Chapter Text
“Mr Potter, Ms Granger. How kind of you to come at such short notice. Please, sit.”
Harry smiled politely at Healer Brisley and sat in his usual chair in front of her cluttered desk. Hermione sat beside him and squeezed his shoulder. She did that a lot. Harry wondered whether it was a new thing.
“Has there been a development, Healer Brisley?” Hermione asked. “Your owl wasn’t very specific.”
“Of a kind, Ms Granger, of a kind.” Brisley smiled indulgently at them. “Now, let me just find my glasses, give me a moment…”
Harry liked Healer Brisley. Over the last four months, he’d seen a great many Healers and experts and various other interested parties, and not all of them were as good-natured as she was. But given how slowly his case had progressed, he did occasionally wonder whether key information hadn’t been lost somewhere in the piles of parchment that littered her office. Four months was surely too long. To Harry, it was a lifetime.
“Ah, here they are! Silly me.” Brisley plucked the glasses from the top of her head and chuckled. She looked at them expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. Harry smiled tightly. He glanced at Hermione. She was pursing her lips. Harry got the sense that Hermione had a particular impatience for the disorganised.
“Right.” Brisley settled herself into her chair like a hen on a nest. “Well, as I said in the letter, I’ve been working on convincing a top-level specialist to take an interest in your case, Mr Potter, and I’m pleased to say that he’s finally agreed!”
“That’s good,” Harry said. Brisley wilted at his obvious lack of enthusiasm.
“Why did it take so much convincing?” Hermione sounded just as doubtful as Harry was. “That’s hardly encouraging.”
Brisley waved a hand. “Oh, he’s very in-demand – he’s absolutely brilliant, you know! He shot to the top of the field in such a short amount of time. We’re very lucky that he’s agreed to take on the case. Though I imagine it would be hard to turn down the opportunity to work with Harry Potter!” Another expectant pause. This time, Harry didn’t bother to force a smile.
He had learned quickly that people had a certain way of saying his name – like it was important, an in-joke that Harry didn’t understand. He’d been told of the War and his role in it, but the way people talked about him like he was some fictional hero, especially when he couldn’t remember actually doing anything – it was annoying.
He’d complained to Ron and Hermione about it, once. To his surprise, they had both burst out laughing.
“Yeah, you’ve never liked that,” Ron had said fondly. “‘Prophet-reading sycophants’, you called them.”
“Actually, I think I called them that,” Hermione had corrected. “I think you said they were ‘arse-licking twats’, Harry.”
Harry had grinned, always grateful for a detail of himself that sounded right.
He dragged his attention back to the present.
“If he’s so busy, what sort of timeline should we expect going forwards?” Hermione was saying. “We’re over halfway to the six-month deadline. There have already been so many delays.”
After six months, the Healers had said, the likelihood of regaining lost memories dropped to almost zero. Six months had felt like a long time back in February. Now, at the end of May, it felt like no time at all.
Brisley was beginning to look frazzled. Harry, who had been on the receiving end of Hermione’s intensity a lot over the last few months, sympathised.
“I assure you, he’s fully committed to Mr Potter’s case,” Healer Brisley said. “In fact, that’s why I invited you to come in today. He’s cleared a few hours to discuss the case with you. In fact – oh, dear me, is that the time already? He should be here any minute!”
Hermione let out a huff of exasperation. At the same instant, Healer Brisley’s cuckoo clock – one of Harry’s least favourite objects in the world – began to hoot. Harry glared at the ugly bird as it fought its way free of the tiny wooden doors.
“It’s one o’clock!” the horrid thing shrieked. “Don’t forget to send those forms, Edith! The Post Office closes at three on Fridays!”
“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Brisley cooed.
Before Harry could school the disgust from his face, there was a knock on the door.
“Ooh, come in!”
The door opened to reveal an unfamiliar man – though that went without saying, these days – in neat grey robes. He was rather pointy, and almost colourless; pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes. He was also much younger than most of the Healers Harry had dealt with thus far. He couldn’t have been that much older than Harry himself.
