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~()~()~
For the most part, Harry’s glad for this. He thinks jealousy turns people stupid. It certainly does with Ron. Jealousy makes people do all sorts of nonsensical things like yell or drink too much or punch Dean in the throat for making out with Ginny right in front of him just two months after they’ve broken up. But Harry doesn’t have to worry about things like that because he genuinely doesn’t feel any jealousy towards the two. No, really. He feels so much nothing at the sight of them embracing that he tries to imagine wanting to hurt Dean, to push him away from “his woman.” Because surely he should be feeling something about this particular situation. Everyone expects him to. Hermione’s licking her lips nervously and Ron has his brows in a permanent furrow. Harry feels like he needs to give at least some sort of performance.
It’s useless. He doesn’t care. He’s happy for her. Even if she is the one who broke things off. Which he still doesn’t understand. They had been fine together. They had led a peaceful coexistence. Their relationship was calm and quiet, and isn’t that what relationships are supposed to be? When you can spend all day in the same flat without saying a word to each other? It means you’ve grown familiar with each other, so much so that even words are unnecessary. Not that Harry ever really had anything he wanted to say to Ginny. But as far as relationships go, Harry doesn’t think peace and quiet are grounds for a break up.
It’s a pity Ginny hadn’t felt the same. One night in the middle of dinner, she’d said around a mouthful of chicken, “I’m moving out.” Just like that. No precursors. No preparation. No cushioning for the blow to Harry’s heart. Even if, to Harry’s confusion, he had not felt particularly saddened by the declaration. Still. Weren’t you supposed to handle these things a little more delicately?
Apparently not. Ginny hadn’t even bothered to give an explanation other than to say, as she was walking out the door with two shrunken suitcases in hand, “I knew you wouldn’t be too disappointed.” And Harry had tried to analyze that statement for the entire week after, until he’d finally given up because, really, if Ginny wasn’t going to bother with explanations, why should Harry bother with ruminations?
Not much has changed since Ginny’s left. Well, he’s noticed the dishes tend to pile up a bit quicker now that Ginny’s not there to pester him about it. And he supposes he’s skipped a few more meals than usual judging by the way his trousers are starting to go a bit loose round the middle. But for the most part, it’s still quiet and calm in his flat. And when he goes to bed, it’s just as it’s always been. He sticks to his side of the bed and sleeps without interruption.
Harry used to want things a bit louder. He used to want a home full of kids and laughter and the inevitable chaos of family life. But then the war had ended, and he’d just wanted a bit of quiet. And now he thinks he likes that better than anything else. It’s safe, and Harry likes safe.
“Maybe we should go,” Hermione says when Ginny’s laughter breaks through the din in the pub. Her eyes shift about nervously, and Harry thinks she’s trying not to look over in Ginny’s direction.
“You think?” Ron mutters, pointedly glaring at Dean. “I’m really sorry, mate.”
“It’s fine,” Harry says. He tries to say it in such a way that they’ll actually believe him. “Look, it was an amicable break up. We didn’t yell or cry or anything like that. If she wants to start dating again, who am I to stop her?”
His speech falls on deaf ears. “It’s actually getting a bit late, don’t you think?” Hermione says, eying Ron meaningfully. “Perhaps we should call it a night.”
“Er, right. Yeah. I’m pretty knackered,” Ron adds. After all these years, Ron has finally learned to read Hermione’s silent cues. “Spent the day chasing after a couple of wannabe Death Eater teens with Jenkins. Ridiculous.”
“No, come on!” Harry exclaims. “Don’t leave. It’s fine. Really. What’s worse? Us having a drink and a laugh and maybe sitting through some of my ex-girlfriend’s flirting with another guy? Or you two abandoning me so that I have to sit through it alone? At a pub. By myself. Did I mention alone?”
Hermione’s face wavers, but Ron grins and orders them another round of drinks. They spend the next hour laughing about the teenage Death Eaters – because it’s such a disconcerting thought that any other reaction would be too difficult to bear – and pointedly ignoring Ginny and Dean at the bar. Well, Ron and Hermione pointedly ignore them. Harry genuinely forgets they’re there at all.
~()~()~
“Don’t you think you ought to be calling her by her first name at this point?”
“No,” Spencer replies in a low, warning tone. “Because we don’t want it getting out for everyone to know.”
“Why not? You two make a cute couple.”
“Sure, until we have to file it with HR, and then the whole Ministry will be watching our every move till we go crazy and attack each other.” He leads the way to Rogers’ office.
“Er… I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Says the guy who got dumped without knowing why,” Spencer mutters, and he doesn’t even try looking guilty about the potentially painful jab. Harry grins.
“Well, you’re just the bestest partner anyone could ever hope for.”
“Hey, you make me take charge of all the research. I’m allowed to push at your every sore spot. Even if it isn’t particularly sore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Harry, I didn’t even know you two had broken up till I saw Dean chatting her up a few weeks ago. And don’t try to pretend you’re all torn up about it inside,” he says, waving a hand dismissively at Harry’s protest.
“Maybe I’m just playing the stoic hero,” he says as they round the corner to Rogers’ office. “Maybe I’m actually dying inside, but don’t want to burden anyone with my sorrows.”
“Or maybe you were never all that into the relationship to begin with, and it’s lucky she called it off before you just wasted away the rest of your romantic life in a decidedly less than romantic relationship.”
Harry quirks a brow at that. The relationship was romantic. They had sex at least once a week. Or, well, most weeks, anyway. When Harry wasn’t busy working on a case. Or too tired. Or sometimes just not in the mood.
“Spencer,” Rogers says, smiling at him until she notices Harry. Harry doesn’t bother hiding the grin that blooms in the wake of her blush. She clears her throat. “I mean, Durricks. Potter. If you’ll follow me.” She walks them into her office, closing the door behind them with a flick of her wand. The Ministry standard Portkey – a gold medallion with a black ‘M’ embossed into it – sits neatly atop her desk. “Another brothel was discovered in Muggle London late last night. The Wizards involved left before we got to them. We suspect they’re the same ones behind the Turner case.”
“How can we be sure?” Spencer asks.
“We were close, very nearly caught them. They escaped in such a hurry they left several victims behind. Two women, a man, and three children.” Rogers' voice is clear, unwavering; it does little to hide the disgust in her face.
“Right. And where are the victims now?”
“In holding. We’re running tests on them to see what sorts of spells and potions they might be under. Hopefully something will turn up a match to the Turner case.”
“Christ, can’t they be allowed some time to deal with their shock?” Harry exclaims.
“No time,” Spencer answers, calm but firm. “If they were forced to ingest any potions, we’ve got to get to them before they clear out of their systems. We won’t have a chance to figure out what was used otherwise.”
Most days, Harry’s really glad he has such a pragmatic, intelligent partner. Sometimes, it just sucks.
“Fine. Shall we Portkey to the site then?”
“You, yes,” Rogers says, glancing at Spencer. “You, no.” This time, she’s looking over at Harry.
“What do you mean, him yes, me no?”
“Exactly what it sounds like.”
“We’re partners. It’s sort of implicit in the terminology that we “partner” up wherever we go.”
“Not today. You two know more about this case than anyone else. Kingsley wants one of you onsite, and one of you interviewing the victims.”
“And he thought I would be best to send in for questioning?” Harry’s brow inches upward.
“Harry’s right. He’s rather rubbish at asking the right questions.”
“Thank you, Spencer.” Harry's glare is baleful. Spencer doesn’t notice.
“Not my call, boys. I simply do as told. And so will you.” Rogers' stare leaves no room for argument.
“Yeah, yeah. Fine, whatever. I’ll head over to the interrogation room. Catch me up when you get back?” Spencer nods his assent, and Harry leaves without a backward glance.
This is bollocks. Total bollocks. He doesn’t like the idea of Spencer going onsite without him. Doesn’t like the idea of going into a questioning without Spencer. They work well together because they work well together. Harry rolls his eyes so hard, he has to blink twice in pain.
He nods to the Junior Auror guarding the door to the interrogation ward before walking in. The guard down the hallway instructs him to enter interrogation room number four. Harry grips his wand as soon as he enters. A man with his back to Harry is casting spells on an unconscious little boy, one hand twirling expertly, the other raising a green CamelBak to his lips for a sip. It’s nothing nefarious, but no one’s allowed in the interrogation rooms without express permission.
“What are you doing here?” Harry calls out, and the man freezes halfway through a spell, his shoulders taut. The wand-free hand places the CamelBak carefully onto the interrogation table.
“…Potter?” the man asks without turning back; his voice drips with dread.
And Harry’s not even the least bit confused because he’s suddenly filled with a terrible dismay of his own. Ungh, no, is all he can think in that instant. “Malfoy?” Please say no.
Malfoy turns, a tight smile on his face. “Well, I suppose it was a bit too hopeful to think I might not run into you at the Ministry.”
“Right.” Neither of them says anything for another minute. They just stare at each other, and Harry can’t help but feel a bit self-conscious. Malfoy’s much taller than Harry remembers. Harry hasn’t grown at all. At least he doesn’t walk around with a goddamn CamelBak. “Well?” Harry finally asks.
“Well, what?”
“Well, what are you doing here?”
“So the Ministry really is as unskilled at communication as I’d suspected. I was sent here to check for traces of potions in his system. Him and another set of Muggles. Not that they’ll tell me what it’s about.”
“Of course not,” Harry lashes out, fierce. “That information is classified. It’s none of your concern.”
Malfoy sneers. “As if I care what stupid trifles you fill your days with. I’m just here to do my job. So if you’d care to wait outside—”
“Yeah. That’ll happen.” They stare each other down for another minute before Malfoy scoffs and turns back to the boy. He looks a bit too skinny in his St. Mungo’s standard lime green robes, and Harry wonders when the hell they allowed Draco Malfoy of all people to become a Healer. Trust his life in a Malfoy’s hands? Not bloody likely.
A few minutes pass, and Harry begins to wonder whether or not he should check for some ID (because for all he knows, Malfoy actually is just a filthy Death Eater criminal posing as a Healer to get classified information) when Malfoy clears his throat and turns to Harry. Harry refuses to say a word. After a beat, Malfoy speaks.
“There’s definitely been some potions use here. I can’t specify a particular brew, so it’s probably something homemade and somewhat improvised. The engorged red blood cells combined with the imbalance of hormones indicate that some form of aphrodisiac was used. Something strong. Definitely dangerous with prolonged use.”
