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Chapter Text

“Mr Potter, Ms Granger. How kind of you to come at such short notice. Please, sit.”

Harry smiled politely at Healer Brisley and sat in his usual chair in front of her cluttered desk. Hermione sat beside him and squeezed his shoulder. She did that a lot. Harry wondered whether it was a new thing.

“Has there been a development, Healer Brisley?” Hermione asked. “Your owl wasn’t very specific.”

“Of a kind, Ms Granger, of a kind.” Brisley smiled indulgently at them. “Now, let me just find my glasses, give me a moment…”

Harry liked Healer Brisley. Over the last four months, he’d seen a great many Healers and experts and various other interested parties, and not all of them were as good-natured as she was. But given how slowly his case had progressed, he did occasionally wonder whether key information hadn’t been lost somewhere in the piles of parchment that littered her office. Four months was surely too long. To Harry, it was a lifetime.

“Ah, here they are! Silly me.” Brisley plucked the glasses from the top of her head and chuckled. She looked at them expectantly, clearly waiting for a response. Harry smiled tightly. He glanced at Hermione. She was pursing her lips. Harry got the sense that Hermione had a particular impatience for the disorganised.

“Right.” Brisley settled herself into her chair like a hen on a nest. “Well, as I said in the letter, I’ve been working on convincing a top-level specialist to take an interest in your case, Mr Potter, and I’m pleased to say that he’s finally agreed!”

“That’s good,” Harry said. Brisley wilted at his obvious lack of enthusiasm.

“Why did it take so much convincing?” Hermione sounded just as doubtful as Harry was. “That’s hardly encouraging.”

Brisley waved a hand. “Oh, he’s very in-demand – he’s absolutely brilliant, you know! He shot to the top of the field in such a short amount of time. We’re very lucky that he’s agreed to take on the case. Though I imagine it would be hard to turn down the opportunity to work with Harry Potter!” Another expectant pause. This time, Harry didn’t bother to force a smile.

He had learned quickly that people had a certain way of saying his name – like it was important, an in-joke that Harry didn’t understand. He’d been told of the War and his role in it, but the way people talked about him like he was some fictional hero, especially when he couldn’t remember actually doing anything – it was annoying.

He’d complained to Ron and Hermione about it, once. To his surprise, they had both burst out laughing.

“Yeah, you’ve never liked that,” Ron had said fondly. “‘Prophet-reading sycophants’, you called them.”

“Actually, I think I called them that,” Hermione had corrected. “I think you said they were ‘arse-licking twats’, Harry.”

Harry had grinned, always grateful for a detail of himself that sounded right.

He dragged his attention back to the present.

“If he’s so busy, what sort of timeline should we expect going forwards?” Hermione was saying. “We’re over halfway to the six-month deadline. There have already been so many delays.”

After six months, the Healers had said, the likelihood of regaining lost memories dropped to almost zero. Six months had felt like a long time back in February. Now, at the end of May, it felt like no time at all.

Brisley was beginning to look frazzled. Harry, who had been on the receiving end of Hermione’s intensity a lot over the last few months, sympathised.

“I assure you, he’s fully committed to Mr Potter’s case,” Healer Brisley said. “In fact, that’s why I invited you to come in today. He’s cleared a few hours to discuss the case with you. In fact – oh, dear me, is that the time already? He should be here any minute!”

Hermione let out a huff of exasperation. At the same instant, Healer Brisley’s cuckoo clock – one of Harry’s least favourite objects in the world – began to hoot. Harry glared at the ugly bird as it fought its way free of the tiny wooden doors.

“It’s one o’clock!” the horrid thing shrieked. “Don’t forget to send those forms, Edith! The Post Office closes at three on Fridays!”

“Thank you, Geoffrey,” Brisley cooed.

Before Harry could school the disgust from his face, there was a knock on the door.

“Ooh, come in!”

The door opened to reveal an unfamiliar man – though that went without saying, these days – in neat grey robes. He was rather pointy, and almost colourless; pale skin, pale hair, pale eyes. He was also much younger than most of the Healers Harry had dealt with thus far. He couldn’t have been that much older than Harry himself.

“Oh,” said Hermione softly from beside him.

Harry turned to frown at her. “What?”

“Mr Potter, Ms Granger,” Healer Brisley said, beaming at the newcomer. “This is Draco Malfoy. He has made many significant contributions to the field of Spell Damage and Mind Healing. Healer Malfoy, this is Ms Granger, and I’m sure you recognise Mr Potter!”

Healer Malfoy’s grey eyes lingered on Harry in a way Harry was quite used to. “I do,” Malfoy said quietly. “A pleasure to meet you.” He nodded his head at Hermione. “Granger.”

“Malfoy,” Hermione replied coolly. Harry blinked.

“I, ah.” Healer Brisley seemed similarly wrong-footed by the curt interaction, but regained her cheeriness almost immediately. “Lovely!” she said. Her flyaway grey hair quivered with the force of her excitement. “So! As my wonderful clock so kindly reminded me, I have a few teensy errands to run. If you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to get to know one another and discuss next steps. Do give me a shout if you need me! Ms Granger, Mr Malfoy, I assume one of you can send a Patronus?”

Harry already knew that Hermione couldn’t cast a Patronus – not since the War, she’d told him – but was faintly surprised to see Healer Malfoy avoid Brisley’s gaze.