“Oh,” said Hermione softly from beside him.
Harry turned to frown at her. “What?”
“Mr Potter, Ms Granger,” Healer Brisley said, beaming at the newcomer. “This is Draco Malfoy. He has made many significant contributions to the field of Spell Damage and Mind Healing. Healer Malfoy, this is Ms Granger, and I’m sure you recognise Mr Potter!”
Healer Malfoy’s grey eyes lingered on Harry in a way Harry was quite used to. “I do,” Malfoy said quietly. “A pleasure to meet you.” He nodded his head at Hermione. “Granger.”
“Malfoy,” Hermione replied coolly. Harry blinked.
“I, ah.” Healer Brisley seemed similarly wrong-footed by the curt interaction, but regained her cheeriness almost immediately. “Lovely!” she said. Her flyaway grey hair quivered with the force of her excitement. “So! As my wonderful clock so kindly reminded me, I have a few teensy errands to run. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to get to know one another and discuss next steps. Do give me a shout if you need me! Ms Granger, Mr Malfoy, I assume one of you can send a Patronus?”
Harry already knew that Hermione couldn’t cast a Patronus – not since the War, she’d told him – but was faintly surprised to see Healer Malfoy avoid Brisley’s gaze.
“I can,” Harry said, dragging his eyes from the faint pink tinge brushing Malfoy’s cheekbones and smiling wanly at Healer Brisley. “I’ll let you know if we need anything.”
“See that you do, see that you do!” And, bundling several rolls of parchment haphazardly under her arm, Brisley wiggled her fingers at them and left.
Healer Malfoy conjured a chair a reasonable distance from them and sat in it stiffly. A strange silence settled. Harry didn’t mind being the one to break it.
“So,” he said. “You know each other?”
Hermione bit her lip. “Yes. He was–”
“We were at school together,” Malfoy said. “I was in your year at Hogwarts.”
“Hm. Seems like there’s a little more to it than that.” Harry tilted his head, watching them both carefully. “Were you two a couple?”
Hermione choked. Malfoy’s pale eyebrows shot up into his hair.
“Absolutely not!” Hermione said, spluttering.
“Really, really not,” Malfoy reiterated, an appalled look on his face.
Harry grinned. He hadn’t really thought so. One evening, Ron had given him an impassioned recounting of Hermione’s romantic history – including a twenty-minute lecture on the many faults of Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum – and, although it was hardly a riveting conversation, Harry didn’t remember anyone named Malfoy. But his question had done its job: the strained tension that filled the room had broken.
“So. Malfoy,” Hermione said primly. “Mind Healing?”
“Some people call it that,” Malfoy said, his nose in the air. “I myself don’t like to consider it a branch of Healing. ‘Healing’ implies a single, discrete cure. As I’m sure you’re aware, the brain is a little more complex than that.”
“I’ve heard something like that, yeah,” Harry said wryly. He had been told as much by at least fifty different people over the last few months.
“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, in that same quiet voice he’d greeted Harry in. He rested his file on his knee.
“Potter–”
“Oh, Harry is fine,” Harry said.
“Harry,” Malfoy said, after a too-long pause. “Listen: there is a real possibility your memory will not be recovered, and, as I’m sure you know, the likelihood of recovery only gets smaller as time goes on. But I’ve reviewed your notes, and I think it’s likely that your memories have not been taken from you; they’re merely hidden – locked away within your own mind. It’s my professional opinion that a course of Legilimency-based therapy has the best chance of strengthening your mind and helping you to regain what you have lost.”
“Legilimency?” Hermione said sharply before Harry had the chance to reply. “Are you sure you’ve read Harry’s file thoroughly, Malfoy? I believe I made sure to include information about Harry’s history with mentally invasive spells.”
Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “You did,” he said drily. “Seven pages of it. And I thank you for your frankly astonishing amount of detail. Please be assured that I read and understood every word.”