“Dangerous how?”
“Are you really that thick, Potter? You can’t go on with messed up blood cells and hormones without it affecting you eventually. With the ridiculous doses this boy was forced under, I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t suffered considerable brain damage already.”
“What’s an aphrodisiac got to do with his brain?”
Malfoy lets out a long-suffering sigh. His left cheek goes hollow, and Harry can guess that he’s biting it to keep from saying something that would force Harry to punch him. “I don’t know whether or not you ever learned basic anatomy, but hormones control and affect everything. Including the brain. If they are forced into imbalance for long enough, brain damage is just one of many irreversible side effects that can and will occur.”
“Well, can’t you check?”
“Until he’s conscious, there’s no way to tell. And it’s best to let him rest while his body flushes out the last traces of the potion.”
“Well, is there any way for you to find out what exactly they forced him to take?”
“No. Spells will only allow me to see what traces are left in his system. There’s no way to reconstruct the ingredients and measurements that concocted the brew. I’ve still got two other patients to go through, but so far, none of them has had enough of the brew left in their system to tell me much more than what I’ve just told you. If you want something more, you’ll need to get me an actual potions sample.”
Harry growls low in his throat, mostly because he doesn’t quite know what else to do. He should have known Malfoy would be useless. The Ministry should have known. They should call in someone else. Someone with actual skill. “When the hell did you become a Healer, anyway?”
“I’m not a Healer,” Malfoy sneers. “I work for the Potions Division. We test and manufacture Potions for use on St. Mungo’s patients. And every once in a while, we get called in to help the incompetent oafs you call Aurors.”
“Fuck you,” Harry spits, because he can’t think of anything witty. It gets a reaction out of Malfoy, anyway. He glares at Harry then pulls his robes tighter around himself.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’m due to check on the next patient.” He walks up to the door, but Harry refuses to move. He’s not sure why; he just knows he wants to bother Malfoy for just a little longer, get under his skin. And he’s sure he does when Malfoy’s porcelain white face turns bright pink. Harry should have guessed. Malfoy’s always been so pale and pathetic, even his blush doesn’t color all the way red. Just a flowery pink that reminds Harry of broken China dolls. Though why he imagines them broken, he’s not sure.
He steps back with a slow grin and finally lets Malfoy pass.
~()~()~
Harry grabs his coat before replying. “Sure.”
They head to The Bar, a Muggle bar just around the corner from the Ministry. It affords a modicum of privacy from prying Wizard eyes, and the Aurors often frequent it. A dark waitress brings them each a lager as they take their seats, already familiar with their “usual.” Harry smiles at that. He likes having a “usual.”
“So why aren’t you out with Rogers tonight?” Harry’s not actually all that interested in Spencer’s love life, but he knows people like it when he at least pretends.
“She’s over at St. Mungo’s consulting with the Potions Division.”
“What?” Harry’s fingers tighten around the pint glass, dripping with condensation.
“Honestly, Harry. Didn’t you read the memo this morning?”
“No. I figured you’d update me if anything important came up.”
“Right. Well perhaps I shouldn’t tell you at all.”
“Come on. Why’s she with the Potions Division?” More importantly, why is she with Malfoy?
Spencer rolls his eyes, but gives in. “We may have obtained enough of a potions sample to figure out what they’ve been using on Turner’s victims. Do you remember the ones from Thursday?” Harry nods. “Well, apparently what we had initially dismissed as a food stain on one of their shirts was actually spilled potion. We sent it over to St. Mungo’s for processing.”
“So we’ve got it, then.”
“Maybe. But maybe not. It might not be enough. But if we’ve got any chance of figuring it out, it’ll be with Mungo’s newest Potions Division Head.”
“New?”
“Yeah. They hired him just recently. Lizzy wouldn’t stop going on about how much more tolerable he is than the last Head before him. And handsome.” Harry doesn’t miss Spencer’s frown.
“She's got a new crush, does she?”
“I’m sure she doesn’t. She’s just always had a thing for blonds.”
Harry’s eye twitches. “What’s his name?”
“Malfoy, I think. Has a messy background, from what I’ve heard.”
You have no idea, Harry thinks. But he doesn’t want to get into all that right now. Spencer’s Irish background has left him less familiar with the English pureblood wizards, and while he must know of Malfoy’s Death Eater history, he can’t possibly understand just how deeply involved Malfoy was.
“Yeah, well you’ve heard right," Harry says. "That guy is a real shit. Tell Rogers to watch out around him.”
Spencer quirks a brow, but says nothing more. The conversation turns to random chatter that Harry only half listens to. He doesn’t like the idea of Malfoy and Rogers alone together. Malfoy’s a dirty snake, not to be trusted. If anyone should be dealing with Malfoy, it should be Harry. At least he has experience dealing with his scheming ways.
~()~()~
And isn’t it just like Malfoy to have a breakthrough right in the middle of Harry’s lunch? Always disturbing even the smallest semblance of peace in Harry’s life. Harry tosses the rest of his half-eaten sandwich in the bin.
Spencer’s already waiting for him when he exits the pub, and the two Apparate to St. Mungo’s without a word. They head up to the fourth floor and past a middle-aged receptionist, who points a long, purple fingernail in the direction of the Potions ward.
Malfoy has his back to them when they enter. He doesn’t bother to turn around. Just keeps bustling about a set of cauldrons, each in a different stage of simmering and bubbling.
“Malfoy,” Spencer finally says, because Harry is too fucking annoyed to say a word.
“Durricks. Potter,” Malfoy says after a moment. He casts an appraising glance across each of them before continuing. “Amortentia,” he says. It’s a few seconds before Harry remembers where he’s heard that before.
“A love potion?” Spencer shoots Harry a judging look at the question. Harry ignores him. Harry will ask whatever he likes. The Hermiones and Spencers of the world should stop expecting everyone to always know everything about everything.
Malfoy takes his time replying, reaching across the counter behind him for that goddamned CamelBak. Harry hadn’t even known Wizards owned CamelBaks. Malfoy sucks a long gulp from the straw before replying. “A corrupted form of Amortentia. Whoever made this particular brew manipulated the original version to gruesome extents. Unicorn blood in place of human blood. Phoenix heart tissue in place of mollusks. It took all night to pinpoint the various alterations, but I’ll skip the potions talk and get to the point. This potion is only just barely Amortentia. I’m honestly not sure it can even be classified as a love potion.”
“So it doesn’t make the drinker fall in love?”
“No. It does. But the intention is ultimately to destroy the drinker who consumes it.”
“Like a poison?” Harry asks, because he knows Spencer won’t. He prefers to watch and listen.
“You might call it that. But it doesn’t kill the drinker. Only destroys them.”
“Fucking Christ, if you’re going to insist on speaking in riddles—”
“It targets the mind, not the body. All love potions do. But this one is… different. If you were to give someone a standard brew of Amortentia, they would fall in love with the person whose DNA has been imbued into the potion. Madly, at first, to the point of obsession. But over time, and with reciprocated love of the DNA-holder, it would abate into a more sedate form of love. A more natural-seeming love. But all the while, their personality would never change. Though they would have been forced to love someone, they would not have been forced to change fundamental character traits. For example, someone with a short temper would still have a short temper, but perhaps be more easily relaxed by their new love. Someone silly or intelligent or courageous… all these traits would remain the same. This potion, however, it….” Malfoy licks his lips, looking as if he’s struggling to put his thoughts into words. Harry rather suspects he’s just doing it for dramatic effect.
“Get on with it, Malfoy. This new potion what?”
Save for a mild glare, Malfoy continues as if uninterrupted. “It alters the fundamental essence of the drinker. It allows the DNA-holder to change and mold the drinker’s personality.”
“How?”
“Mere desire. It doesn’t even have to be conscious. By ingesting the person’s DNA, the drinker becomes connected to the loved one in a one-way dynamic that allows the drinker to intuit what the loved one desires. An irresistible compulsion forces it to react in whatever way best pleases the DNA-holder. In essence, the drinker becomes a real-life marionette, prancing about and doing exactly as directed – whether spoken or not.”
“That makes sense,” Spencer finally says. At Harry’s questioning glance, he continues. “But there’s more, isn’t there? You said real-life marionettes. What about real-life sex dolls? A brothel in which every prostitute you interacted with not only loved you, but was exactly that which you’d always wanted in a sexual partner. No wonder Turner’s been so successful with all his brothels. They’re not just providing clients with prostitutes who love them; they’re creating a world in which the clients themselves love. They fall in love with the prostitutes, believing this is their perfect partner.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Harry exclaims. “You can’t just make someone into someone else. And you certainly can’t just fall in love with someone because you’ve changed them.”
“But that’s just it," Malfoy interjects. "They wouldn’t even know that they’d changed the prostitutes.” Harry hates that Malfoy’s been made privy to the details of their case. “The prostitutes would simply be whoever it is the client desired most the moment they ingested the potion. Even if they were aware of the use of the potion to transform the prostitutes, the lines would quickly blur such that the client could very well find it impossible to tell the difference between real love and this artificial love.”
Now, that’s just stupid. Harry knows this to the core of his soul. Harry knows what love is. It’s something that grows. Something that adapts. Something that accepts all the irritating awful things about someone so that you can appreciate the fantastic wonderful things all the more. And sure, maybe it isn’t anything earth-shattering, and maybe his heart never sped up or skipped a beat around Ginny, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t love her. He would have died for her. In fact, that should be the new definition of love. Love is when you would die for someone, despite their irritating quirks and constant nagging about how stale their life had become. That’s what love is.
Love is not manipulating someone into something they’re not just so they become someone you can love, which isn’t even real because it’s just a subconscious fabrication. It would have to nag at your conscience, knowing that this person who claims to love you is really only pretending.
But Harry’s given up on long-winded, heartfelt speeches. The last time he gave one was at the one-year memorial following the final battle. He thinks nothing in his life will ever be so grand as to warrant such a speech (hopes it, even), and so he keeps his thoughts to himself, teeth chomping down on the nail of his left thumb.
Instead, he asks questions. “Well, what does this mean for the victims? How long does the potion last? Can they return to their original personalities once the effects have been stopped?”
“It’s difficult to say. Especially with my limited interaction with the patients.” Harry refuses to acknowledge Malfoy’s glare. He’s not letting Malfoy in on any more of their case information. “From what I can gather from the collected sample, this potion requires frequent and constant consumption.”