“I can,” Harry said, dragging his eyes from the faint pink tinge brushing Malfoy’s cheekbones and smiling wanly at Healer Brisley. “I’ll let you know if we need anything.”

“See that you do, see that you do!” And, bundling several rolls of parchment haphazardly under her arm, Brisley wiggled her fingers at them and left.

Healer Malfoy conjured a chair a reasonable distance from them and sat in it stiffly. A strange silence settled. Harry didn’t mind being the one to break it.

“So,” he said. “You know each other?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Yes. He was–”

“We were at school together,” Malfoy said. “I was in your year at Hogwarts.”

“Hm. Seems like there’s a little more to it than that.” Harry tilted his head, watching them both carefully. “Were you two a couple?”

Hermione choked. Malfoy’s pale eyebrows shot up into his hair.

“Absolutely not!” Hermione said, spluttering.

“Really, really not,” Malfoy reiterated, an appalled look on his face.

Harry grinned. He hadn’t really thought so. One evening, Ron had given him an impassioned recounting of Hermione’s romantic history – including a twenty-minute lecture on the many faults of Bulgarian Seeker Viktor Krum – and, although it was hardly a riveting conversation, Harry didn’t remember anyone named Malfoy. But his question had done its job: the strained tension that filled the room had broken.

“So. Malfoy,” Hermione said primly. “Mind Healing?”

“Some people call it that,” Malfoy said, his nose in the air. “I myself don’t like to consider it a branch of Healing. ‘Healing’ implies a single, discrete cure. As I’m sure you’re aware, the brain is a little more complex than that.”

“I’ve heard something like that, yeah,” Harry said wryly. He had been told as much by at least fifty different people over the last few months.

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, in that same quiet voice he’d greeted Harry in. He rested his file on his knee.

“Potter–”

“Oh, Harry is fine,” Harry said.

“Harry,” Malfoy said, after a too-long pause. “Listen: there is a real possibility your memory will not be recovered, and, as I’m sure you know, the likelihood of recovery only gets smaller as time goes on. But I’ve reviewed your notes, and I think it’s likely that your memories have not been taken from you; they’re merely hidden – locked away within your own mind. It’s my professional opinion that a course of Legilimency-based therapy has the best chance of strengthening your mind and helping you to regain what you have lost.”

“Legilimency?” Hermione said sharply before Harry had the chance to reply. “Are you sure you’ve read Harry’s file thoroughly, Malfoy? I believe I made sure to include information about Harry’s history with mentally invasive spells.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “You did,” he said drily. “Seven pages of it. And I thank you for your frankly astonishing amount of detail. Please be assured that I read and understood every word.”

Harry considered Draco Malfoy’s pale, unimpressed face while Hermione snapped a response. There was something intriguing about him. Something in the way he spoke to Harry – none of that obsequious deference that most of the experts Harry met had shown. Instead, he had quiet confidence and a blunt honesty that Harry couldn’t help but like. It didn’t hurt that he bickered easily with Hermione, which Harry associated with Ron, and home, and comfort.

“Yes,” he said, interrupting them.

Hermione inhaled sharply and squeezed his shoulder again. “Yes?”

“Yes,” he repeated. He straightened and looked at Malfoy. Malfoy met his gaze unflinchingly. Harry smiled. “When do we start?”

Nobody could tell him how it had happened. The only thing anyone knew was one day, he had been Harry Potter: an Auror, a Saviour, a busy and prominent member of the wizarding community, and the next, he’d been … this. Harry Potter, who couldn’t remember which cupboard he kept the sugar in, who didn’t recognise friends he’d had for years, who knew next to nothing about himself.

That first morning had been the worst, although not initially. He’d woken up and everything had been … peaceful. He hadn’t known where he was, or who he was, or why he should care. There was just the bright sound of birds through the window and the soft brush of cotton sheets against his skin. He hummed contentedly and blinked lazily at the ceiling. It felt like he was floating.

Then the fuzzy shape of a small, scruffy owl landed on the outside windowsill and pecked on the glass.

He gazed at it.

He knew what owls were.

He knew they carried letters for wizards. He knew what letters were. He knew what wizards were.

He didn’t know who would be writing to him.

He didn’t–

He didn’t know who “him” was.

A heavy weight thunked onto his chest. Suddenly, instead of floating, he felt untethered, like the string tying him to reality had snapped in two.

He didn’t know who he was.

He didn’t–

He had no idea. What was his name? Where – he scrambled upright and looked around the room – where was he? Why didn’t he know his name??

The owl, completely ambivalent to his panic, tapped its beak on the glass again. Fighting to even out his frantic breathing, he reached over and unlatched the window.

He untied the scroll from the owl’s leg with shaking fingers and found his hand automatically drifting to a pot filled with owl treats. The gesture calmed him; it was evidence that he was real, that his body had routines his mind had forgotten.

He tentatively offered the owl a treat. It took it in its tiny beak and flew off without a backwards glance. He unfurled the scroll.

Harry,

Where were you last night? Did Kreacher have another episode? Honestly, I do hope you consider what I said; he really hasn’t been the same since we took down that awful portrait.

Please Floo over for lunch, if you’re free – Molly sent another three lots of shepherd’s pie yesterday and there’s no way we’ll be able to get through it all by ourselves. Not that Ron won’t try, of course. And bring that Staghart paper, if you managed to find it! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her theory of entropy since our chat with Professor Silverling at the Confederation meeting.

