 

But then he saw it, what he remembered: a silvery, glowing stag, bounding across the black lake to save him, to save Sirius. Prongs. But the lake wasn’t real, he wasn’t there anymore. He was twenty-four years old. He was underground, talking to a hundred faces he didn’t remember.

 

But the stag was real. The stag was chasing off the dementors—no, the boggarts. But Harry wasn’t casting it. He couldn’t remember enough good things to cast something like that.

 

He looked around. He’d been mistaken before—he didn’t remember the specifics, but it felt true enough.

 

And there, at the other end of the tunnel, was Draco. Looking stunned, and triumphant, and beautiful. Draco had cast a Patronus. Draco’s Patronus was a stag. Draco had saved him. Draco loved Harry.

 

All these facts came one at a time, then all at once.

 

The Patronus rounded back down the tunnel, chasing off the boggart dementors swarming him.

 

Harry felt a bud of a memory, of a different time. A different set of circumstances, learning how to fight boggarts. How to fight dementors. He knew how to do both, now. Thanks to Draco.

 

He turned to the Snape boggart that was still standing there, looking shocked. “I don’t think there’s anything I can do to make this funny, to make you disappear,” Harry confessed, “but I do know what I’m afraid of. Better than you do, probably.”

 

“And what is that, Potter?” it sneered. It wasn’t quite the same as the real Snape. Not quite as repulsed, as full of loathing and resentment.

 

Harry smiled. He didn’t owe this creature answers. “I know what’s worse than my fears, too. Being too afraid to remember, to forget everything all over again.”

 

“So what? I’m still here, and you’re—”

 

Harry didn’t wait. He knew how to remember everything. Hopefully less painfully now than it had been the first time. He wouldn’t fight it this time. This time, he’d embrace it. This time, he wasn't afraid to remember.

 

He knew this spell better than he knew his own name. “Expecto Patronum.”

 

The shape that burst from his wand was familiar, and yet changed. It wasn’t Prongs anymore, not exactly. He felt a small pang of regret at that, but it was still a shape of love. The shape of his own love—changed, perhaps, but still him. Still his.

 

And he remembered everything, enough to know how true it was.

 

“Well, what do you know, Severus. We have something in common after all.”

 

— — — 

 

It was a simple matter after that to clear out the rest of the boggarts. Most of them didn’t have the chance to ooze out of the shadows they lurked in before they were chased off by a Patronus or a riddikulus. 

 

Draco was looking at him now, eyes blazing with victory. It wasn’t a look Harry could recall seeing before, untinged with any darker emotion. I could kiss him right now, Harry thought.

 

So he did.

 

Draco was only surprised for a moment before he was kissing Harry back urgently, hands threading through Harry’s hair and holding him close like he needed Harry’s lips to breathe. Harry didn’t mind. Harry rather thought he could get used to this.

 

Eventually, though, he pulled away, but only enough to wrap his arms around Draco, to hold him close. “You saved me,” he whispered, closing his eyes to savour the moment. “Thank you.”

 

“Wasn’t much, really,” Draco said, but the wobble in his voice gave him away. “Just a bunch of boggarts. A third year could handle it.”

 

Harry wanted to say more, to ask a hundred questions, to simply stand there and hold Draco, but life had other plans. Or Ron did, at least. Harry could hear Ron’s awkward throat-clearing, as though unsure whether to give them privacy or interrupt.

 

Harry wanted to see Ron, too. And Hermione. His two best friends, who he did not perhaps deserve, but friendship didn’t work that way. In what was or wasn't deserved, or debts balanced or not. “Come here, you two. Group hug.”

 

Draco made a small, questioning noise. But soon the four of them were hugging, Ron’s strong arms wrapping around all of them.

 

“Do you think we passed the test?” Hermione asked, after they’d all been standing there for long enough for it to be a bit much.

 

“You would ask that,” Draco said, sniffing. “But I daresay we did.”

 

“Maybe Ron would whip up some of his post-exam chili when we get back to London?” Harry suggested. 

 

Ron stared at him, gobsmacked. “You remember?”

 

Harry nodded. Ron beamed at him, then frowned. “Do you also remember the part where you said I wasn’t allowed to cook chili anymore because I wouldn’t know a spice if it held me at wand-point?”

 

“I’ll help,” Harry said, because he did remember. 

 

“On a more serious note,” said Hermione, “what are we supposed to do now? Where are we?”