“What’s the point in that? Wouldn’t it be easier to make it a one-time dose?” Harry asks.
“I was confused at first, too,” Malfoy admits. “But now that I know its intended drinkers were prostitutes, I can imagine this was so that the victim could be forced to ingest multiple brews, each one linked to a different client as necessary.”
“What about the side effects? Surely the victims can’t have survived long with so many doses.”
“Short-term use might not have any long-term effects on personality. However, it’s impossible to tell how long the victims have been forced to ingest this potion, much less how many different brews. Long-term consumption certainly revealed physical deterioration in the victims I examined last week. But I couldn’t possibly endeavor to estimate the mental impact it’s had; I didn’t know them before. We might never know whether they have returned to themselves or remain the altered dolls created by the potion.”
“Hang on,” Spencer cuts in, more curious than Harry’s seen him in years. His mouth hangs slightly agape and his eyebrows are both raised and furrowed. He’s breathing loudly, too. “Are you saying that, over time, the drinker would no longer need to take the potion at all? That they would have actually become the loved one’s perfect match?”
Malfoy grimaces. “Perfect match is not the right phrase. The drinker would not necessarily complement or make the DNA-holder better; he or she might in fact indulge the DNA-holder’s fantasies to the point of ruin. It’s all about desire. But yes. In theory, it’s possible that, given the same DNA brew over a prolonged period of time, they could become the loved one’s exact fantasy of love without the possibility of reversal.”
“Holy shit,” Spencer whispers.
“There has to be a way for the drinker to fight it,” Harry cuts in. “Even Imperius can be thwarted with enough effort.”
“Of course,” Malfoy bites back. “The drinker could end up fighting the DNA-holder’s desires to his dying day. I’m just stating the possibilities.”
They all stare at each other in silence for several seconds. Then Malfoy murmurs quietly, “I think you should destroy it.”
“What?” Harry asks.
“We haven’t got it. That sample we gave you is the closest we’ve gotten.”
“I’m not an idiot. I realize that. But I know what the Ministry does with collected evidence. Especially new discoveries like this. You save it. Experiment with it. Try to use it to your own ends or create something new from it. After all, why waste a perfectly good advance in the world of magic?” He says the last bit in a mocking falsetto. “But I’m telling you, you shouldn’t. I’m asking you not to.”
“Malfoy,” Spencer tries to reason, though Harry doesn’t know why he bothers, “It’s not up to us how the Ministry handles the evidence. Those decisions get made by the higher-ups. We’re just here to try and save some lives.”
“Yes, well, you’ll be killing a whole lot more if you don’t destroy this potion and its recipe as soon as you find it. Don’t you see how dangerous this is? It’s impossible to control. Not even the DNA-holder can maintain control of the situation once the potion has been imbibed. They’re just as much victim to the potion as the drinker himself.” His voice sounds a bit frantic, now, and Harry wishes he would take it easy on the histrionics already. If anything, Malfoy’s probably terrified that the Ministry will get to experiment with its uses before he himself can manipulate it to serve whatever nasty plans he has of his own.
Spencer doesn’t see the maniacal glint in Malfoy’s eye, Harry’s sure of it. But he does see Malfoy’s heightening hysteria. Spencer tries to put an end to the conversation. “We really do appreciate all your help, Malfoy. Honest. But it’s not your place to decide what ends up happening with these potions. If you’d like, I can put you in contact with someone who might have some influence over the decision, but—”
Spencer stops at the look of fury – and perhaps a bit of frustration – on Malfoy’s face.
“I’m sorry,” Spencer says, finally, before turning to Harry and nodding for them to go.
Harry would apologize too, if he understood what exactly Malfoy was getting at. But as he thinks it over on the lift, he realizes there’s nothing to understand. Malfoy is blowing things way out of proportion, indulging in his flare for the dramatic. And Spencer’s humored him far too much. Sure, maybe it’s possible to recreate the feelings of love by forcing someone to ingest a potion. And maybe they could even imitate the DNA-holder’s fantasy in such a way that they lose their human essence, become living puppets. But they could never convince the DNA-holder to fall in love, too. How could anyone fall in love with a doll?
~()~()~
They raid Turner’s brothels next. Free the victims, help them relocate or find their families, perform Obliviate after Obliviate on the poor Muggles caught up in this horrible mess. Harry used to hate that part, violating someone’s memories without giving them the choice. But then he realized that it’s actually better this way. They shouldn’t remember. Shouldn’t have to remember. He’s making their lives better. They can go back to their lives as if nothing ever happened, and for them, nothing has. Not once the memories have been wiped clean from their brains. It’s better that they not be given an option. They’ll be happier this way.
One week after the last victim has been safely returned to his family, Harry closes his copy of the Turner file and stuffs it in the back of the drawer he reserves for resolved crimes. He breathes a sigh of relief for the first time in months. The case is closed, and they can put this madness behind them.
Only they don’t.
His stomach starts growling at half past one on the Thursday after they’ve closed the case. He heads down to the Ministry canteen and barely suppresses a scowl at the impossibly long queue. Typical. The minutes tick by, and all he can do is glare at the two laughing women in front of him while trying to tune out the incessant chatter at his back, two wizards who haven’t stopped talking in hushed, gossiping tones since they stepped up behind him. Harry hates gossip.
But then one of them says something that sounds remarkably like ‘Turner’ and something about a potion. He listens more carefully. Sure enough, the two are chatting about the Turner case. He casts a furtive glance to his side, trying to discern their identities through his periphery. He doesn’t know their names, but he’s sure he’s seen them before. They’re apprentices, he thinks, young and still too stupid to know not to talk about privileged information so out in the open. Worse yet, a glint of their badges gives away their department. Harry’s surprised the Department of Mysteries has taken on such careless apprentices. He’ll have to tell Hermione to watch out for the two latest additions to her department.
By the time Harry pays for his meal, he’s learned that not only has the Ministry expropriated all of Turner’s potions, but they’ve also begun recreating it, brewing it in mass quantities for testing and experimentation. They’re trying to create something suitable for Ministry use – whatever that means. Harry has no doubt it could come in handy, particularly during an undercover case in which an Auror might need to… persuade someone for a particular task or confession.
It’s not something that would normally interest him. He’s done his part for the case. He’s helped the victims and locked away the bad guys. He’s already been assigned two other cases, and there’s not time to reflect further over a case which no longer exists. But something draws him towards this new development. He wants to know more.
He owls Hermione before he leaves for his flat that night. He tells her about the latest case he’s working on and asks if she can give him a tour of the Department of Mysteries. It would be incredibly helpful to his case, given that the current suspect used to work as an employee for said department. It might help him get into her frame of mind if he knew what sorts of projects she’d been working on before filing for resignation three months ago.
It’s not a complete lie. The Ministry database reveals to all who search for Dana McCarthy that she did in fact recently resign from the Department of Ministries for undisclosed reasons. So what if she has nothing to do with Harry’s case?
~()~()~
“Well, she’s only a suspect,” he continues to lie. Just in case. “It could be nothing at all. But I’d rather be certain before discounting anything.”
“Understandably,” Hermione says with a shrug.
They walk through the department for half an hour, Hermione pointing out every project with flourishing titles but cryptic responses whenever Harry asks for specific details. She’s enjoying herself, he can tell. She likes knowing more than every other employee at the Ministry, and she likes the chance to flaunt it now in front of an audience. Harry makes sure to show interest in every project she mentions, partly to keep her smiling, but mostly so that he doesn’t seem disproportionately curious when inquiring about the Turner case potion.
They reach a darker section of the atrium, and for the first time, Hermione hesitates.
“What is it?” Harry asks.
“It’s just, I’m not sure yet how much I’m allowed to say about this one. And anyway, I don’t think it’s a very safe project.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you actually worked on the case that brought us this one. It’s a potion. Used in a series of brothels. Your team filed it as the Turner case, didn’t you?”
“The Turner case?” Harry goes for casual. “Yeah, we just closed it about a week ago. I know they were using a love potion of sorts, but—”
“It’s not a love potion,” Hermione says viciously. Harry’s responding shock is genuine. “Sorry,” she mumbles at his open mouth. “It’s just, this thing can’t be called a love potion. It’s nothing like a love potion at all. It’s more like… I don’t know. We haven’t run enough tests to be sure, but…. The thing is, for a love potion to work, the maker has to actually have a semblance of love for the intended drinker. But the very essence of this potion practically precludes genuine love. It’s sort of like saying, ‘Hey, I want to be in love, and you’re not it, but I’ll use your body to create someone I love.’”
“Well, what’s the Ministry doing with it, then?”
“I’m not sure. But nothing good, I’d imagine.” She looks like she wants to say more; Harry knows she won’t.
“Do you know how long you’ll be experimenting with it?”
“Dunno. But it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I probably shouldn’t have even told you as much as I have. The department’s still fairly secretive about it. No one outside the department has access to it. Not even the Minister.”
“You’re kidding,” Harry says. He can’t understand what all the hype about one little potion is.
“I’m not.” Hermione shakes her head and frowns.
~()~()~
On Friday, Spencer leaves early for a date with Rogers. Well, he leaves at seven o’clock, which is technically one hour past the official work hours, but it’s earlier than either of them has left in over a week. Harry sees him off with a smile and hunkers down for another few hours of solid work.
It’s half ten when the sleep deprivation finally gets to him. The apparitions in his periphery (the ones that vanish as soon as he jerks his head in their direction) give it away. Sleep-deprived hallucinations are not uncommon in Harry’s life, but they never fail to chill him to the bone. His mind plays wild tricks, and sometimes he forgets the war is over and that he no longer has to fear the sudden attack of snatchers or blood-thirsty Death Eaters.
After the fourth peripheral hallucination, Harry pushes back from his desk and heads to the pub. He knows it’s counterintuitive, but all he wants is a nice pint before getting back to work. If nothing else, perhaps the alcohol will dampen his paranoia.
It’s a busy night at the pub, and Harry’s not sure why he didn’t expect it. It’s a Friday, after all. If Harry were a normal person with a normal job, perhaps he might be out here socializing with friends, too. Instead, he eyes the pub shiftily and avoids all manner of eye contact as he works his way to the least crowded area of the overly populated bar. He just wants a pint. One pint, and then he’ll leave. Hell, he’d even take it to go if it weren’t for the pub’s insistence on serving all drinks in glass cups. Couldn’t they just hand him a bottle?