Harry considered Draco Malfoy’s pale, unimpressed face while Hermione snapped a response. There was something intriguing about him. Something in the way he spoke to Harry – none of that obsequious deference that most of the experts Harry met had shown. Instead, he had quiet confidence and a blunt honesty that Harry couldn’t help but like. It didn’t hurt that he bickered easily with Hermione, which Harry associated with Ron, and home, and comfort.
“Yes,” he said, interrupting them.
Hermione inhaled sharply and squeezed his shoulder again. “Yes?”
“Yes,” he repeated. He straightened and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy met his gaze unflinchingly. Harry smiled. “When do we start?”
Nobody could tell him how it had happened. The only thing anyone knew was one day, he had been Harry Potter: an Auror, a Saviour, a busy and prominent member of the wizarding community, and the next, he’d been … this. Harry Potter, who couldn’t remember which cupboard he kept the sugar in, who didn’t recognise friends he’d had for years, who knew next to nothing about himself.
That first morning had been the worst, although not initially. He’d woken up and everything had been … peaceful. He hadn’t known where he was, or who he was, or why he should care. There was just the bright sound of birds through the window and the soft brush of cotton sheets against his skin. He hummed contentedly and blinked lazily at the ceiling. It felt like he was floating.
Then the fuzzy shape of a small, scruffy owl landed on the outside windowsill and pecked on the glass.
He gazed at it.
He knew what owls were.
He knew they carried letters for wizards. He knew what letters were. He knew what wizards were.
He didn’t know who would be writing to him.
He didn’t–
He didn’t know who “him” was.
A heavy weight thunked onto his chest. Suddenly, instead of floating, he felt untethered, like the string tying him to reality had snapped in two.
He didn’t know who he was.
He didn’t–
He had no idea. What was his name? Where – he scrambled upright and looked around the room – where was he? Why didn’t he know his name??
The owl, completely ambivalent to his panic, tapped its beak on the glass again. Fighting to even out his frantic breathing, he reached over and unlatched the window.
He untied the scroll from the owl’s leg with shaking fingers and found his hand automatically drifting to a pot filled with owl treats. The gesture calmed him; it was evidence that he was real, that his body had routines his mind had forgotten.
He tentatively offered the owl a treat. It took it in its tiny beak and flew off without a backwards glance. He unfurled the scroll.
Harry,
Where were you last night? Did Kreacher have another episode? Honestly, I do hope you consider what I said; he really hasn’t been the same since we took down that awful portrait.
Please Floo over for lunch, if you’re free – Molly sent another three lots of shepherd’s pie yesterday and there’s no way we’ll be able to get through it all by ourselves. Not that Ron won’t try, of course. And bring that Staghart paper, if you managed to find it! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her theory of entropy since our chat with Professor Silverling at the Confederation meeting.
Love,
Hermione
He gazed at the unfamiliar handwriting. His mouth formed the names of people he didn’t know: Kreacher, Molly, Ron, Staghart, Silverling, Hermione.
Harry.
Who were these people? The owl had delivered the letter to him – was he Harry? He didn’t feel like a Harry. He didn’t feel like an anything.
He left the letter on the bed, tentatively donned a pair of glasses that were on the bedside table (only to find that the world, once resolved into sharp focus, was not any more familiar), and began to investigate the house he’d woken up in.
There were enough letters dotted around addressed to “Harry” that he felt confident that he was in Harry’s house, whoever “Harry” was. There were photographs on the mantelpiece – photographs of many people, but three who appeared most often: a tall, ginger man with a pale face, an easy grin and a heavy smattering of freckles; a darker-skinned woman who had an incredible amount of frizzy brown hair and a tendency to roll her eyes; and another man – messy-haired and bespectacled.
He touched the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. This man in the disheveled Auror uniform with the jagged scar across his forehead – was that him?
He found his way to a bathroom and gazed into the mirror. There was the same scar, an angry lightning bolt etched into his skin. The man in the mirror – the same messy-haired man from the photos – stared blankly back at him.
It had been long enough since he’d woken that any Polyjuice would have worn off. This must be what he looked like.