 

Harry looked around. “I’m fairly sure we’re under Cosmic Latte, or the street around it. There should be a cover plate somewhere around here.”

 

With four of them looking, it didn’t take long to find it. There was even a ladder leading up to it.

 

“Is it safe to go out, d’you think?” asked Ron, whispering for some reason.

 

“It’s been just under an hour since we began,” said Hermione, consulting her watch. That was something about Hermione—she still wore the muggle watch her parents gave her. Harry remembered he’d left his own watch back in London, worried something might happen to it. That watch had been a gift from Molly—proof that he belonged, that he was wanted. That some family is one of choice, rather than blood. 

 

“Roger said it wouldn’t take him more than an hour to complete,” said Draco.

 

“Assuming nothing went wrong,” countered Ron.

 

“Why’d you have to go and say something like that?”

 

“Just being a realist, ‘Mione.”

 

Harry smiled. He’d missed them. Missed this. Even when he’d been with them before, it hadn't been the same, hadn't been right. He hadn’t had the context, and now that he had it again, he wondered how he could ever have doubted that it was missing.

 

“They bickered like this the whole time we were searching for you,” Draco whispered in his ear. “It’s unbearably domestic.”

 

“Nattering is their love language,” said Harry. 

 

As it turned out, they didn’t need to wait a full hour or second guess when they’d know the time was right. With a great thunk like a lock turning and a shudder they all felt, the tunnels all shone with a brief, intense green light before blinking out.

 

Harry levitated the cover out of the way while the rest of them climbed. The aurora over Gleyma was gone, replaced with a dark grey storm-pregnant sky. Lying on the ground was Roger. He shuddered and writhed, seizing on the ground.

 

Harry moved to help him, but Draco held him back.

 

“That’s magical backlash,” he said, looking ill. “If you interfere, it might switch its target to you.”

 

“We have to help him!” Harry protested. The sky swirled above, looking menacing and hateful. Upon closer inspection, Harry realized they weren't clouds at all. They were dementors, circling Roger like vultures. The only thing that held them back was the last of the Net, shining dimly in what little moonlight peaked through the clouds.

 

“There’s nothing you can do for him," Draco said gravely. "Either he’ll make it, or he won’t.”

 

With a loud crack like thunder, the Net fell away, ethereal shards splintering into dust. The dementors crashed down in a pillar of black swirling energy, but they ignored everyone else, descending on Roger with unnatural speed. They pierced his chest like a spear, shrieking and crying out in a language beyond words. Roger gasped in pain, eyes wide. The black energy dissipated like so much smoke, and Roger lay still on the ground.

 

Harry didn't waste a moment, rushing forward to kneel next to him. He cradled Roger's head on his lap, checking his pulse. He was still alive, but barely.

 

With a rasping breath, Roger's eyes fluttered open. "Ah. I take it we won?"

 

"Won? You're dying!"

 

"But the wards are down? And the debt collectors—"

 

"All gone," Harry lied, voice thick with unshed tears. Truthfully, he didn’t know what had just happened with the dementors, exactly, but he didn’t want to say that they were inside him now.

 

Harry didn't even like this man.

 

“Liar,” Roger said, smiling. “The old wards aren't gone either, I can feel it still. Damn. Guess it’s unlocked but won’t let go until I die." he sighed. "You won’t have to wait long.”

 

“Die? You can’t die! Vivien needs you!”

 

“She never needed me.”

 

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. "Did you know this would happen?" Harry didn't think he needed to specify.

 

"Not exactly," Roger wheezed. "Knew it wouldn't be pleasant, pro'bly. This wasn't meant to be a place for victory, not for people like me."

 

"Hermione," Harry said desperately. "Can you—" 

 

Her eyes were wide with shock. She shook her head, though whether at Harry's half-question or some errant thought, he couldn't say.

 

He turned back to Roger. Black lines were creeping up his neck, spreading through his veins. "Why didn't you tell us the magical backlash would all fall to you if we made you the Custodian?"

 

"It was the only way. You wouldn't have agreed otherwise." He coughed, a dribble of blood escaping his lips. "I guess this is what happens if there's no one left to collect your debt."

 

"You never told me where to find the Net anchors," Harry protested. "What am I going to do?"

 

"You know exactly where they are. They'll call to you. They always have. Like little stars blazing in a dark night sky…"

 

Harry thought about it. "Cosmic Latte?"