He leans awkwardly against the bar as he gulps at his pint, downing it as quickly as possible. But by the time he’s finished, it feels like too little, and after all the hard work he’s put in the last two weeks, doesn’t he deserve a second pint? It's cold and refreshing and exactly what he needs. He sips lightly at his second pint, taking his time and surveying the space. Two television sets play at either end of the bar and an indecipherable buzz of conversation fogs the room wonderfully. He feels like he’s walked into the middle of a cloud, invisible to all yet perfectly content.
And then it’s like a storm has hit and blown Harry straight out of the cloud. A spike of irritation jolts through him at the sound of an annoyingly posh voice. “Whiskey. Neat.” How those two words can turn Harry’s day to complete shit, he’s not sure, but they do, and he turns to Malfoy, either oblivious to or ignoring Harry’s presence.
“Malfoy,” he says.
Malfoy’s nose wrinkles. “I was hoping it wasn’t you.”
Harry glares and downs the rest of his drink. They stare at each other another moment.
“Do me a favor and pretend you’re not fucking here,” Malfoy snarls. Harry narrows his eyes at the brightness of Malfoy’s teeth. They’re extremely white. Unnaturally so. Harry’s never had perfect teeth. They’ve always been just a tad faded, with one of his incisors twisted inward, and his bottom teeth slightly out of line. Harry can just imagine the hours Malfoy must have spent in front of the mirror, perfecting the spell to bleach and straighten his teeth just so. Only someone so vain could put so much effort into something so superficial. It bothers Harry that he thinks they suit him. The teeth.
“Fuck off,” Harry answers, belatedly.
Malfoy snorts, takes a dainty little sip of his whiskey. “Where’s the great Harry Potter entourage on this fine Friday evening? Finally realize you’re just as boring as anyone else?”
“I’m not here to socialize," Harry snaps.
Malfoy scoffs. It rumbles through his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing just ever so slightly. A few loose strands of hair blow away from his forehead. They flutter back gracefully, the tips caressing the edge of his brow.
Harry looks away. He feels odd. He orders another drink. This time, something stronger. A double scotch. Harry doesn’t sip at it like the nancy Malfoy is. He downs it in one gulp, hissing at the burn. It feels good. When he looks up, Malfoy is grinning. He takes another measured sip of his whiskey.
Harry’s not sure how much time passes, but it feels like they haven’t said anything in ages. They just sort of gaze at each other occasionally, and it creeps the shit out of him, but he doesn’t want Malfoy to leave. He buys himself another drink, watches Malfoy nurse his own, half-empty tumbler, and tries to ignore the way his eyes keep darting to Malfoy’s lips.
Harry’s drunk, he knows. Definitely a lot more drunk than Malfoy, who’s only had about a drink and a half himself. It’s not a shock to Harry that he’s a little attracted to Malfoy. Even when he hated him a hundred times worse back at Hogwarts, he’d begrudgingly admired Malfoy’s svelte frame and prim style. He was always so polished where Harry was rough and scuffed. He was always so cool and confident where Harry was uncertain and angry. Malfoy is a little shit, and Harry knows it. But that doesn’t mean he’s not an attractive little shit.
Harry tries to gaze at Malfoy in as benign a manner as possible. Malfoy eventually stares right back and licks his lips. Harry’s sure it’s an invitation.
He darts forward and presses his lips to Malfoy’s. Malfoy jerks back so violently, he knocks into the couple behind him. He turns, stutters out an apology. Harry blinks, confused. Malfoy turns back to him. He looks… uncomfortable. Extremely so. His eyes shift from side to side, avoiding Harry’s even as he coughs, then mumbles, “Erm… perhaps you’ve had a bit much to drink.” And there’s that stupid pink blush again.
Harry’s not sure if Malfoy’s suddenly shy or just playing hard to get, but Harry doesn’t really feel like dealing with any bullshit. He places a steady hand on Malfoy’s and squeezes. Malfoy looks up, eyes wide, and Harry leans in to kiss him again.
“Jesus fuck, Potter!” Malfoy hisses, pulling away again. “I’m trying to be decent about this. Will you give it a rest, already?” At Harry’s nonplussed stare, he adds, “I’m not interested. It’s not personal; I just don’t fancy men.”
That’s a bold fucking lie if Harry ever heard one. Malfoy’s the very definition of gay. Fancy hair and perfect clothes and a perpetual obsession with his personal appearance. Harry wants to punch him in the face till he confesses the truth lest he choke on his own blood. Instead, he sets his drink down with a careful drop of his wrist and leaves.
~()~()~
He needs to get laid. That’s all. He hasn’t had sex in months. Not since he and Ginny broke things off. Before, even. He just needs to go to a bar and find a nice woman. Or man. No, scratch that. No men. Fuck men. Or rather, don’t.
He makes it a point to leave by half ten every night that week and spend a good hour at the pub. He meets a few women, but he never realized how hard it is to meet new people. He and Ginny had practically been together since Hogwarts. Other than that awkward stint chasing Cho, Harry’s never had to try all that hard to pick someone up. He gets a number one night, but he can tell she wants to take things slow, and while he understands the reasoning behind getting to know each other, all he really wants is a quick fuck. He can’t even remember where he tossed the scribbled number.
On the fourth night, he sees Malfoy again. He’s halfway through complimenting a pretty blond when he sees Malfoy walk through the door. Harry looks away immediately and tries to stand in such a way as to block his body from view behind a beam. The woman quirks her brow at him.
He mutters a quick apology and pretends to listen to the rest of her conversation while tracking Malfoy’s movements. He takes a seat at the bar. Orders the same drink as last time. He mutters something to the bartender, and a moment later, the bartender’s whisking off another drink to a voluptuous brunette a few stools down. She looks up at Malfoy, hides her lips behind one hand. Harry suspects she’s going for a coquettish giggle. He wants to slap those smiling lips right off her sluttish face.
Harry reels at the thought. It’s horrible. Harry’s never had a degrading thought in his life about women’s sexual habits. Honestly, he thinks women should be more sexually adventurous – it would certainly make things a hell of a lot easier for him on nights like tonight. Except for some reason this woman rubs him the wrong way. When she moves to sit next to Malfoy, Harry literally growls. The blond he’s been chatting with asks him if he’s alright. He doesn’t respond. Just keeps watching Malfoy as the woman places a flirtatious hand on his bicep. At some point, he looks up and realizes the blond woman has walked off. No matter. She wasn’t quite his type, to be perfectly honest.
Malfoy flashes those brilliant white teeth as he laughs at something the woman’s said. He leans in close. She leans in closer. It’s only about ten minutes into their conversation when Malfoy whispers something more, pressing his lips against the shell of her ear. She pulls back, smiles. Malfoy places a hand along her bare thigh, sliding his thumb back and forth along the fleshy patch of inner thigh, the tip skimming the hem of her red skirt. Harry thinks he might genuinely hate this woman.
When they kiss, Harry has to physically restrain himself from kicking the table over. He does this by squeezing his hands into fists until the nails draw blood. He smears it across his fingers. When the two walk out together, Malfoy’s arm curled possessively around her small waist, Harry looks down at his hands. He wishes it were her blood instead of his.
~()~()~
Harry spends his nights fantasizing about different scenarios in which he humiliates Malfoy, turning down his advances as he did all those years ago on the train. He wishes he could do it all again. Make it worse. Wishes Malfoy could see that Harry’s the one with all the power here. Malfoy should be pining after him, not the other way around. Not that Harry’s pining. He just can’t stop thinking about tangling his fingers in Malfoy’s hair and tugging till Malfoy writhes underneath him, screams in pain. And if Harry gets a little hard while imagining it, so be it.
The thought comes to him as a joke. At first. He meets Hermione at a café for lunch and she starts chatting to him about the Turner potion again. Although according to her, the department has officially named it Ambulopupus. Ambulopupus. Ambulo. Pupus. It’s a mouthful, Harry thinks. He wonders why they don’t spend more time coming up with less ridiculous names.
“Harry you have to promise me you won’t repeat this to anyone,” Hermione says, fingers threading frantically through her hair.
“You’re telling me privileged information?” He’s genuinely surprised.
“It’s just that you already know so much about it, and I’ve got to talk to someone. I really don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.”
“Don’t like what?”
“The potion, obviously!” Hermione's stare alone is enough to make Harry feel properly chastised. “It’s awful. I understand that they want to better understand how the potion works, and no knowledge should ever be thrown out, but they’re continuing to make more of it. More and more batches to have on reserve.”
“Reserves? For what?”
“That’s just it. There’s no justifiable reason to have so much on reserve. Maybe one brew. Maybe. But they’re making them in large quantities. As if they have plans to use it. Possibly soon.”
“Well, not that I’m advocating any foul play, but the Ministry has certainly had it’s fair share of not-quite-legal deals in the past.”
“Yes, but Harry, this is worse. This is so much worse. This potion literally wipes away a person’s identity. Supplants it with something else. Something artificial. A person under this potion is barely human.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione.”
“I’m not. We can’t just pick and choose who’s good and bad and alter them as we wish.”
“Is it really all that bad? Making someone better?”
“In whose opinion?”
Harry’s silent for a moment. Then he says, “Even if someone were truly horrible? Even if their existence was a blight on society?”
“No one deserves to be someone’s puppet.”
“Oh, no?” Harry can think of someone who does.
~()~()~
The atrium is empty.
It’s exactly where it was the last time he saw it. The potion. And true to Hermione's word, several large vials now litter the table, each filled with varying amounts of liquid. Harry wonders just how much they’ve been experimenting with this potion. How much they’ve used already.
He doesn’t want any one to seem more depleted than when the last person before him saw it, so he takes a few ounces from each, spreading it out so that the missing contents are barely discernable. He stores the potion in a medium-sized vial of his own, then shrinks it and shoves the stoppered glass in his robes. He waits a few more moments, dawdling about the department for a bit before making his way back to the young witch and saying that, actually, he’ll just meet up with Hermione later.
After all, twenty minutes is a perfectly reasonable amount of time to wait for someone before leaving.
~()~()~
He puts on an easy smile and strolls up to Malfoy. He reveals himself only once he’s taken the seat to Malfoy’s right.