Love,

Hermione

He gazed at the unfamiliar handwriting. His mouth formed the names of people he didn’t know: Kreacher, Molly, Ron, Staghart, Silverling, Hermione.

Harry.

Who were these people? The owl had delivered the letter to him – was he Harry? He didn’t feel like a Harry. He didn’t feel like an anything.

He left the letter on the bed, tentatively donned a pair of glasses that were on the bedside table (only to find that the world, once resolved into sharp focus, was not any more familiar), and began to investigate the house he’d woken up in.

There were enough letters dotted around addressed to “Harry” that he felt confident that he was in Harry’s house, whoever “Harry” was. There were photographs on the mantelpiece – photographs of many people, but three who appeared most often: a tall, ginger man with a pale face, an easy grin and a heavy smattering of freckles; a darker-skinned woman who had an incredible amount of frizzy brown hair and a tendency to roll her eyes; and another man – messy-haired and bespectacled.

He touched the glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. This man in the disheveled Auror uniform with the jagged scar across his forehead – was that him?

He found his way to a bathroom and gazed into the mirror. There was the same scar, an angry lightning bolt etched into his skin. The man in the mirror – the same messy-haired man from the photos – stared blankly back at him.

It had been long enough since he’d woken that any Polyjuice would have worn off. This must be what he looked like.

He felt … nothing. Not encouraged, nor disheartened, nor intrigued – the man looking back at him was just … some bloke. He had a shadow of stubble on his chin. His eyebrows were thick and straight and his eyes were green behind the round-rimmed glasses. None of this ignited a single spark of familiarity.

The house was big, and several hours later found him at the back of the kitchen, rifling through drawers. He had, at this point, learned several things about Harry Potter, whoever he was – mainly that he had dozens of crumpled letters (all of which concluded with dozens of unfamiliar signatures) stuffed into every drawer in the house. But he still had no idea who he himself was or how he had come to be there. If there was an owl in the house that he could use to reply to the letter from Hermione, he had yet to find it.

There was a dingy cupboard door towards the back of the kitchen. He turned to it wearily; he had been through four floors of drawers and cupboards and hadn’t yet found anything useful. Without hope, he grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

“Hello, Master,” came a gravelly voice from the vicinity of his knees.

He let out a yell and slammed the door closed, heart pounding.

There was a flash and a loud crack, and a wizened old house-elf appeared next to him. He yelped again and jumped backwards. The elf peered up at him over a snout-like nose.

“Is Master Harry needing Kreacher for something?” the elf asked dispassionately.

“Master Harry?” The words felt strange in his mouth. “You mean … me?”

The elf narrowed its huge, pale eyes. “Is Master once again insulting the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black by attempting to sever the sacred connection of house-elves to this honourable residence?”

He held up his hands. “No! No, definitely not trying to insult anyone.”

“Did the Muggle-born Granger put you up to this?” the elf demanded.

“No one has put me up to anything! I just – I need your help.”

The elf – Kreacher – didn’t seem too friendly, but also didn’t seem too surprised by his presence in the house. The elf had even called him ‘Master’. So … he did live here, then. This elf was his.

“Did you say ‘Granger’? Who’s Granger?”

“You mock poor Kreacher,” Kreacher accused. “You try to trick him into giving his opinion of the Muggle-born, but Kreacher knows better than that. Kreacher knows Master wants him to say that Hermione Granger is a brilliant witch who is always welcome here.”

Hope. For the first time, hope.

He knelt, the stone floor cold and hard against his knees. “Hermione? Do you know Hermione?”

“Yes,” the elf said slowly, then looked away and added in an undertone, “Although Kreacher still doesn’t trust her, oh no, not at all. What Kreacher’s poor Mistress would say if she knew someone of” – a resentful glance – “her birth is spending so much time in my Mistress’s beloved home.”

“‘Mistress’? Does somebody else live here?”

Kreacher sneered at him. “Not since Master and his friends destroyed my Mistress’s beautiful portrait.” Horrifyingly, Kreacher’s big eyes filled with tears. “Oh, my poor Mistress!” the elf wailed. “Kreacher has failed you!”

“You haven’t – I’m sure you haven’t failed anyone!” He reached out a hand to pat Kreacher on the back, then thought better of it. “There, there,” he said helplessly. He only had four hours of memories; there was not much he felt qualified to do. Consoling a howling house-elf was definitely not within his skillset.

“I – I have a job for you!” he said, almost shouting over Kreacher’s sobs.

Kreacher quietened immediately. “A job? For Kreacher?” Kreacher sniffed, dragging the back of his bony hand across his dripping nose.

It was hard to keep the disgust off his face. “Yes,” he said. “It’s very important. You’d be helping your – your Master out very much.”

Kreacher nodded. “Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black and its inheritors,” Kreacher said, again adding in an undertone, “Even if Kreacher doesn’t agree with the choice of inheritor that his previous Master made when there are blood descendents of the House of Black who Kreacher would have been glad to serve.”

“Great.” It didn’t seem like asking for an explanation would bring any sort of enlightenment. “Great. Listen, it sounds like things are a little tense between the two of you, but could you go and find Hermione Granger and bring her here, please?” Kreacher’s face darkened, and he hastened to add, “It’s for the good of the House of Black.”

The addition didn’t seem to motivate Kreacher in the way he had intended.

“You do mock poor Kreacher,” Kreacher declared, pointing a bony finger, “but Kreacher is a good and obedient elf, and Kreacher will do Master Harry’s bidding.”