He felt … nothing. Not encouraged, nor disheartened, nor intrigued – the man looking back at him was just … some bloke. He had a shadow of stubble on his chin. His eyebrows were thick and straight and his eyes were green behind the round-rimmed glasses. None of this ignited a single spark of familiarity.
The house was big, and several hours later found him at the back of the kitchen, rifling through drawers. He had, at this point, learned several things about Harry Potter, whoever he was – mainly that he had dozens of crumpled letters (all of which concluded with dozens of unfamiliar signatures) stuffed into every drawer in the house. But he still had no idea who he himself was or how he had come to be there. If there was an owl in the house that he could use to reply to the letter from Hermione, he had yet to find it.
There was a dingy cupboard door towards the back of the kitchen. He turned to it wearily; he had been through four floors of drawers and cupboards and hadn’t yet found anything useful. Without hope, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open.
“Hello, Master,” came a gravelly voice from the vicinity of his knees.
He let out a yell and slammed the door closed, heart pounding.
There was a flash and a loud crack, and a wizened old house-elf appeared next to him. He yelped again and jumped backwards. The elf peered up at him over a snout-like nose.
“Is Master Harry needing Kreacher for something?” the elf asked dispassionately.
“Master Harry?” The words felt strange in his mouth. “You mean … me?”
The elf narrowed its huge, pale eyes. “Is Master once again insulting the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black by attempting to sever the sacred connection of house-elves to this honourable residence?”
He held up his hands. “No! No, definitely not trying to insult anyone.”
“Did the Muggle-born Granger put you up to this?” the elf demanded.
“No one has put me up to anything! I just – I need your help.”
The elf – Kreacher – didn’t seem too friendly, but also didn’t seem too surprised by his presence in the house. The elf had even called him ‘Master’. So … he did live here, then. This elf was his.
“Did you say ‘Granger’? Who’s Granger?”
“You mock poor Kreacher,” Kreacher accused. “You try to trick him into giving his opinion of the Muggle-born, but Kreacher knows better than that. Kreacher knows Master wants him to say that Hermione Granger is a brilliant witch who is always welcome here.”
Hope. For the first time, hope.
He knelt, the stone floor cold and hard against his knees. “Hermione? Do you know Hermione?”
“Yes,” the elf said slowly, then looked away and added in an undertone, “Although Kreacher still doesn’t trust her, oh no, not at all. What Kreacher’s poor Mistress would say if she knew someone of” – a resentful glance – “her birth is spending so much time in my Mistress’s beloved home.”
“‘Mistress’? Does somebody else live here?”
Kreacher sneered at him. “Not since Master and his friends destroyed my Mistress’s beautiful portrait.” Horrifyingly, Kreacher’s big eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my poor Mistress!” the elf wailed. “Kreacher has failed you!”
“You haven’t – I’m sure you haven’t failed anyone!” He reached out a hand to pat Kreacher on the back, then thought better of it. “There, there,” he said helplessly. He only had four hours of memories; there was not much he felt qualified to do. Consoling a howling house-elf was definitely not within his skillset.
“I – I have a job for you!” he said, almost shouting over Kreacher’s sobs.
Kreacher quietened immediately. “A job? For Kreacher?” Kreacher sniffed, dragging the back of his bony hand across his dripping nose.
It was hard to keep the disgust off his face. “Yes,” he said. “It’s very important. You’d be helping your – your Master out very much.”
Kreacher nodded. “Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black and its inheritors,” Kreacher said, again adding in an undertone, “Even if Kreacher doesn’t agree with the choice of inheritor that his previous Master made when there are blood descendents of the House of Black who Kreacher would have been glad to serve.”
“Great.” It didn’t seem like asking for an explanation would bring any sort of enlightenment. “Great. Listen, it sounds like things are a little tense between the two of you, but could you go and find Hermione Granger and bring her here, please?” Kreacher’s face darkened, and he hastened to add, “It’s for the good of the House of Black.”