“Fancy seeing you here, again.”
Malfoy’s glance is wary. “Potter.”
“Oh, shove off,” Harry says, only half playfully. He has to remember not to overdo the niceties, lest he raise suspicion. “Can’t a bloke get drunk and make an honest mistake?”
“Right,” Malfoy says. He seems to grow minutely more relaxed, but Harry can’t be certain.
“Buy you a drink?” At Malfoy’s frown, Harry adds, “A very manly, platonic drink.”
Malfoy eyes him for several long moments. His lips purse and his eyes narrow. A tendril of something like fear sears its way along the back of Harry’s neck as Malfoy’s shoulders shift, like he’s about to get up. Walk away. Leave. The heat along Harry’s back burns, sweat beading down the line of his spine. He keeps his eyes firmly planted on Malfoy’s.
“Yeah, alright.” It’s like a spray of cool, fresh water washes across Harry’s being. Relief.
They each place their orders. When the bartender places their tumblers in front of them, Harry swipes them up before Malfoy can, holding Malfoy’s glass by the rim. The second it takes him to grab the cup and pass it to Malfoy is all he needs. He’d frozen a drop of the potion before coming in; he slips it into Malfoy’s glass so swiftly, it’s impossible to catch. He’d enchanted it to melt only when coming into contact with liquid. By the time Malfoy lifts the cup to his lips, the droplet has already diffused throughout the drink.
Harry’s not sure how much potion should be administered. It’s not as if it came with an instructions manual, after all. But he doesn’t want anything strong. Just enough to make Malfoy do something he’ll regret. If it’s not enough, he’ll try again another night, and again, until he’s gotten the right dose. Better to take things slow than overdo them.
Harry wonders how long the potion takes to effect the system; he wonders if he’s supposed to exert any sort of mental willpower or desires. He also desperately wonders for a terrifying moment whether or not the potion is tasteless, because dear god, if Malfoy figures him out, there will be no recovering from this.
But Malfoy takes one of his dainty little measured sips and returns the glass to the counter without so much as a downward quirk of his lips. Harry breathes out a sigh of relief.
“So,” Harry starts, not sure where he’s going.
Malfoy arches a brow, glares.
“Are you… here to pick up any hot dates?” To Harry’s credit, he doesn’t wince as he says it.
Malfoy narrows his eyes. Harry’s not sure if it’s a sign of suspicion or ridicule. “That’s the plan.” His voice is clipped, biting.
“Right.”
Harry taps his foots anxiously. He hadn’t really thought about what they’d say to fill the time until the potion kicks in. He’d rather thought it would take effect right away. But judging by the unwavering tension in Malfoy’s shoulders, that’s not going to be the case. He contemplates sneaking in another drop when Malfoy’s not looking.
“Hey, listen,” Harry says before he’s even thought of anything to say. “Er…. I…. Do you want another drink?”
Malfoy eyes Harry like the stupid oaf he suddenly feels like. Malfoy’s tumbler is still half full. To Harry’s surprise, Malfoy lifts the glass once more and downs it in one elegant toss of his head. “Sure. I’m going to need it if you insist on monopolizing my time.”
Normally, Harry would want to punch Malfoy for that one. But he’ll take it if it means a faster potions effect. He orders them both another round.
“Do you follow Quidditch?” Harry tries not to slam his head into the counter. This is about the point at which he normally realizes the date is a no go. Not that this is a date.
“Potter, no. We are not going to talk about Quidditch.” Malfoy’s look is patronizing, and for once, Harry can’t blame him.
“Fine, then. You pick a topic.”
“The burden of conversation is not on me. You’re the one who insists on chatting me up.”
“I’m not chatting you up.”
“Right,” Malfoy scoffs derisively. “Because that would b—” He stops abruptly. Swallows. Blinks. His eyes look glassy for a moment, but in the next blink, they’re perfectly normal, gray and clear and bright. Malfoy’s smirking at Harry now. Though not nearly as mockingly as before.
“What?” Harry asks.
“Nothing.”
Harry furrows his brow. He would think it were the potion except that Malfoy doesn’t seem nearly in love. He’s still his smirking, cocky self, not in the least bit smitten like the hordes of young witches that follow Harry around, convinced of their unconditional devotion to him. It’s always made him uncomfortable, really. But Malfoy just stares right on, gaze firm and direct. He grins to reveal that perfect set of teeth.
“Erm…” Harry’s desperate enough that he brings the conversation back to women. At least that’s something Malfoy will want to talk about. No doubt to brag about the great flocks of them lining up for a chance with him every time he walks into a pub. Harry bites at his lip to keep from scowling. “Perhaps you should start scouting the place for someone to take home.”
Malfoy wrinkles his nose at him, as if Harry’s said something ridiculous. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Er, so you can go home with a nice bird on your arm…?”
“I don’t want any stupid girl. I don’t even like them.”
“Like what?”
“Women. I’m not attracted to them. Never seen the appeal.”
Harry freezes. No, he speeds up. His body goes still, and his heart beats so fast it feels like it’s vibrating inside him. Throbbing. A trickle of sweat slides down the length of his jaw.
“What?” he says. He has to be sure.
But Malfoy doesn’t respond. Just looks at Harry meaningfully.
“Malfoy,” Harry breathes, and Malfoy licks his lips, slowly. His lips part and the tip of his tongue peeks out from one corner and traces the upper lip in a lascivious arc. It glistens. A string of saliva follows the tongue back into the black cavern of his mouth. Harry looks up to see Malfoy still staring at him, gaze intense.
Malfoy’s eyes are dilated so wide, they look black. His lashes flutter near transparent against his flushed, pink cheeks, and though Harry can’t hear it, he sees the quickness of his breath in the staggered rise and fall of his chest.
The thrill of certainty hits Harry like a rush of adrenaline. He feels every hair follicle in his body, ever pore and nerve ending suddenly tingling with fire at the heady knowledge of what he’s just done. What he’s going to do. Because he’s suffered long enough, and he deserves this. Deserves to see that pretty little mouth twisted in despair when he knocks Malfoy down.
Malfoy bites his lip. His eyes waver on Harry’s face for a minute before he leans forward to press a kiss against Harry’s lips.
Harry doesn’t respond. He knows the plan, knows what he’s supposed to do. But knowing and doing are two different things, and it’s just that Harry has to be sure that this is what he really wants.
Malfoy tangles his hand in the fabric of Harry’s shirt and pulls him closer. He swipes at Harry’s lips with his tongue. It feels good. Too good. And when Malfoy presses one hand hard against Harry’s growing erection, Harry can’t help but moan into it. Malfoy feels delicious. Tastes even better. The sharp burn of Whiskey fresh on the textured flesh of his tongue. Harry kisses back, lunges forward for more of that wet little mouth. It’s hot and damp and just this side of intoxicating. Harry bites down on Malfoy’s lip, hard, and the yelp that tears through Malfoy’s lips is like a slap to Harry’s face. Reality drops down all around him, and he wrenches back, furious.
How dare he. How dare Malfoy try to get the upper hand on him again. Fuck that self-loving, pompous little shit. He almost fooled Harry again.
It doesn’t matter. Now’s his chance. Malfoy looks at him like a puppy alone without an owner, and Harry grins. It’s the first genuine smile he’s worn in weeks.
Malfoy takes the expression as an invitation and leans forward again. This time, Harry’s prepared. He pulls back, lancing a disgusted grimace at Draco.
“Get off me, Malfoy.”
“What?”
“I said, get off me. I don’t want your filthy mouth to touch me.”
Malfoy looks like he’s been kicked in the gut, and it takes all of Harry’s willpower not to grin.
“You don’t mean that.” And it’s true. He doesn’t. Truth be told, he would love to feel the heat of Malfoy’s wet little mouth all over him, licking him till he’s soaking in it. But this, the defeated look on Malfoy’s face, the whimper of total loss and horror, this is so much better.
“You disgust me.” Harry gets up to leave, but Malfoy follows him, tugging at his arm and shoulder all the way out of the pub.
“Harry, please. You don’t mean that!”
“Malfoy, if you touch me one more time, so help me, I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
But Malfoy doesn’t relent. He thrusts himself into Harry’s arms, kissing him so fiercely, Harry almost gives in and reciprocates. Takes him right back to his apartment and fucks him till he’s screaming his name for all the world to hear. Almost.
Instead, he reels back and makes good on his promise. Well, mostly. He doesn’t quite break Malfoy’s jaw, but the sound upon impact is just as thrilling as his fist connects with that perfectly pale face. He catches the lips with one of his knuckles, and when Malfoy turns back to him, his bottom lip is split. It bleeds freely.
Still, Malfoy doesn’t stop. “Harry,” he says weakly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry. I don’t remember her. She doesn’t exist to me. There’s only you. There’s only ever been you.”
Malfoy makes a little whining sound, and Harry can't help but stand there and stare for a moment at this bleeding, desperate Malfoy. Perhaps this is a love potion after all. A real love potion. Not that fake Amortentia bullshit. The one that had Ron swooning away like an idiot for Romilda Vane in sixth year. That was definitely not real love. This, though. This might just be it.
It makes it all the more satisfying when Harry laughs in Malfoy’s face and Apparates away. But not before muttering just loud enough for Malfoy to hear, “Well, you don’t exist to me.”
~()~()~
It’s unfortunate that it doesn’t last long. When he’d left Malfoy at the pub that night, Harry was grinning like crazy and randier than he’d been in ages. He’d brought himself off to the most incredible orgasm he can remember before falling asleep with a smile that was still there when he woke up. He almost wishes he had stuck around, just to see Malfoy cry himself to sleep without him. Harry wonders how long the potion had lasted.
But as time goes on, he realizes Malfoy is no longer under the influence. He would have by now returned to his predictable, wicked ways. And it bothers Harry to think that Malfoy is no longer pining away for him, desperate and longing for his touch. Malfoy might have even met up with another woman by now, taken her home and fucked her the way Harry had wanted to fuck him.
It makes Harry sick to his stomach.
So three days after his perfect night, he goes back to the bar in search of Malfoy. He doesn’t show. Not for a week. And then not for two. Harry is ready to scratch out his eye balls when he finally decides to do a little detective work. So what if people find out he’s been asking questions? He has to see Malfoy again.