With a final glare and a snap of his fingers, Kreacher vanished.

He had barely stood and brushed his knees of dust when Kreacher reappeared, the robes of the bushy-haired woman from the photographs clenched in his small fist.

“Master,” he croaked, and bowed. “Do let Kreacher know if there is anything else he can do to serve.” Then, without waiting for a response, he snapped his fingers and disappeared.

“Harry?” the woman (Hermione?) asked. “What’s going on? We were just having lunch.”

He gazed at her. Her face was familiar from the photographs, but prompted no other memory. Her brown eyes were wide and worried. She took a step towards him. He stepped back instinctively.

“Harry?”

“I think I’ve been Obliviated,” he said calmly.

Her brown skin took on a distinctly grey tinge. “What?”

“I don’t know who I am, or who you are, or why I woke up in this weird house with unsettling snake-head decor and a bad-tempered elf.”

There was a long pause. Hermione stared at him, her mouth open.

He cleared his throat. “I’m starting to think my name is ‘Harry’, though.”

At that, Hermione fell on him. She pressed her hand to his forehead, checked his pupils, took his pulse, and asked a rapid stream of questions that he did not know the answers to.

She dragged him to St Mungo’s (he remembered St Mungo’s; he didn’t remember ever having been there before, though many of the Healers greeted him like an old friend). Minutes after they arrived, the red-haired man from the photographs appeared, demanding to know what Harry had got himself into this time. Harry shrugged. Hermione explained.

“But it’s easy to fix, right?” the man asked, wide eyes looking back and forth between them. “Hermione, your parents – they’re completely fine now. Right? Harry will be back to normal in no time.”

Four months later, Harry was still not back to normal.

His lack of memory was obviously an issue, but apart from that, things weren’t bad. Even if he didn’t remember their history, he still had Ron and Hermione. Both of them had shown him kindness beyond anything he could have imagined – although, in fairness, his scope of reference was limited.

After the Healers at St Mungo’s determined that Harry showed no evidence of having been hit with any sort of Memory Charm, Hermione had taken it upon herself to take charge of Harry’s medical situation. She had fought the Healers when they had suggested he stay permanently in the Spell Damage ward. She had accompanied him to meetings, tests and therapy sessions, and had also done an incredible amount of research herself, brandishing pages and pages of theories to every new specialist that they saw.

Ron hadn’t done any research (“No point, she’d want to go through it to make sure I got it right anyway.”), but had been a steady, calm presence, perfectly balancing Hermione’s intensity. With him, Harry could forget that he’d forgotten anything – they’d played chess (Harry remembered the rules but was fairly terrible – Ron had cheerfully told him that was normal), had gone to Quidditch matches and had spent several late nights laughing and joking, empty bottles piling up on Harry’s kitchen table.

On those nights, Harry’s insides warm from alcohol and companionship, he didn’t really mind that none of the solutions St Mungo’s had suggested had worked. It wouldn’t be so bad to start afresh if he had Ron and Hermione by his side.

Routine was important, Hermione insisted, so most days Harry had lunch or dinner with the two of them. Hermione also insisted it was important that Harry stay as immersed in the wizarding world as possible (“Anything could trigger recall!”), so often they ate at the Leaky Cauldron. Ron privately told Harry he suspected this was nonsense and Hermione just wanted an excuse to avoid cooking.

Half an hour after their meeting with Brisley and Malfoy, Harry ducked through the door into the pub. The barman grinned toothily and waved him towards their usual table. Hermione wasn’t there yet, but Ron was, fiddling with a broken Decoy Detonator with his tongue poking between his teeth. Harry had only just joined him when the bell above the door tinkled again and a harried-looking Hermione burst through. Harry waved, and she sagged, taking in his position next to Ron with obvious disappointment. Harry tried not to be offended.

Ron didn’t look up from the Detonator when Hermione sat next to him, but he turned his head to accept her kiss on the cheek.

“You all right, love? You sound like you ran here,” he said absently.

“Just wanted to look something up,” Hermione said, her attempt at airiness hampered by her laboured breathing.

“Is that where you dashed off to?” Given that the meeting with Malfoy hadn’t finished until two o’clock, Harry had expected them to head straight to the pub together, but Hermione had made hasty apologies and disappeared almost immediately after Malfoy had left.

“Understandable,” Ron said seriously. “Don’t you know, Harry? You have to run when books are involved. It’s not like they’ll be around for hundreds of years or anything.” He chortled at his own joke. “What did your Healer want, anyway?”

“Same old,” Harry said. “She dragged in another so-called expert. Their new plan is Legilimency therapy.”

Ron frowned without taking his eyes off the Detonator. “Legilimency therapy? I’ve never heard of it.”

“Me either,” Harry said, “but that’s not saying much.”

There was an unusually awkward pause. After a strained moment, Harry realised he was waiting for Hermione to jump in with a full explanation of Legilimency therapy and the history of its uses within Mind Healing. But Hermione was biting her lip and staring determinedly at the menu, not saying a word.

Ron appeared to have been thinking along the same lines. “What’s up with you?” he asked her, looking up from the Detonator for the first time.

“Nothing!” Hermione said quickly. “Nothing at all. I think I might try the rarebit today. What are you going to have, Harry?”

Harry blinked. “Er, I dunno. Rarebit sounds good, I suppose?”