The addition didn’t seem to motivate Kreacher in the way he had intended.
“You do mock poor Kreacher,” Kreacher declared, pointing a bony finger, “but Kreacher is a good and obedient elf, and Kreacher will do Master Harry’s bidding.”
With a final glare and a snap of his fingers, Kreacher vanished.
He had barely stood and brushed his knees of dust when Kreacher reappeared, the robes of the bushy-haired woman from the photographs clenched in his small fist.
“Master,” he croaked, and bowed. “Do let Kreacher know if there is anything else he can do to serve.” Then, without waiting for a response, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.
“Harry?” the woman (Hermione?) asked. “What’s going on? We were just having lunch.”
He gazed at her. Her face was familiar from the photographs, but prompted no other memory. Her brown eyes were wide and worried. She took a step towards him. He stepped back instinctively.
“Harry?”
“I think I’ve been Obliviated,” he said calmly.
Her brown skin took on a distinctly grey tinge. “What?”
“I don’t know who I am, or who you are, or why I woke up in this weird house with unsettling snake-head decor and a bad-tempered elf.”
There was a long pause. Hermione stared at him, her mouth open.
He cleared his throat. “I’m starting to think my name is ‘Harry’, though.”
At that, Hermione fell on him. She pressed her hand to his forehead, checked his pupils, took his pulse, and asked a rapid stream of questions that he did not know the answers to.
She dragged him to St Mungo’s (he remembered St Mungo’s; he didn’t remember ever having been there before, though many of the Healers greeted him like an old friend). Minutes after they arrived, the red-haired man from the photographs appeared, demanding to know what Harry had got himself into this time. Harry shrugged. Hermione explained.
“But it’s easy to fix, right?” the man asked, wide eyes looking back and forth between them. “Hermione, your parents – they’re completely fine now. Right? Harry will be back to normal in no time.”
Four months later, Harry was still not back to normal.
His lack of memory was obviously an issue, but apart from that, things weren’t bad. Even if he didn’t remember their history, he still had Ron and Hermione. Both of them had shown him kindness beyond anything he could have imagined – although, in fairness, his scope of reference was limited.
After the Healers at St Mungo’s determined that Harry showed no evidence of having been hit with any sort of Memory Charm, Hermione had taken it upon herself to take charge of Harry’s medical situation. She had fought the Healers when they had suggested he stay permanently in the Spell Damage ward. She had accompanied him to meetings, tests and therapy sessions, and had also done an incredible amount of research herself, brandishing pages and pages of theories to every new specialist that they saw.
Ron hadn’t done any research (“No point, she’d want to go through it to make sure I got it right anyway.”), but had been a steady, calm presence, perfectly balancing Hermione’s intensity. With him, Harry could forget that he’d forgotten anything – they’d played chess (Harry remembered the rules but was fairly terrible – Ron had cheerfully told him that was normal), had gone to Quidditch matches and had spent several late nights laughing and joking, empty bottles piling up on Harry’s kitchen table.
On those nights, Harry’s insides warm from alcohol and companionship, he didn’t really mind that none of the solutions St Mungo’s had suggested had worked. It wouldn’t be so bad to start afresh if he had Ron and Hermione by his side.
Routine was important, Hermione insisted, so most days Harry had lunch or dinner with the two of them. Hermione also insisted it was important that Harry stay as immersed in the wizarding world as possible (“Anything could trigger recall!”), so often they ate at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron privately told Harry he suspected this was nonsense and Hermione just wanted an excuse to avoid cooking.
Half an hour after their meeting with Brisley and Malfoy, Harry ducked through the door into the pub. The barman grinned toothily and waved him towards their usual table. Hermione wasn’t there yet, but Ron was, fiddling with a broken Decoy Detonator with his tongue poking between his teeth. Harry had only just joined him when the bell above the door tinkled again and a harried-looking Hermione burst through. Harry waved, and she sagged, taking in his position next to Ron with obvious disappointment. Harry tried not to be offended.