In the end, Jordan Webers, who often lingers by the water cooler and shares far too much gossip for Harry’s liking, proves the most helpful of all. He’s seen Malfoy at several different pubs, and eagerly recites each one for Harry to carefully note down. He doesn’t even ask why Harry wants to know. Harry is sure Weber will fill in the blanks with whatever explanation entertains his gossiping little head the most.
For the next week, Harry goes to every single pub on the list, staying long enough to ascertain Malfoy’s absence before Apparating to the next. On the sixth night, he finds him.
“Malfoy,” he purrs, floating the frozen drop into the drink when Malfoy whips his head around with a look that can be described as nothing less than sheer terror. And perhaps a bit of abject humiliation. Harry feels his whole body flush to life.
“Potter,” he practically spits. No matter. He’ll calm down soon enough.
Harry orders a drink and sits down next to him. Malfoy’s mouth is contorting into so many different shapes, his nose twitching. Harry’s smirk is inevitable.
They sit there for a full four minutes in complete silence, save for the din of the music and conversation around them. It’s not till his third sip that Malfoy finally hisses, “It was a mistake.” His eyes stare firmly at the bar.
“Mistake?” Harry can’t resist.
“I wasn’t in my right mind.”
“Oh, no?”
“Potter, I don’t even fancy men. Not in the slightest. That night… that night was a fluke. I was obviously far more pissed than I realized.”
“So you’re telling me you didn’t think about me the whole rest of the night?” Harry knows he did.
Malfoy blushes that pathetic, pretty pink. “I’m saying that I woke up the next morning disgusted by the memory.”
A twitch skitters across Harry’s left eye. He tries to remind himself that Malfoy will be back under his charm in no time at all. Just a few more minutes. Surely he can refrain from punching Malfoy before then. He fills the next few thoughts with fantasies of turning Malfoy down again. That sobbing, broken face begging for Harry to stay. God, Malfoy’s so pathetic. He’d always had a thing for Harry. Right from that very first day they’d met at Madame Malkin’s, always trying to impress him. Harry should have known.
And sure enough, the next time he looks over at Malfoy, he’s biting his lips at Harry and offering a tentative smile. Harry’s not sure he likes the coquettish act. Before Harry can finish processing the thought, Malfoy’s smile is more confident, almost leering. Christ, Malfoy had always been such a little slut.
“I’m leaving,” Harry says. Just to see Malfoy’s reaction. In an instant, Malfoy’s rising too, eyes wide and lips pressed into a thin line.
“You can’t leave. You only just got here.”
“Yeah, well clearly I didn’t have very good company.” It’s a weak insult, he knows, but it has the desired effect nonetheless. Malfoy doesn’t quite go teary – and thank god, Harry thinks with an internal sigh of relief. That would have been just a bit too pathetic. Instead, his face seems to crumble, absent of tears but no less broken. Harry pivots and stalks out of the pub just to sense Malfoy chase after him.
When the cool night air whips about his face, Harry turns and faces Malfoy head on. Malfoy looks uncertain but determined to stay. Harry hates him and hopes Malfoy ends up as humiliated tonight as he was the last time. But even more, Harry hopes Malfoy just makes a fucking move already because then it will have been Malfoy’s doing, and Harry can righteously push him aside while not having to face any accusations of having wanted it.
And isn’t it just like Malfoy to do exactly that? Of course he can’t control himself. Not like Harry can. Malfoy throws himself at Harry like a wanton hooker, experienced and filthy and biting at his lips. His teeth press hard enough to sting, and Harry shoves him up against the wall.
Now’s the time. He’ll push off of Malfoy and punch him once more. Leave him bleeding and alone in this piss-covered alley so that Malfoy will literally reek with the stench of humiliation in the morning.
But Malfoy tangles his fingers through the hair at the nape of Harry’s neck, and suddenly they’re both Apparating back to what must be Malfoy’s flat. It’s dark, and Harry doesn’t take the time to look around, despite his shock that Malfoy would actually Apparate Harry to his flat. He would never expect that Malfoy would deem Harry “worthy” of entering his pureblood home. Harry thinks maybe he hates Malfoy a bit less in this moment; it feels like Malfoy’s sharing a part of himself with Harry that perhaps he hasn’t yet shared with most people.
The night goes by in a flurry of movement, ripped clothes, ragged breaths, scratched skin, the raised lines peppered with tiny beads of blood. Malfoy tastes like arrogance, and he smells like bigotry. And when Harry buries his prick balls deep in that impossibly tight arse, Malfoy feels like disease.
When Harry comes, his spunk shoots through him so hard and so fast, he’s surprised it doesn’t spray right back out Malfoy’s arse. He hopes it gets clogged so far up that tight hole it never dribbles out. He wants his sperm to integrate itself with Malfoy’s very being.
Harry pulls out and leaves without a backward glance. Only that’s a lie. He does look back. Looks back long enough to see Malfoy’s distraught face and then sneer as he twirls into Disapparation.
~()~()~
He didn't mean to sleep with Malfoy. That wasn't the plan. He was supposed to leave Malfoy desperate and wanting. Desiring in the same way that he made Harry desire. Humiliated in the same way that he left Harry humiliated. Only now he knows what Malfoy tastes like, Harry wants him even more.
The next time Harry finds him, Malfoy’s not alone. He’s chatting up a woman, and when he sees Harry, he glares so fiercely, Harry almost takes a step back.
“Get the fuck away from me,” he hisses. The woman he’s been talking to glances back and forth between them, her face a mixture of shock and confusion.
“I just wanted to talk.”
“No. No more talking. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but I’m not having it anymore. Whatever it is you’re doing, it’s not on.”
“Whatever I’m doing?”
“Go find some other dick to shove up your arse. I’m not interested.”
“It didn’t seem that way the other night.” Malfoy’s glare increases tenfold. “In fact, I seem to recall you begging me for more. And if I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who loves a good cock up your—”
Malfoy’s on him in an instant. His fist connects with Harry’s temple, clocking him so hard his vision blurs. Malfoy punches him again, and Harry realizes Malfoy’s yelling now. With the din of the music swirling around the painful thuds against his face, Harry only catches bits and pieces. “…fucking arse!... pathetic… hate you! I hate you!”
Just when Harry thinks he’s about to pass out – he doesn’t know why he hasn’t fought back yet – two large men dressed in the pub uniform pull them apart.
“Alright there, lads. That’s enough. Get out of here. Both of yehs.”
“No,” Harry grinds out forcefully. “No. Leave him. I’m fine. I’ll leave.”
They shoot him an odd look. Even Malfoy. Harry just grins at him before spitting a thick wad of blood right in Malfoy’s face. Malfoy shrieks, the barmen pull Harry back, and in all the commotion, Harry wandlessly floats a crystalline drop into Malfoy’s abandoned drink.
They throw him out on his arse. Harry heals himself in the alley and waits.
It’s less than fifteen minutes later when Malfoy peeks his head around the exit, expression unreadable as he gazes down at Harry.
“Let’s go to your place,” Harry mutters, and he’s glad Malfoy’s not pulling the lovesick puppy act tonight. He doesn’t want Malfoy to love him right now. He just wants him to lie back and take it.
He does.
~()~()~
The problem occurs when it becomes increasingly difficult to find Malfoy. By the third week in, Harry only manages to find Malfoy once every week or so. The trouble with short-term potions is that when it wears off, Malfoy remembers the events as if they were forced on him. As if he hadn’t wanted it all along. Wanted it just as much as Harry. More even. Harry’s got the pensieve to prove it.
It’s just that Malfoy’s too stupid to face the truth. Harry will admit it. He didn’t accept it at first either. He tried to deny the attraction, it’s true. But it’s been over a month now since their first sexual encounter, and Harry can’t believe Malfoy’s still clinging to the belief that he’s not genuinely desperate for Harry, too. He’s too stubborn and proud. It’s only under the relief of the potion that Malfoy ever finally lets loose enough to embrace their mutual attraction and let Harry fuck him.
The next time Harry catches Malfoy, it’s not at the pub. Malfoy hasn’t been there in weeks. Instead, he sneaks into the Potions unit of St. Mungo’s around lunch. He’s betting that Malfoy leaves the ward for a proper sit-down lunch, and he's right. The ward is empty, and Harry searches around quickly. A smile tugs at his lips when he spots the ridiculous CamelBak, half-full of water. He uncorks the top and lets loose a drop of potion. He’s about to screw it back on when he adds another. Just in case.
Two minutes later, Harry’s back in the Ministry’s first floor atrium. He heads to his office, tries to write one of his reports, gives up. His heart is racing, and all he can think about is Malfoy’s wet lips wrapped around the bottle and sucking till every last drop is gone.
Harry leaps up, nearly upturns his chair in his haste. Spencer shoots him a curious glance, but Harry offers no explanation except to say that he’s taking the rest of the day off. Something urgent. And it is. It’s so very fucking urgent, the rush of it swelling between his legs.
He Apparates to his flat, knows instinctively that Malfoy will find him. Harry’s sweating, breath coming out in ragged, staccato puffs, and it’s the most nerve-wracking forty-five minutes he’s ever experienced when a knock sounds at the door. Harry stops. Completely. Stops breathing, stops thinking, and Harry wouldn’t be surprised if even his heart has stopped beating in the moment between the register of the sound against his ears and the moment in which everything becomes clear, sharp, so aligned that for the first time in a very long time, Harry feels… calm.
He breathes again, relaxes, and walks forward to open the door to his flat. Malfoy looks back at him, eyes inviting and lips quirked upward with mischief.
Draco stays the night.
~()~()~
“What’s wrong?”
Malfoy’s mouth hangs open, eyes wide, and he looks a bit sick. He swallows, lets out a ragged breath, then whispers, “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“What are you talking about?” Harry asks, rising to a sitting position. He rests his feet flat against the floor, his thighs comfortably apart. Malfoy glances at his naked penis and blanches.
“Fuck,” he hisses. He scrambles for his clothes, wordlessly summoning them when he realizes he’s grabbed Harry’s shirt and trousers, not his own.
“Where are you going?” Harry asks, confused. “I thought we’d have a lie in. Make breakfast.” He rises, and Malfoy throws out his hand, eyes wild and crazy.
“Get the hell away from me, Potter!”
“What the fuck is your problem, Malfoy?”