 

"Technically each Custodian is supposed to place them themselves. To anchor the wards to their memory." He chuckled wetly. "Guess I forgot to tell Queenie that. Must’ve…slipped my mind." He sighed. "There's nothing tying them here now. Nothing tying you, either. There are twelve anchors. Don’t leave any behind."

 

“Eleven. You already gave me a shingle.”

 

Roger laughed. “That’s just a normal roof tile.”

 

“You had me carrying around some shitty shingle for nothing?” Harry thought maybe he ought to be angry. But he was just…worn out. Too tired to be anything but sad.

 

Roger shrugged. "I lied. Sorry."

 

"That's got to be the most insincere apology I've ever heard."

 

"I didn't want you to take the anchors and go. Didn't think you would, but I don't take risks with the people I love. And I love this town, terrible as it may be. It's all I've ever known."

 

"Is there really nothing we can do?" Harry asked. "It can't end like this."

 

"You tell me. You're the one who went to a fancy magic school."

 

Harry turned to Draco, helpless.

 

Draco had a thoughtful look on his face. "There might be something. Do you remember the spell I told you about, to lift the effects of dark magic?"

 

Harry remembered. "We'd need seven casters."

 

"We have seven. If you count Queenie. She could probably be persuaded…"

 

"Fine. Bring her out here. And Vivien. She deserves the chance to…" Harry swallowed, unable to finish the thought. "Let her see Roger one more time."

 

Draco nodded, swiftly spelling open the door to Cosmic Latte. Harry could hear the bell chime. It was strange, hearing it from the other side of the door. 

 

Vivien hobbled over, looking less pale than she had, but still weak. Harry left her by Roger's side. If this was goodbye…she hadn't gotten the chance to say it before.

 

Queenie struggled in Draco's grasp, looking furious. "What's all this then? You managed to do it? The Old Hag said you were doing it. Breaking down the wards."

 

Harry took a deep breath. He could be angry later. There would be a later, there simply had to be. "Queenie. It's your lucky day. We need you."

 

"You need me?" she laughed. "Here I thought I'd die before I heard you say those words. And what, pray tell, do you need me for?"

 

"We don't have time for your antics. Roger is dying."

 

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So? He's an old man. Dying is what they do best. He's long overdue, anyway."

 

"He just sacrificed himself for you," Draco growled. "Show a little gratitude."

 

Queenie sneered but said nothing.

 

"If you don't help him, you won't be able to leave. Not with your memories intact. The Net is gone, and so is the Altar. There's nothing left for you to sacrifice, no one else's memories to use." It was not, strictly speaking, completely true. Harry didn't care. "If you help him, you can keep your memories. Everything you've learned."

 

"We can also set you up," Draco offered. "Get you more training than you've had. Your own wand. Whatever you like."

 

Queenie lifted her chin. She was shorter than both of them, but somehow she managed to still look down her nose at them. "I don't care about my memories, and I neither want nor need your help. I've got this far on my own. The threat is gone, isn't it? I saw the debt collectors disappear. And I don’t care if I forget—it would be a blessing.”

 

This was far from what Harry had expected. Perhaps he'd never really known her, after all. “What if you don’t remember your spells?”

 

“I will,” she said with confidence she hadn’t earned. “No one knows these wards better. They only make you forget enough so you can’t come back and don’t know what’s coming for you. And as there’s nothing coming for me…” she laughed, cold and cruel.

 

“He’s your family,” Harry tried, one last time. “He raised you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

 

She stared at his failing body with a dispassion that chilled. “He’s a Baas. Frond-Baas if you want to be technical. And as of this moment, I am officially Queenie Black, witch.” She didn’t say anything else, simply turning around and disappearing into the fog.

 

Harry let her go; it wouldn’t be difficult to find her again later, if he decided it was worth it. He didn't want her here anymore.

 

Of course, he still didn’t know what he was going to do about Roger. The man was dying, the sickly black veins spreading to his face now. It almost looked like a fractal, or a galaxy. “Draco, what do we do?” he asked quietly. “We can’t just let him die.” 

 

“Not even four hours ago you were ready to leave him behind,” Draco pointed out. His heart wasn’t in it, though. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “We could try to call for help with a Patronus, but frankly I don’t know if anyone could get here fast enough. Or at all. The wards are just…shifted. We might all be stuck here forever unless we decide to forgo our memories as well. At least there won’t be any dementors coming after us, but…” he trailed off, clearly not having a clear idea where he was going with that sentence. “If only there were other magical people around. Even if only minorly, it might help. Ten Cyrils might be the same as one complete magical core, but even then…” Draco kept talking, something about magical core size and distribution, but Harry wasn’t listening. 