“Whoa, hang on a minute. What’s going on?” Ron looked from Hermione to Harry, who shrugged. “What’s Legilimency therapy? Is it dangerous? Is that why you’re being weird?”

“No! It’s nothing. I can explain more later. Ooh, look, today’s dessert special is rhubarb crumble. I hope they have custard.”

The crumble did sound good, and the thought of it distracted Ron enough that the topic of Legilimency therapy was dropped in favour of a debate over the merits of custard versus ice cream as the superior crumble accompaniment and Hermione’s odd behaviour quickly faded from Harry’s mind. By the time they were polishing off their second helpings of crumble (Hermione: custard, Harry: ice cream, Ron: both), all three of them were in good spirits.

“Another drink, mate?” Ron asked, pointing at Harry’s empty glass with his spoon.

Harry shook his head. “Nah, I better not,” he said. “Don’t wanna drink too much today. I have my first session with Malfoy at ten tomorrow.”

Ron spluttered a strange, choked laugh. “You – what?”

Harry grimaced. “I know, bit early for a Saturday morning, isn’t it? But he said there was no reason to put it off til Monday when I only have two months left, so…”

“Ron–” Hermione said anxiously.

“No, no, hold on,” Ron said, straightening. “Harry. Did you say ‘Malfoy’?”

Harry nodded. “Do you know him, too, then? This Malfoy bloke?”

“Do I know–?! Which one? Lucius or Draco?”

“Erm. Draco, I think he said? He’s the new specialist Brisley brought in.” Harry frowned at Ron’s appalled expression. “Why? Who’s Lucius?”

“Bloody hell.”

“Ron, really, I don’t think–”

“He was at school with us, right?”

“Yeah, unfortunately.” Ron rubbed his chin. “Merlin’s tit. I haven’t seen him for about eight years. He’s a Healer now? I’d never have guessed that one.”

“A Mind Healer,” Hermione corrected.

“Well, I suppose he’d enjoy being paid to tell people they’re barmy.”

“If that’s all he does, at least it’ll be a short session tomorrow.” Harry attempted a grin. But rather than laugh, Ron straightened, his face thunderous.

“Hang on. He’s not going to be the one doing Legilimency on you, is he?”

“Erm,” Harry said. “He didn’t go into detail, but it sounded like it, yeah. Why?”

Ron’s ears reddened. “You’re joking.”

“No…?”

“Ron–”

Ron whirled on Hermione. “You’re letting this happen?” he demanded. “Legilimency therapy? Malfoy’s going to be – what? Forcing himself into Harry’s brain and rifling around? Like Snape did? We saw how much good that did, didn’t we? The little present You-Know-Who sent Harry at the end of fifth year?”

“That was a completely different situation,” Hermione said, avoiding his eyes. “Harry was supposed to be learning Occlumency back then, and Voldemort was alive, and Snape was–”

Ron gaped. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Snape was made of the exact same stuff that Malfoy is, and you know it.”

“Then Malfoy is brave and loyal and intelligent!” Hermione insisted, though she didn’t look like she believed the words herself.

“Bollocks.”

“So who exactly is he, this Malfoy?” Harry asked, struggling to keep up. “He seemed fine in Brisley’s office. A little … I dunno…”

“Slimy?” Ron suggested. “Untrustworthy? Evil?”

“Ron!”

“I was going to say ‘posh’,” Harry said, disconcerted.

“Believe me, mate, that’s the least of his faults–”

“Oh, please!” Hermione slammed down her spoon. “He was perfectly professional in the meeting this morning and we have no reason to suspect he will be otherwise going forwards,” she said firmly. “He has some fairly impressive qualifications. I looked him up after the meeting. He’s done good work since Hogwarts.”

“He could have single-handedly Healed every person who has been to St Mungo’s in the last ten years and I still wouldn’t piss on him if he was on fire,” Ron said stubbornly.

“And,” Hermione said loudly, ignoring Ron, “given that Draco is going to need Harry to trust him in order for this to have a chance of working, I think we should let Harry form his own opinions.” Ron opened his mouth, but Hermione carried on. “I would have thought that helping your best friend to regain almost three decades of lost memories would be more important than scoring points in petty teenage rivalries.”

“‘Petty teenage rivalries’?” Harry repeated. “So … what? We weren’t pals with him in school? Was he better than you in the official Hogwarts chess rankings or something?”

Ron looked like he was on the edge of another outburst, but another severe glare from Hermione seemed to evaporate it out of him. He made a noise of disgust, and shook his head.

“Hardly,” he said. Hermione elbowed him. “But, er. Like Hermione said, it was a long time ago. He might be different now.” It sounded like the addition had taken a lot of effort to force out. Then something seemed to occur to him. “Hang on, are we sure he’s not just going to run straight to the Daily Prophet? He’s done that sort of thing before.”

“Has he?” Harry asked with interest.

“No!” Hermione said. “I mean – Well, yes, he did. But we were fourteen! It would be a huge breach of patient confidentiality if he did it now. Honestly, the scandal of him doing such a thing would overshadow anything he could tell them about Harry.”

“What, ‘Known unprincipled dickhead tells someone else’s secrets to his favourite reporter’ would be bigger news than ‘Harry Potter has lost his memory’? Hermione, it’s a miracle we’ve kept it out of the news for this long.”

“It is when you keep shouting about it!” Hermione snapped, glancing around.

Ron snapped back at her, and they began to bicker about privacy spells and press releases.