“You are my fucking problem! What are you doing? Huh? What’s your secret? Imperius?”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Harry reaches forward again; Malfoy slaps his hand back so hard, it actually stings. Harry doesn’t like that. “Malfoy,” he says, warningly. Because honestly, if he’s going to have a bitch fit every time they have sex, Harry’s not so sure he wants to be in this relationship.
“I told you to stay back,” Malfoy growls. Harry ignores him, of course. He’s being childish, just like always. Malfoy’s been spoiled his whole life, and Harry’s not about to let him go on thinking he can just get away with it. He grabs for Malfoy’s arm, and Malfoy punches him. Hard. Harry reels. Nearly falls to the floor. Then he’s back on Malfoy and punching him across the jaw. Malfoy’s head snaps back, slams against the wall with a sickening crack! He sinks to the floor, and Harry flips him over, straddling his hips and pulling his arms into a bind at the small of his back.
Malfoy’s words are less coherent now. Staggered mumbles in between low groans. “Potter…. What are you…. Oh, god…. Lemme go….” But Harry doesn’t listen to him. Malfoy’s not in his right mind.
“You know, Malfoy, I’m getting really sick and tired of your bullshit. I don’t even know why I put up with it. You go completely mental on me every time, and I’m just supposed to take it. Like a good little wife. Well, let me tell you something, Malfoy. I’m not just your plaything to pick up and toss about and then throw away when you get tired of it. I’m a human being, and I deserve more respect than that.”
Malfoy moans some more, and Harry’s so angry, he’s tempted to punch him again. “…mad…” Malfoy murmurs. Harry pulls Malfoy’s arms back higher till he screams.
“You really can’t be trusted to just act normal on your own, can you? I didn’t realize it was this bad.” Harry summons the bottle of potion, carefully tucked away in his bedside drawer. Malfoy’s starting to struggle, now, his hips wiggling about. Harry just grinds his own hips down harder, keeping him in place. The potion flies into his open hand, and he rolls Malfoy over. Malfoy, whose eyes are wide with fear and something that looks like understanding in the speckled grey of his irises.
“No,” Malfoy whispers suddenly, more alert than he’d been a moment before. “No,” he whispers again, fiercer. He begins to struggle in earnest, now, snaking an arm out from Harry’s grip and knocking the vial out of Harry’s hand. Harry swears, panic stabbing through his belly a moment before he realizes the vial is still carefully stoppered. Harry turns to Malfoy, cold anger rising in his chest. He backhands Malfoy swiftly, knocking his face to the side. When he turns back, a smearing of blood paints the corner of his lips.
“Potter, please!” Malfoy cries. He sounds desperate. Of course he does. Probably having a panic attack without his regular dose. Malfoy’s sick. Harry can make it better. “Don’t do this. I know what’s in that vial. It’s that potion from the Turner case. Isn’t it? Potter, listen to me. You’re not in your right mind. I tried to tell you before. It doesn’t just affect the drinker. It affects you, too. You’re not—”
Harry tunes him out. Nods sympathetically and rubs a soothing hand across Malfoy’s quivering cheeks. He didn’t mean to hurt him. Malfoy made him do it. The sickness in him made him do it. “It’s okay. Look, I’m not breaking up with you. I know it’s not your fault. You just need to let me give you your medicine.”
“What?” Malfoy gasps. His eyes are wider even than before, and his cheeks are wet now, whether from sweat or tears, Harry’s not sure. Maybe both. A bit of withdrawal, too, probably. Aftershock. Every minute without his medicine makes him increasingly frantic. Harry presses a calming kiss against Malfoy’s lips. That only makes the sobbing worse.
He summons the vial back into his hand. Malfoy struggles again, but Harry’s ready this time. He casts a wandless binding spell on him and spreads Malfoy’s lips open with a kiss, his tongue sliding in and against the shaking lips. They taste like salt.
Harry uncaps the bottle and looks down at Malfoy one more time. To remind himself. This is what Malfoy looks like when Harry’s not there to take care of him. When Harry doesn’t pay close enough attention. He can’t let it happen again. Malfoy’s eyes are wide and pleading, and Harry can’t help but kiss them better. He leans down and licks a careful stripe along the white of Malfoy’s eye. So wide and wet. It’s a bit slimy, a little salty. It tastes like sickness, and Harry’s glad to know he’ll make it better soon.
Malfoy’s sobbing loudly now, his shoulders practically convulsing with the effort. “Shh,” Harry whispers soothingly. Malfoy’s so desperate for his medicine. “It’s alright. I’ll make it better.” He drops three drops of liquid into Malfoy’s open mouth, watching as they slide along the grooves of that cherry red tongue and down his black, gaping throat.
Malfoy’s screaming then, his eyes squeezed tight, and his head tossing about despite the binding spell. He screams for so long, Harry forgets it’s happening at all. Just sits there, straddling Malfoy’s chest and watching the back and forth swing of his uvula, the tonsils flapping about, too. Harry wants to kiss it, to lick right down against the movement of the pink inside. He tries. But Malfoy bites down so hard, his teeth cut clear through the tip of Harry’s tongue. Harry yelps, shocked. Tastes the blood in his mouth as he slaps a hand against his lips. It stings. Really bad. He looks back down, sees the tiny nub that was once the tip of his tongue bloody and disgusting behind Malfoy’s screaming lips, the pink flesh jumping about and sliding down Malfoy’s tongue. A disconnected, bloody kiss.
Harry thinks he might be sick.
He presses the tip of his bleeding stump of a tongue against his lips. It’s not that bad after all. It really is just the very end of his tip. He casts a quick healing spell, and the wound closes. It feels a bit weird, now, though. He mumbles a few words, ones with s’s and t’s – just to be sure he can still say them. He can. In any case, he’s sure there’s a spell to set his tongue back to normal. He’ll think up an excuse to ask Hermione about it later.
Malfoy’s still screaming, but Harry can’t find it in himself to be angry. It’s not Malfoy’s fault, he knows. He’s just so sick. He needs Harry’s support. So Harry gives it. He curls up against Malfoy’s side and waits for him to stop screaming, one arm tight against his chest. He presses a kiss against the curve of Malfoy’s jaw.
He waits until the screaming stops and the gasping starts, and then the apologies, the Harry, I’m so sorrys.
It’s alright, Harry thinks, because he knows this is the last time Malfoy will ever do this to him. And he knows Malfoy hears his forgiveness, even if he doesn’t say it aloud. Harry drops the binding spell; they’re all over each other in seconds, a tangle of limbs and lips and moans, and Harry doesn’t even mind when he tastes his own blood on Draco’s tongue; not even when he thinks he may have accidentally swallowed the small tip of his severed flesh.
This is good, he thinks. It’s a reminder.
He can’t ever leave Malfoy on his own again.
~()~()~
(That was another thing. They started calling each other by their first names. Harry wasn't even sure he’d like it until Draco started moaning out breathy little Harrys during sex.)
The announcement goes over well enough, considering Harry expected everyone to call St. Mungo’s mental ward. In fact, it goes far better than he anticipated. Well, Ron is as disgusted as Harry imagined he’d be, but save for a few retching faces, he does a rather good job of lending Harry his support. Spencer and Hermione surprise him the most. Although, in retrospect, he should have expected Spencer to be excited at Draco turning out to be gay—as opposed to the “lady killer” he’d been rumored to be, and Harry can’t help the growl that escapes his lips at that one—because Rogers’ admiration for Draco is now completely innocuous. Spencer congratulates Harry with a powerful clap to his back.
Hermione is proud. She beams up at Harry and announces how thrilled she is Harry’s finally gotten over his grudge against Malfoy. Malfoy is talented and smart and has changed considerably since the war, and she’d begun to worry Harry would never get over his animosity towards a Draco that no longer existed.
“He was just a child,” Hermione says after Harry tells her. “He was trying to do what he thought was right for his family. We all were. It wasn’t fair for you to judge him for things done during a time when everything was a choice between life and death. He’s a good person, Harry. I’m glad you’ve stopped judging him for someone he’s not.”
Which bothers Harry, really. Because she doesn’t know. Draco still has problems. Draco’s still that troubled little prat from the war, from school. It’s only because of Harry that he’s any better. It’s only because Harry takes care of him and gives him his medicine that Draco’s turning into someone better, someone Harry can be proud to love.
Hermione doesn’t know anything. Only Harry knows the real Draco Malfoy.
~()~()~
Harry likes it when Draco smiles at him. He never sneers anymore. Just stretches those pretty pink lips long and wide to reveal just the barest hint of pearly white. He doesn’t laugh, but Harry hears it. Sees the morning light stream across Draco’s cheeks, always slightly pink, as if in a permanent blush. He didn’t used to always blush, but Harry likes it like this. The way Draco blushes at just the sight of Harry, smiling back and loving him more than he’s ever loved anything before.
Harry likes the feel of Draco’s hands, gentle and attentive against his skin, tracing patterns along Harry’s stomach and thighs, his back and legs, memorizing every curve and mole. He likes it even more when Draco memorizes with his tongue, the trail of spit a cool burn against his skin.
And even though Harry feared that Draco would be as picky with his food as he’d always been with everything else, he now knows he was completely wrong. Draco loves everything Harry makes him. He loves Harry’s roasted chicken and baked potatoes. He loves Harry’s shepherd’s pie and Sunday roast. He even loves the slightly burnt toast Harry sometimes makes him in the morning, frazzled and rushed and late for work.
Most of all, he loves Harry’s orange juice, store bought and far too sweet. It’s special because Harry pours it for him, waters it down into an immaculate glass cup, and flavors it with three drops of medicine. Draco watches him, smiles as Harry measures out the contents just right. Then drinks it all down in one gulp, not like those dainty little sips he used to take back when he was still just an asshole Death Eater Harry hated.
And sometimes when Harry’s too busy to do it himself, he asks Draco to fill up his favorite green CamelBak, too. Draco places the bottle under the water, waits till it fills to the top, and counts out three purple drops of his own. Harry smiles at him, tells him to take a sip. He does. And Harry kisses him.
He’s so proud of Draco. Draco, who used to be so terrible about taking care of himself, who never wanted to take his medicine or listen to Harry. Draco’s better now. He understands that he needs to take his medicine for this to work.
Sometimes when Harry’s bored at the Ministry or missing Draco dearly, he thinks of him, sipping from his CamelBak and proving his love to Harry.