 

“Say that again,” he said quietly. 

 

Draco frowned. “The average magical equilibrium is dependent on sample size?” 

 

“No. Ten Cyrils—?” 

 

“Oh. Ten Cyrils might be the same as one complete magical core. But we don’t have ten Cyrils. We have one completely drained Cyril, may he live to tell the tale of his stupidity.” 

 

“We don’t need ten Cyrils," Harry said slowly, an idea forming, "We have a whole town of people distantly related to the Black family and various Muggleborns.” Harry felt something akin to cautious hope growing in the pit of his stomach. “Draco, that purification spell, you said it needs at least seven casters, yes?” 

 

“That’s what I said.” 

 

“Is there a maximum number of casters?” 

 

Draco considered that. “I don’t believe so. But—do you think it would work? Having all of Gleyma…?” 

 

“It can’t hurt, can it? The more the merrier is what they say with group magic, right?” 

 

Draco smiled, a small, hopeful, beautiful thing. “They don’t. But maybe they should.” 

 

Ron helped move Roger inside Cosmic Latte while the rest of them went around Gleyma, as quickly as they could, waking up the town.

 

People were not exactly happy about being woken up at the crack of dawn to frantic banging on the door, nor were they thrilled about being asked to gather around Cosmic Latte. But when they learned it was to help Roger—and strange, why could they remember his name now? —they were eager to help. Though the instruction to hold hands in a circle around the coffee shop was met with a range of bafflement to amusement, they all obliged. They were good people. Harry knew that. He'd experienced it himself, all those months he'd been here.

 

As the sun rose over Gleyma, the grey clouds scattered for once, a cacophony of voices rose in a din, speaking quietly, each reciting their favourite memory involving Roger, the Old Man, the one who had made the hard life in Gleyma a bit more bearable. Some spoke of how happy it made them to see him out walking every day, come rain or shine. Some spoke of his expansion of the library. Others still remembered days in their youth when he and his wife helped set up the bonfire pit to make summers memorable.

 

They didn’t seem to notice the black cloud covering Cosmic Latte like a pall, nor did they see the floating balls of white light drifting off them and penetrating the darkness like stars in a night sky. Some might have heard the two strangers, Harry, his young man, and Batty Old Frond pointing sticks and muttering in Latin, but mostly they were too focused on their own recollections to give it much thought. And wasn't it strange, to be able to think about the past so clearly? Something in the air, perhaps.

 

As the sun rose, the night dissipated, and so did the gloominess that seemed ever present in Gleyma. The colours seemed richer, the air clearer, and the future…brighter, made all the better by Roger hobbling out of Cosmic Latte looking confused and tired, asking what they were all doing. They confessed they didn’t know, precisely, only that they were there for Roger. “Huh,” he said, which was just like him, really. Then, "thank you."

 

---

 

“I have to say, I am a little disappointed I didn’t have the chance to take a real crack at solving the zodiac puzzle,” Hermione admitted, sometime later after Amos Diggory had informed them he could remember where the town was, and was his mother alright, and could he come see her, perhaps?

 

“Hermione. It took them years to figure it out,” Ron said. They were sitting in front of the tent, which had been repositioned on the cliffs overlooking the sea, each of them drinking hot cocoa with cayenne and cinnamon. Not because they needed to, but just because they could.

 

“Besides, technically you did get a ‘crack’ at it,” Harry pointed out. “Several hours' worth. Even you would be hard-pressed to come up with ‘you need four wix, each corresponding to one of the zodiac elements, to stand in their respective runic circle while a fifth representative who has been pre-designated as the Custodian walks in a pre-ordained, meandering path through each section of a dodecagon that rotates with the season, and if you mess it up you have to start over again in a year’.”

 

“I could have gotten there,” Hermione said, sniffing indignantly.

 

“You know what, you probably could have,” Ron agreed.

 

“I still think the zodiac is nonsense,” Hermione opined.

 

“Shh, Hermione, not so loud! The stars might hear you,” Ron chided.

 

"I suppose we did get to do a little riddle-solving, didn't we? I don't think I've had that much fun since first year."

 

"When we broke into the third-floor corridor?" Ron asked, aghast. "I almost died, if you recall!"