Ron didn’t look up from the Detonator when Hermione sat next to him, but he turned his head to accept her kiss on the cheek.
“You all right, love? You sound like you ran here,” he said absently.
“Just wanted to look something up,” Hermione said, her attempt at airiness hampered by her laboured breathing.
“Is that where you dashed off to?” Given that the meeting with Malfoy hadn’t finished until two o’clock, Harry had expected them to head straight to the pub together, but Hermione had made hasty apologies and disappeared almost immediately after Malfoy had left.
“Understandable,” Ron said seriously. “Don’t you know, Harry? You have to run when books are involved. It’s not like they’ll be around for hundreds of years or anything.” He chortled at his own joke. “What did your Healer want, anyway?”
“Same old,” Harry said. “She dragged in another so-called expert. Their new plan is Legilimency therapy.”
Ron frowned without taking his eyes off the Detonator. “Legilimency therapy? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Me either,” Harry said, “but that’s not saying much.”
There was an unusually awkward pause. After a strained moment, Harry realised he was waiting for Hermione to jump in with a full explanation of Legilimency therapy and the history of its uses within Mind Healing. But Hermione was biting her lip and staring determinedly at the menu, not saying a word.
Ron appeared to have been thinking along the same lines. “What’s up with you?” he asked her, looking up from the Detonator for the first time.
“Nothing!” Hermione said quickly. “Nothing at all. I think I might try the rarebit today. What are you going to have, Harry?”
Harry blinked. “Er, I dunno. Rarebit sounds good, I suppose?”
“Whoa, hang on a minute. What’s going on?” Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, who shrugged. “What’s Legilimency therapy? Is it dangerous? Is that why you’re being weird?”
“No! It’s nothing. I can explain more later. Ooh, look, today’s dessert special is rhubarb crumble. I hope they have custard.”
The crumble did sound good, and the thought of it distracted Ron enough that the topic of Legilimency therapy was dropped in favour of a debate over the merits of custard versus ice cream as the superior crumble accompaniment and Hermione’s odd behaviour quickly faded from Harry’s mind. By the time they were polishing off their second helpings of crumble (Hermione: custard, Harry: ice cream, Ron: both), all three of them were in good spirits.
“Another drink, mate?” Ron asked, pointing at Harry’s empty glass with his spoon.
Harry shook his head. “Nah, I better not,” he said. “Don’t wanna drink too much today. I have my first session with Malfoy at ten tomorrow.”
Ron spluttered a strange, choked laugh. “You – what?”
Harry grimaced. “I know, bit early for a Saturday morning, isn’t it? But he said there was no reason to put it off til Monday when I only have two months left, so…”
“Ron–” Hermione said anxiously.
“No, no, hold on,” Ron said, straightening. “Harry. Did you say ‘Malfoy’?”
Harry nodded. “Do you know him, too, then? This Malfoy bloke?”
“Do I know–?! Which one? Lucius or Draco?”
“Erm. Draco, I think he said? He’s the new specialist Brisley brought in.” Harry frowned at Ron’s appalled expression. “Why? Who’s Lucius?”
“Bloody hell.”
“Ron, really, I don’t think–”
“He was at school with us, right?”
“Yeah, unfortunately.” Ron rubbed his chin. “Merlin’s tit. I haven’t seen him for about eight years. He’s a Healer now? I’d never have guessed that one.”
“A Mind Healer,” Hermione corrected.
“Well, I suppose he’d enjoy being paid to tell people they’re barmy.”
“If that’s all he does, at least it’ll be a short session tomorrow.” Harry attempted a grin. But rather than laugh, Ron straightened, his face thunderous.
“Hang on. He’s not going to be the one doing Legilimency on you, is he?”
“Erm,” Harry said. “He didn’t go into detail, but it sounded like it, yeah. Why?”
Ron’s ears reddened. “You’re joking.”
“No…?”