~()~()~
Draco even loses his perfect speech and diction. He starts using smaller words and forgets his thoughts halfway through. Sometimes, and this Harry finds particularly peculiar, he mixes up words completely. Says ‘wand’ instead of ‘spoon’ and ‘chair’ instead of ‘shirt.’ Sometimes he just switches the order. Once, Draco asked if he wanted Harry to “cook him for dinner.” They laughed about it for nearly ten minutes straight.
One day, Harry asks Draco to pass him the salt at dinner. Draco passes the water, instead. Harry laughs a bit. Gives him a look and asks him more seriously. Draco gives him a confused look, then gets up from the table. He goes to their bedroom and doesn’t come back. When Harry goes to check on him, Draco’s preparing to brush his teeth. Only he squeezes hair gel onto the brush instead of toothpaste. Harry watches for a moment, waiting to call his bluff. But Draco brings the brush to his teeth, and save for the grimace at the taste, continues right on as if nothing’s the matter at all.
“Draco,” Harry asks softly. Worried. “What are you doing?”
“Combing my hair.”
Harry doesn’t think it’s funny anymore.
~()~()~
“I’m sorry,” Draco sobs. And Harry can’t understand it. He wants Draco to be stronger, more determined. Draco used to be so good at guessing what Harry wanted, being exactly what Harry wanted even when Harry didn’t know it. But now he’s just weak and pathetic and Harry can’t help but love him all the more for it. Draco needs him. Draco needs him like no one else has needed Harry in a very long time.
Ginny never needed Harry. She made him feel so useless. She only ever spoke to Harry to ask him to be a better conversationalist or wash the piling dishes. Draco never tells Harry to do anything. Draco just loves Harry for exactly who he is, and Harry understands completely because he could never love Draco any more than he does right now, as broken and fragile as he is. Draco is perfect even in his imperfection. He’s like a perfect China doll with a few cracks down the middle, but a smile that speaks of love. And Harry loves him just like that. Loves everything that he is. And he runs to cradle Draco in his arms to show him he’s still Harry’s favorite little toy.
“I love you,” he whispers fiercely into Draco’s shaking head. “I love you so much. Please get better.”
But Draco doesn’t listen to him. Hasn’t listened to him for a long time now. Can’t understand quite what Harry wants from him. And yet he does. He does. He does. He does.
He cries into Harry’s shoulder. The tears trickle down Harry’s neck, soak into his shirt, across his chest.
This is love, he thinks. This is love, love, love.
Draco needs Harry, and Harry needs Draco.
They’ll take care of each other forever.
Things will get better.
~()~()~
Draco’s little mistakes start interfering with his work. Harry returns home from the Ministry one day to find Draco staring at the wall from the living room couch. When he asks him what’s wrong, Draco just tilts his head at him. Smiles. It’s a beautifully innocent look. Blissful and stress free. But today is Tuesday, and Draco never comes home early on Tuesdays. Tuesdays are when Draco has to stay late to check through all the lab results.
“Why aren’t you at work, Draco?”
“No more work,” Draco says, and something about the sentence structure makes it sound like the words have come from a child. Not a fully grown adult.
“What do you mean, no more work?”
“No more. Done.”
“You finished looking through the lab results, you mean?”
“No. Don’t know how.”
“Don’t know how, what?”
“Lab results. Can’t. I forget. Harry.” The last word is a whine. Harry wonders when Draco stopped speaking in full sentences.
“Draco, what did you do?”
“Nothing. I’m tired. Bed?” He smiles up at Harry charmingly. Only it’s not charming. Not charming at all.
~()~()~
It’s okay, Harry thinks. Draco doesn’t need the money, anyway. And even if he did, Harry would support him. He likes that idea, actually. Likes it very much. For the next week, he comes home to Draco waiting for him, a benign smile on his face as he sits in the exact spot where Harry left him that morning.
Over the weekend, Harry takes him shopping. He tries to buy Draco things he will like. Things that will keep him busy and entertained while Harry’s at work. Draco seems excited enough as they look through the Quidditch puzzles and figurines in Diagon Alley.
But when Harry comes back the next day after work, Draco hasn’t touched them at all. He just sits there on the couch, his trousers wet. At least he tried to make himself tea, Harry thinks, until he realizes Draco’s pissed himself. He blinks twice. Then a third time before he swallows and pulls Draco up towards the bathroom to clean up and shower.
“Are you angry?” Draco asks, tearing up already at the frown on Harry’s face.
“No,” Harry murmurs against Draco’s neck, the two soaking together in the tub, Draco’s back against Harry’s chest. “Never.”
Draco nods, and it’s a moment before Harry asks, “Do you need me to teach you how to use the toilet?”
Draco wriggles around in the tub until he’s facing Harry, knees pulled to his chest. He doesn’t answer.
“I don’t understand why this is happening,” Harry mumbles, eyes trapped beneath Draco’s inquiring gaze. “Why?” Harry asks again.
Draco looks at him for a long time, like he’s thinking about it. Really thinking about it, and Harry goes so quiet, he doesn’t realize he’s stopped breathing till much later.
Then Draco tilts his head forward, leans into Harry’s ear and whispers, “I love you.”
Draco’s lips are ice cold against his flesh.
~()~()~
But Draco’s eyes grow listless, and Harry builds his resolve. “I think we might need to take you off your medication.”
“Medication?” Draco asks, confused.
Harry nods. “I know it’s helping you, but it’s also hurting you. They mentioned there could be some harmful side effects.”
“Who mentioned?” Draco asks, and Harry’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t like it when Draco asks stupid questions.
“It doesn’t matter. I think we need to take a break from it. See if your brain clears up.”
“Okay.” Draco smiles. His eyes flutter closed again.
“Draco.” Harry’s not ready to let him go. “You’ll still love me, won’t you? Even when you’ve stopped taking the medication?”
Draco’s eyes shoot open. His lips twist downward and tears gather at the corners of his eyes. “Of course, I’ll love you. I’ll always love you.”
It’s the clearest Draco’s spoken in weeks. Months. So Harry knows Draco means it when he reaches out a hand to Harry’s chest and clutches at the skin blanketing his heart.
“Ba-boom, ba-boom, ba-boom,” Draco whispers in time with both their hearts.
Harry falls asleep enveloped in love.
~()~()~
Harry grabs a glass from the kitchen cabinet and pours Draco a cup of newly purchased orange juice. For the first time in seven months, he serves it just like that.
“No medicine?” Draco asks.
“No medicine.”
Draco doesn’t question him further.
~()~()~
~()~()~
When Harry asks if he’s learned anything interesting, Draco just smiles and wraps his arms around Harry. He whispers, “I love you,” and Harry melts.
They make love twice that night. He shows Draco how much he loves him with every desperate thrust. When he comes, he fills Draco with his love, one spurt at a time.
~()~()~
Every night, Harry makes sure to show Draco how much he loves him by fucking him till they’re both so worn out, all they can do is lie in each other’s warmth, cradled to sleep by their love.
Harry never knew it could feel this way.
~()~()~
Harry freezes. It feels like all the air’s been sucked from his lungs, vacuumed so violently he thinks he might drop to his knees.
Then it’s gone, and Draco’s smiling again. That unconditional love shining in his eyes.
Harry falls into his arms and cries for a long time.
~()~()~
Every once in a while, they come in the middle of sex, Harry pressing into Draco and Draco looking like he wants to shove Harry away. When that happens, Harry whispers Draco’s name. Whispers that he promised. “You promised.”
Then Draco comes back. “What did I promise, Harry?”
“You promised you’d always love me.”
“I will,” Draco says.
Harry cries because he’s not so sure it’s true.
~()~()~
“Draco?” Harry whispers, dread pooling in the back of his throat.
“One day, I’ll kill you,” Draco whispers, fists bunched up tight into Harry’s shirt. Then, just like that, his face changes, and he leans down to press a tender kiss to Harry’s lips.
“I love you,” sounds through the air. Harry’s not sure which of them says it.
~()~()~
But he’s turning into someone that isn’t Draco. He’s changing into something nasty and evil and far too reminiscent of the sick Draco that he was before Harry made him better.
Harry watches the bob of Draco’s Adam’s apple as he drinks his morning orange juice, tastier than it’s been in weeks. Harry knows because he flavored it with purple love.
~()~()~
Harry quits his job at the Ministry two months into Draco’s second recovery. He’s been having trouble getting around the house and remembering to use the toilet again. Harry doesn’t mind. Draco’s still perfect, still beautiful and kind and so loving even if he doesn’t speak very much anymore.
Hermione gets upset sometimes. Asks why Harry doesn’t go out anymore and why he’s changed the wards not to allow her or Ron access. Sometimes Ron rings him, and every now and again Spencer owls him the latest about his newest partner. He’s old and he smells and Spencer suspects he hasn’t brushed his teeth in the last decade.
Sometimes Draco gets an owl from his parents. Mostly his mother. But Draco’s usually too tired to respond, so Harry does it for him. He tells them Draco’s fine and very much in love. He writes it from Draco’s point of view because he knows Draco appreciates it. Harry knows because Draco watches him as he does this, and every time he sends the letter off, Draco smiles.
And even though sometimes Draco’s too confused to remember how to speak, his eyes say it for him.
I love you.
~()~()~
Harry spends his mornings dressing Draco and combing his hair and feeding him things he knows Draco likes. The days drift by in a haze of gentle touches and sweet kisses. They gaze at each other till the sun goes down, and then Harry meticulously bathes Draco before fucking him till even his confusion takes a backseat to the visceral groans and whimpers of ecstasy. Draco writhes against him for more, and Harry gives it to him. Every time.
One night, Draco burrows into the space between Harry’s crossed legs on the couch, nestling his head against Harry’s chest while they watch a documentary about the first New World settlers and their encounters with the Native Americans. So confused and shocked and wondering what they were looking at and who they were.
Draco looks up at Harry then, a puzzled look in his eyes. He looks around the room, frowns, then turns his gaze back to Harry.
“What is it, Draco? Are you looking for something?” Harry says it slowly, in the way that Draco sometimes understands.
Draco’s lips part, and for a moment, they remain unmoving. Harry’s not surprised. This happens sometimes. Like he’s struggling to say something, but can’t find the words. Then they’re moving again, a croak, and then, “Who am I?”
Harry smiles. That’s alright. That’s a good question, even if Draco already knows the answer. Harry tells him, anyway.
“You’re someone who loves me very much.”
Draco smiles.
Fin.