 

"My noble knight," said Hermione, kissing him on the cheek. He went bright red. Draco would have to ask for that story sometime. It was a marvel, knowing there would be a 'later' to ask about things. He wasn't used to being an optimist, but he could get used to this…lightness.

 

“So that’s it, then?” Ron asked, coughing lightly. “Case closed. One Harry Potter: rescued.”

 

“That's not all we accomplished," said Harry. "I can save my house now, and we broke an ancient curse and ensured there will never be dementors again.”

 

“And you got a boyfriend,” Ron pointed out.

 

Harry looked both pleased and annoyed. “Um. We haven’t discussed, er. The particulars.” He coughed, face flushed.

 

Draco decided to help out. He could get used to being a saviour, too, perhaps. Where Harry was concerned, at least. “What will you do with yourself now, Ronald?”

 

Ron sighed and shrugged.

 

“I’m sure Robards would take you back if you wanted,” Harry offered.

 

Ron shook his head. “Nah. I’m done with the Aurors. No offense, but it’s a shit job. Underpaid, overworked, and some bloke called Potter always gets the good jobs.”

 

Draco, privately, was relieved. Well, relieved wasn’t the right word. Proud? He wasn’t sure. "What will you do instead?"

 

“I think I’m going to become Captain of the Chudley Cannons,” Ron announced.

 

Draco laughed. “Well. Merlin knows they can’t possibly get any worse.”

 

"Mark my words, Malfoy, we'll make a Cannons supporter of you yet. Look forward to wearing orange."

 

Ron went off on a diatribe, then, discussing all the changes he'd make to the Cannons. Who he'd recruit, what drills he'd run. It was the kind of inane fun Draco couldn't remember indulging in far too long.

 

Harry turned to him, a small smile on his face. “And what about you? What are you plans?”

 

“I didn’t think I’d get this far,” Draco confessed.

 

“Well, I sincerely doubt that. But you have lots of options. Free access to the fog moss if you want to stick with potions. You'd have a fair crack at curse breaking, I imagine. Any position in the Ministry, considering everything, though I don’t recommend the Department of Mysteries.” Harry paused, fiddling with his jacket. “Or there’s the Aurors, if you’re still interested. After this, I don’t think there’s anything anyone can say to reject your application.”

 

Draco smiled. “How about dinner?”

 

“Dinner?”

 

“I understand there’s plans for some kind of…chili? But after that. I’d like to take you out somewhere. Have a proper date. Maybe talk about, you know. The particulars. Of The Boyfriend thing.”

 

"Oh." Harry smiled. “I’d like that.”

 

“I do have one question, though. Your Patronus. It changed. Just a little while ago, it was a stag…”

 

“It’s a doe now,” Harry informed him, like Draco didn’t know that.

 

“Yes, but…I admit I’m a little…I guess I thought they’d match.” He'd only gotten about a minute to appreciate that his Patronus matched Harry's, what it meant, before Harry had recovered and cast his own Patronus. A doe, not a stag.

 

Harry chuckled. “But they do match. Better than before, perhaps. Stags fight each other, you know. While stags and does are…complimentary.” 

 

“How very heteronormative," Draco deadpanned. "Why did yours change, though?” 

 

“Because you changed me. I don’t think you can go through an experience like this with someone without changing a little.” 

 

“We changed each other.” 

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Many people had cautioned Draco against caffeine dependency, but Draco really couldn’t say he regretted his own. After all, were it not for his latte habit, he never would have found Harry.

 

Even if it made him seem ‘basic’, lattes were clearly tied up in the cosmic whims of fate. And who was he to argue with that?

 

---

 

Epilogue

 

“How was training today?” Harry asked, pausing to lean over and kiss Draco on the cheek.

 

“It was fine. The potions instructor told me I should be teaching the section. She was right, of course.”

 

“Of course,” Harry agreed, rolling his eyes nonetheless. He had no doubt that one day, Draco would be teaching the course.

 

“Though, there was one thing, in my other class…”

 

Instantly, Harry was on edge. “What happened? Your other instructors aren’t giving you a hard time, are they?”

 

“Well,” Draco said with forced casualness, “My combat instructor was a bit hard on me today. Or, rather, he made things hard for me.” Draco leered at him over his teacup, pulling another eye roll from Harry.