Harry, by now used to their arguments, knew that anything else he had to say would not be heard. He tuned them out, snagged the bowl that sat forgotten at Ron’s elbow, and tucked in to the rest of Ron’s rhubarb crumble.

Ron’s reaction was, admittedly, alarming; Ron was hardly shy about mocking people, but Harry had never heard him so outraged. How bad did someone have to be before laid-back Ron called them slimy and evil? And it wasn’t just Ron – there had been that tangible frostiness from Hermione, back in Brisley’s office. Who was Draco Malfoy? And what had he done to make Harry’s friends dislike him so much?

But, as Harry considered the issue while Ron and Hermione’s quarrel intensified, he found that he didn’t feel deterred from meeting Healer Malfoy again tomorrow. If anything, it was the opposite – he was almost excited to see what all the fuss was about.

Excitement wasn’t an emotion Harry felt much of these days, and he held it gently to himself as he polished off Ron’s dessert. Whoever Draco Malfoy was, whatever he’d done, he’d already given Harry one of the most interesting days he’d had in months.

And there were only fourteen hours until Harry saw him again.

Chapter Text

“Healer Malfoy,” Harry greeted.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “Potter.” He looked at Harry for a beat too long, as if he didn’t quite understand why Harry was there.

“Er. We had an appointment at ten? The Welcome Witch told me to come straight in. Sorry. Did I get the time wrong?” He was glad he’d found the right room, at least. The white, sterile corridors of St Mungo’s all looked the same.

Malfoy visibly pulled himself together, his rigid posture softening into fluid motion. “No, no, not at all.” He gathered together the sheets of parchment he’d been reading and gestured – almost lazily – to the stiff wingback chair in front of his desk. “I was just reviewing some notes on your case.”

Harry realised he was still gripping the doorknob and hastily let go, closing the door behind him. “Lot of notes,” he commented, nodding to the large stack on Malfoy’s desk.

“Isn’t it just.” Malfoy’s pointy nose pinched in disapproval. “You’d think there’d be something useful in fifty feet of parchment, wouldn’t you?”

“Not very helpful, then?” Harry sat gingerly on the wingback chair, pleased to find it was more comfortable than it looked.

“Not unless what you’re looking for is a headache and an urge to inflict a thesaurus-based injury on the author.”

“Ah.” Understanding dawned. Harry grinned. “Hermione’s notes?”

Malfoy looked at him strangely. The smile slid off Harry’s face. Malfoy cleared his throat. “So,” he said, lacing his fingers together. “It’s been four months since the incident that caused your memory loss, correct?”

“Yep.”

“And you still have not yet learned the details of said incident?”

“No. I was on duty with the Aurors the day before but nobody knew where I was.” Harry quirked another grin. “Maybe the notes weren’t helpful because you weren’t reading them closely enough. Pretty sure this is all in there.”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “It might surprise you to learn that I am actually fairly well-respected within this field, Potter,” he said with unexpected venom. “There are several other things I could be occupying myself with if you consider my services beneath you.”

“Whoa.” Harry’s eyes widened and he held up his hands in surrender. “I was only kidding.” Maybe Ron had a point – Harry wouldn’t yet go so far as to call Malfoy slimy or evil, but he definitely had a wand up his arse about something.

Malfoy continued to glare at him. Harry plastered on his best apologetic smile. “Sorry. Please carry on, Healer Malfoy.”

Another strange look. Did Harry have something on his face? He lifted a hand to his mouth to check.

“You know, I’m not technically a Healer,” Malfoy said eventually. “There’s no need to call me that.”

“What should I call you, then?”

A pause. “Whatever you like,” Malfoy said awkwardly. He cleared his throat again. “Anyway. As comprehensive as these notes are, I’d like to do a few preliminary exercises with you today before we begin working with Legilimency. You’re available for sessions any time this week, correct?”

Harry nodded.

“Good,” Malfoy said. “In that case, I propose we run through a few tests, I will give you a more in-depth explanation about how I expect the therapy to proceed, and you can think the matter over. If you wish to continue, I will see you back here tomorrow for the first Legilimency session. Do you have any issues with that?”

Harry, already on guard from Malfoy’s earlier outburst, felt a twinge of annoyance. What did Malfoy mean by “if you wish to continue”? Did he think the only reason Harry hadn’t got his memory back yet was because he hadn’t been bothered to stick with something for longer than a day?

“Sounds good to me,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Good.” Malfoy drew his wand. “I’m going to cast a quick Diagnostic Charm on you to flag up any Dark Magic that might be lurking, if you consent?”

Harry’s fixed smile became a grimace. He was sick to death of having Diagnostic Charms cast on him.

“I’m sure you must be sick to death of having Diagnostic Charms cast on you,” Malfoy said.

Harry frowned. “I thought you said no Legilimency until tomorrow.”

At that, Malfoy laughed. It was a bright, delighted sound, completely at odds with his lofty tone. “Have they been that bad?”

“They’re not my favourite.” Harry rested his hands on the arms of the chair, palms up.

“Well, I’ll try to make this one quick and painless. Ready?”

“I suppose.”

“Discernite.”

Harry closed his eyes as the magic slid over him. It was a strange sensation, his own magic rising around him as if responding to a threat. It prickled uncomfortably against his skin, and he fought to keep his hands from clenching into fists.