“Ron–”
Ron whirled on Hermione. “You’re letting this happen?” he demanded. “Legilimency therapy? Malfoy’s going to be – what? Forcing himself into Harry’s brain and rifling around? Like Snape did? We saw how much good that did, didn’t we? The little present You-Know-Who sent Harry at the end of fifth year?”
“That was a completely different situation,” Hermione said, avoiding his eyes. “Harry was supposed to be learning Occlumency back then, and Voldemort was alive, and Snape was–”
Ron gaped. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Snape was made of the exact same stuff that Malfoy is, and you know it.”
“Then Malfoy is brave and loyal and intelligent!” Hermione insisted, though she didn’t look like she believed the words herself.
“Bollocks.”
“So who exactly is he, this Malfoy?” Harry asked, struggling to keep up. “He seemed fine in Brisley’s office. A little … I dunno…”
“Slimy?” Ron suggested. “Untrustworthy? Evil?”
“Ron!”
“I was going to say ‘posh’,” Harry said, disconcerted.
“Believe me, mate, that’s the least of his faults–”
“Oh, please!” Hermione slammed down her spoon. “He was perfectly professional in the meeting this morning and we have no reason to suspect he will be otherwise going forwards,” she said firmly. “He has some fairly impressive qualifications. I looked him up after the meeting. He’s done good work since Hogwarts.”
“He could have single-handedly Healed every person who has been to St Mungo’s in the last ten years and I still wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire,” Ron said stubbornly.
“And,” Hermione said loudly, ignoring Ron, “given that Draco is going to need Harry to trust him in order for this to have a chance of working, I think we should let Harry form his own opinions.” Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione carried on. “I would have thought that helping your best friend to regain almost three decades of lost memories would be more important than scoring points in petty teenage rivalries.”
“‘Petty teenage rivalries’?” Harry repeated. “So … what? We weren’t pals with him in school? Was he better than you in the official Hogwarts chess rankings or something?”
Ron looked like he was on the edge of another outburst, but another severe glare from Hermione seemed to evaporate it out of him. He made a noise of disgust, and shook his head.
“Hardly,” he said. Hermione elbowed him. “But, er. Like Hermione said, it was a long time ago. He might be different now.” It sounded like the addition had taken a lot of effort to force out. Then something seemed to occur to him. “Hang on, are we sure he’s not just going to run straight to the Daily Prophet? He’s done that sort of thing before.”
“Has he?” Harry asked with interest.
“No!” Hermione said. “I mean – Well, yes, he did. But we were fourteen! It would be a huge breach of patient confidentiality if he did it now. Honestly, the scandal of him doing such a thing would overshadow anything he could tell them about Harry.”
“What, ‘Known unprincipled dickhead tells someone else’s secrets to his favourite reporter’ would be bigger news than ‘Harry Potter has lost his memory’? Hermione, it’s a miracle we’ve kept it out of the news for this long.”
“It is when you keep shouting about it!” Hermione snapped, glancing around.
Ron snapped back at her, and they began to bicker about privacy spells and press releases.
Harry, by now used to their arguments, knew that anything else he had to say would not be heard. He tuned them out, snagged the bowl that sat forgotten at Ron’s elbow, and tucked in to the rest of Ron’s rhubarb crumble.
Ron’s reaction was, admittedly, alarming; Ron was hardly shy about mocking people, but Harry had never heard him so outraged. How bad did someone have to be before laid-back Ron called them slimy and evil? And it wasn’t just Ron – there had been that tangible frostiness from Hermione, back in Brisley’s office. Who was Draco Malfoy? And what had he done to make Harry’s friends dislike him so much?
But, as Harry considered the issue while Ron and Hermione’s quarrel intensified, he found that he didn’t feel deterred from meeting Healer Malfoy again tomorrow. If anything, it was the opposite – he was almost excited to see what all the fuss was about.
Excitement wasn’t an emotion Harry felt much of these days, and he held it gently to himself as he polished off Ron’s dessert. Whoever Draco Malfoy was, whatever he’d done, he’d already given Harry one of the most interesting days he’d had in months.
And there were only fourteen hours until Harry saw him again.