 

“You’ve been waiting all day to make that joke, haven’t you?” Harry sat down on the arm of Draco’s chair. He knew it annoyed Draco, but he also knew Draco only made a big deal about it so he had an excuse to pull Harry into his lap. It worked every time. This time was no exception. “Besides, " Harry said, settling into Draco, "if I went easy on you, it would make things worse, in every—” kiss “— possible—” kiss “—way.” kiss. “Anyway, the way I hear it, you like it hard.”

 

Kreacher popped into existence before them then, at the most inopportune moment. “Masters are not to be getting frisky in the formal reading room,” he said. Not an accident, then.

 

Harry kissed Draco’s forehead once more before standing up. “Fine, fine. Merlin forbid we should get up to anything in the formal reading room.”

 

“Master Harry should be happy the house has opened up the formal reading room and the informal reading room,” Kreacher mumbled, dragging himself over to the fireplace to sweep up ashes. He could easily have vanished them with his elf magic, but Harry knew he liked the excuse of complaining about things while he did it the slow way. Whatever made the old codger happy.

 

It had been easy enough to get the Net reinstalled in the house. The change had been almost immediate. Grimmauld Place had shuddered and almost cried, every dark corner brightening, every dim window clearing, and every sagging beam lifting. Harry hadn't even had to paint, or stain the floors, or any of the superficial changes he'd attempted in the past. The house simply seemed to know what he wanted and implemented it. With its own twist, of course. Harry might be the master, but it was its own house, first and foremost.

 

Different wings had also begun opening up. Some of which even Kreacher had never seen before.

 

Only last month the ballroom had revealed itself. Kreacher informed them it hadn’t been open since the fifteenth century, when the Net went missing. Harry and Draco had asked Narcissa and Andromeda to come over and help them brighten up the ballroom—Harry certainly didn't have any idea what to do with a ballroom, and the house responded well when any Black came over for a visit. Since then, they’d had guests over as frequently as possible to bolster the positive memories made in the house. They were no longer stolen when people left—Hermione made sure of that with some clever spell-work—but the memories did shine brighter when anyone walked in the house.

 

Neville and Blaise, for their part, had opened a lab in Gleyma so they could better study the Fog Moss. There was also (unofficially, or at least on a need-to-know basis only) a group of Unspeakables researching the runestones of Gleyma and the effect of centuries long dark magic on the land. They’d all been a bit put out that Harry et al had purified the dementors without their being there to study and observe, but they understood that it wasn’t really something that could wait. (That hadn’t stopped them from asking everyone present for a copy of memories from the whole affair that they could study at their leisure).

 

There were other Ministry workers there as well (from a variety of different offices) who'd flocked to Gleyma in the Aftermath, mostly to attempt to figure out what to do with the Gleyma residents. Many Gleymans were squibs, but others had latent magic. It was all a bit much, trying to decide whether they ought to be introduced to magic at middle age, but being middle-aged by muggle standards meant they still had most of their lives to live. There was some concern as well that without the dementors leeching off their magic, now they’d start to have wild magic outbreaks. 

 

Murph’s daughters seemed likely to become full-fledged witches, and Harry promised to come explain everything about Hogwarts to them when the time came. Probably sooner, if he knew himself (and he liked to think he did, at this point). He wasn’t exactly keen on spending more time in Gleyma, but he hadn’t stopped caring about the people who lived there since he’d left. Without the effect of dark magic haunting the land, Gleyma was turning into quite a cheerful tourist destination. There was even talk of opening an Inn. Or at the very least a bed and breakfast. 

 

Cosmic Latte was closed until further notice due to a change in management, but it seemed likely that Murph would become the owner, assuming Roger decided to sell it. 

 

Ron, much to Harry’s surprise, had stuck to his decision not to come back to the Aurors. “To tell you the truth, other than the moments I was out of my mind worried sick about you, I enjoyed being a stay-at-home dad. Rose is so much fun, and with little Hugo on the way…well, it’s easier for Hermione and me to not have to balance two erratic schedules.”

 

Draco, for his part, was finally accepted into the Auror program. Robards really couldn’t deny him any more after everything he’d done, and being one amongst a small group to take down the last dementor nest (and original source of dementors) really helped his case. In light of all he’d done, Draco had gotten a special evaluation to place him in the appropriate lessons. Apparently, Ron leaving and Harry being gone had left a significant gap in the force. After testing and taking testimonies from Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Amos Diggory, Robards agreed to put Draco on an accelerated one-year training regimen. Some people cried ‘favouritism’, but Draco’s exam results and skills spoke for themselves. And really, it wasn’t any different than the deal Kingsley had offered everyone else who’d participated in the Battle for Hogwarts, even if it were several years after the fact.