Each Diagnostic Charm had provoked a similar reaction, but each felt slightly different. Healer Brisley’s were always warm and oozing, giving Harry the uncomfortable feeling that he’d wet himself. Healer Medlar, who Harry had had the dubious pleasure of having worked with throughout the whole of April, performed Diagnostic Charms that felt like the static from a Muggle television.

Malfoy’s was cool yet … fragrant, somehow. And there was something else … Harry couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Your magic feels … familiar.” Harry opened his eyes. “I can’t … How well did we know each other, back in school?”

Malfoy lifted his wand. The sensation faded. “That’s an interesting question,” he said carefully. “I’m not entirely sure of the answer, myself.”

Harry remembered Ron’s outrage when he heard Malfoy’s name. He remembered Hermione and Malfoy’s incredulity when he’d asked if the two of them had been a couple. A new possibility occurred to him.

“We didn’t date, did we?” he asked. “You and me?”

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up and his elbow slipped off the edge of his desk. “Ah – no,” he said in a strangled voice. “No, we – we did not.” He straightened the papers on his desk again, though they were already piled neatly. “We didn’t get along too well, actually.” He avoided Harry’s eyes. “We were in rival houses.”

“Oh, you were a Slytherin?” Harry considered Malfoy, then nodded. It made sense. Was that the reason Ron had objected to him so harshly? House loyalty?

“Of course, you remember concepts, don’t you?” Malfoy looked at him then, head cocked. “That includes details about Hogwarts?”

“I remember the houses, yeah,” Harry confirmed. He picked at the arm of the chair. “I remember what classes are taught and I can tell you what floors the common rooms are on. I just – I can’t picture any of it. I don’t know how to actually get anywhere. They took me to Hogwarts to see if it would trigger anything. I couldn’t even find my way to the Great Hall.”

“Hm.” A quill appeared in Malfoy’s hand. He scratched out a few lines in his notebook.

Harry gazed around while he waited for Malfoy to finish. Although they were similar sizes, Malfoy’s office was significantly tidier than Healer Brisley’s, and a lot less friendly. All the furniture was made from the same dark, polished wood, not a stray folder – nor even a speck of dust – in sight. The large window, framed by deep blue curtains, looked out to the Muggle offices across the road from St Mungo’s. If Harry squinted, he could make out rows of desks, on which sat shiny computers and sad-looking plants.

“Right,” Malfoy said, snapping the notebook closed. “If you’re willing, firstly I’d like to test your recall speed of the things you do remember. I’m going to ask you some questions, and I’d like you to answer as quickly as possible.”

Harry pulled his attention away from the window and braced himself for the usual routine interrogation. He was certain that every single Mind Healer worked from the exact same textbook. Harry reckoned he could recite it by heart at this point.

“What date does the school year start at Hogwarts?”

“September the first.” A classic.

“And how do students traditionally get to school on September the first?”

“The Hogwarts Express.” Harry tried not to let his frustration show. These questions were common knowledge. He could have picked them up at any point over the last four months. Not to mention that he’d been quizzed on them dozens of times. This was never going to prove anything.

Malfoy fired question after question at him, and Harry almost stopped paying attention, letting himself respond automatically. Malfoy didn’t take any more notes, his quill resting loosely in his hand. He had very nice hands, Harry noted.

“And after first year, how do students get from Hogsmeade Station up to the castle?”

“Carriages. Pulled by Thestrals.” He had a thick silver ring on his left thumb. Harry couldn’t quite make out the design.

“Can you see Thestrals?”

“Yeah.”

“When was the last time you saw a Thestral?”

“I …” Harry frowned. This was new. “I don’t remember. Before the accident.”

“But you know what they look like.”

“Well, yeah.”

“And you know for a fact that you can see them?”

Harry paused. He looked up to find Malfoy watching him carefully. “I mean, maybe? I could just know what they look like from a book, I suppose.”

“Does the image in your mind look like it came from a book?”

Harry concentrated. He thought about leathery wings and white, staring eyes. Hot breath that smelled like meat. “No,” he said firmly.

“Excellent,” Malfoy said, eyes glinting. “That’s very promising.”

A strange spark lit up inside Harry’s chest. It took him a second to realise that it was hope – something else he hadn’t felt for months. “Wait, what did you do? How did you do that?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve never – I didn’t know I knew that.” Harry raked his eyes over Malfoy appraisingly. “That’s the first thing that I – I dunno, does that count as remembering? None of the other Healers have ever…”

Malfoy seemed pleased at Harry’s reaction, but his voice was level when he answered. “Mind Magic is actually not very widely studied in Britain,” he said. “There are only a few advanced books written on the subject, and all of them are, quite frankly, outdated. Many who work with Mind Magic refuse to consider building on the foundations that have been previously laid out. I do not.”

“You should write your own book. That was amazing. I’ve only been here half an hour.”

Malfoy’s sharp cheekbones tinged pink. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. We already know you’ve maintained semantic and procedural memories. It’s episodic memories – ones directly related to your life, your emotions – that have been lost. This does lend weight to my theory that your memories remain in your mind, but please, don’t expect it to be this easy going forwards.”

“No, of course,” Harry said, but it was hard to deny that it was an exciting development. Hermione and Ron would be delighted. Maybe he should send an owl to Brisley to tell her about it, too.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to do before we get stuck in,” Malfoy said. His pale eyes locked with Harry’s. He had a very intense sort of eye contact. Harry felt a little bit like Malfoy was looking straight through him. “I’d like to quickly test your magic, if you’re amenable.”