 

“Speaking of ‘opening up’, I have something to show you.” Draco grabbed Harry by the hand and dragged him up a flight of stairs that had only recently appeared. The house, it seemed, was happier than ever to have someone with fresh Black blood living there. Even if it were only part-time.

 

“What’s this?” Harry said when Draco paused in front of a hall. It was still a bit dim, and the floorboards did not shine as they did in the entryway, but it was new. 

 

“I don’t know. I haven’t gone inside yet. It appeared shortly before tea.” He leaned over to whisper in Harry’s ear, “I know how excited you get to see new rooms together.”

 

Harry flushed, pleased that Draco knew it and wanted to share the experience with Harry. “Maybe it’ll be a suite we can gift to your mother,” he said sweetly.

 

Draco groaned. “I thought I told you not to bring up my mother when I’m trying to seduce you.”

 

“But you turn the most adorable colour when I do.”

 

Draco smiled, and kissed him, and kissed him again, the new suite forgotten. They could look at it later, or the next day, or at some point when the house felt like spiffing it up a bit for them. They had a long way to go, the house and their relationship both, but it was alright. They had time to spare.

 

Notes:

And that's all she wrote! Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, whether you've been here from the start or only just got here. I've really enjoyed writing this story and sharing it with you. Your support, kudos, comments, and patience really lifted me up, especially during this very dark, difficult period, and I'm so grateful to all of you.

This ending is pretty different from what I had originally planned way back in the way back, and it took me a lot longer to get here than I thought it would, but I like this better. It was important to me that the people of Gleyma had some agency in determining their own salvation.

If you want to chat, come find me on tumblr @noir-renard. I'm working on new fics (some are Drarry, some are in other fandoms), but I don't know when they'll be ready to post. If I've learned anything it's that having a fully completed fic before posting the first chapter is really important.

the next chapter is just a map I drew of Gleyma as well as some end notes about the world, for those who are interested.

Once again, thank you! I hope you found the ending satisfying.

Chapter 22: Map/End Notes

 

 

I made this map for myself because I kept forgetting where things were in relation to each other, and I figured y'all might get a kick out of seeing it. There's more in Gleyma than is shown here re: buildings/streets/stuff, I just didn't want to draw everything. I drew mostly just the places that were mentioned plus a few things I thought about but ultimately left out of the story (like the community garden and the old mill).

 

Notes

-they send out a team to find Queenie. She has completely lost all her memories, and doesn’t even remember her name. No one can quite decide what to do with her, since she isn’t a threat, but she did kind of enable the deaths of many (though it was not entirely her fault) and sabotage the mental integrity of one Vivienne Diggory Frond-Baas, a beloved figure. The dear did not press charges, and instead offered to pay for Queenie to receive care at Saint Mungo’s in the hope that she might recover some of her memory.

 

-Cyril, though incompetent and an absolute prat, did not actually hurt anyone in the end (other than Vivien, who didn't want to press charges), and so was sentenced only to community service, which he chose to serve in Gleyma. Much to his consternation, no one saw him as the hero who enabled their liberation.

 

-with the missing wands and some very well-kept archival records, the MOM is able to solve over 500 cold cases from the past millennia.

 

-after the department of mysteries finished its investigations, many researchers flock to Gleyma to see the runic circles, as well as the effect of a land with such a long-lasting curse. Hermione, Ron, Draco, and Harry are asked so frequently for help reconstructing the wards that they put sealed memories of the construction (and deconstruction) of the wards into vials kept by the Department of Mysteries, much to Harry’s displeasure. It is agreed that they will evaluate who can see the memories, as it is deemed dangerous to allow such a ward to be reconstructed. Some want to see Harry reimplement the Net at the ancestral house of Black, but he declines, on account of privacy. Everyone he loves is there, though. Hermione, Ron, and Draco, namely. He also invites Narcissa and Andromeda and Teddy, on account of having as much Black Blood as possible present.

 

-the people of Gleyma tore down the statue of Abnus once they learned the truth of what he'd done. They replaced it with a statue of Roger "Cuthbert" Frond-Baas. Every day there's a walking tour of the path he used to walk. Roger himself is on an extended vacation away from the town, but plans to live in Gleyma at least part-time.