Harry’s spark of hope flickered and he drew his wand reluctantly. “Are you sure it’s not all in the notes already?” He had lost count of how many times he’d been asked to levitate office supplies and cast Lumos charms while Healers in green robes scribbled on clipboards.

Malfoy’s lips pursed. “I’d like to see it for myself, if you don’t mind. Could you stand?”

Harry stood.

“Thank you.” Malfoy stood too, and with a flick of his wand, banished the desk and chairs.

Harry blinked. This, too, was different.

“Have you done any duelling since the accident?” Malfoy asked casually, rolling up his sleeves.

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but the words withered in his throat. He stared at the twisted scar on Malfoy’s left arm.

He knew what it was. He hadn’t known that Malfoy had one. Suddenly, Ron’s mistrust of Malfoy made a lot more sense.

“Harry?” Malfoy asked.

“Er, no,” Harry said hastily, dragging his eyes away from the ugly mark. “No duelling.”

If Malfoy noticed Harry’s gawking, he pretended not to.

“Would you be comfortable giving it a try?” Malfoy asked. “Minor jinxes and hexes only, of course.”

“Of course,” Harry repeated blankly. He shook his head to clear it. “I mean, sure, yeah.”

“Excellent.” Malfoy finished fiddling with his sleeves, straightened the front of his robes and stood in position across the room from Harry, his wand raised. He quirked an eyebrow. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Oh – sorry, yeah. Ready.” Harry planted his feet. Was he really about to duel a Death Eater? The thought sent a giddy thrill through him. He raised his wand.

Malfoy watched him for a moment, then flicked his wrist. “Locomotor Mortis.”

Harry blocked it without thinking. The spark of magic fizzled out.

“Whoa.” The movement had been reflexive, automatic. Harry couldn’t remember having cast a Shield Charm before, but it had felt as natural as breathing, his body flowing easily into a defensive stance, one foot sliding behind the other, his torso turned to minimise the target. He’d known, because he’d been told, that he’d been an Auror. He hadn’t felt like one until that moment.

Cautiously, Harry sent a Stinging Hex towards Malfoy’s thigh. Malfoy batted it away. There was a breath – a moment where they looked at each other, sizing each other up. Then they began to duel.

To test whether his memory loss had affected his magic, Harry had had to cast a lot of minor charms in the last few months, levitating quills and lighting candles over and over like a first year trapped in a pre-exam stress dream. But he hadn’t done anything like this – this pure, instinctive rush, his eyes catching Malfoy’s slightest movement and cutting him off, their spells a rapid back-and-forth, their bodies completely in sync. It was such a new, joyful feeling that he couldn’t stop a shout of laughter escaping him.

Malfoy grinned, and for a moment, he looked nothing at all like a Healer, nothing at all like any of the stuffy experts that had poked and prodded and pestered him. He looked nothing at all like someone with a Dark Mark burned into his arm.

The thought caused Harry to falter, and his next spell hit Malfoy’s dead-on. The two jets of light bounced off each other – one hit Malfoy’s window, causing a spiderweb of cracks to frost over the glass; the other crashed into the wall, burning a large, dark scorch mark into the paint.

“Shit, sorry!” Harry blurted.

Malfoy let out a breath of laughter – the same bright, delighted sound as before. His chest was rising and falling heavily beneath his neat buttoned robes. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve seen enough, anyway. That was…”

“Really fun,” Harry supplied. His heart was thumping a euphoric drumbeat in his ears. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Malfoy looked pleased. His eyes were bright, his whole face pink. The shattered window made sparks of splintered light glint off his ruffled hair. Something sprang to life inside Harry. He took an unthinking step towards Malfoy, who stepped backwards just as instinctively.

“Potter?” he asked warily.

“‘Harry’ is fine,” Harry said. “Are you sure we never…?”

“Never what?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp.

Harry shook his head. “I dunno. Yesterday I would have sworn I’ve never seen you before in my life, but … you just feel so…”

”So…?”

“I don’t know.” The loud thudding of his heartbeat was distracting – it was hard to think. “‘Familiar’ isn’t the right word. There’s just something about you…”

Several expressions flitted over Malfoy’s face before a mask of polite professional interest settled into place. He waved his wand, and the furniture reappeared. Harry stared blankly at the desk, for a second confused as to why it separated them.

“I’d encourage you to keep a diary of similar thoughts and feelings you have,” Malfoy said, sitting back down and tapping his own notebook in demonstration. “It may be easier to thread together what inspires them when they’re seen as a group.” He glanced at Harry, then quickly looked away again. He laced his fingers together.

“If you intend to continue with this course of therapy,” he continued in that same distant, professional tone, “tonight I’d like you to practise visualising your mind as a physical space. If you can, picture a few of your memories from the last few months behind a locked door, in a closed box, whatever feels natural. This will form the basis of our work going forwards.”

Harry nodded distractedly, struggling to keep up with this switch from the ruffled, grinning Malfoy back to the uptight professional before him – even if said uptight professional was still pink, his breathing still a little uneven.

“Mind boxes,” Harry said. “Got it.”

Malfoy shot him a look. “In that case, I believe we’re done for the day. If you wish to proceed, I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.” He gazed at Harry for a long moment, then turned away and began to look through his desk drawer. “Close the door on your way out, would you?” he said vaguely. Harry was dismissed.

He left St Mungo’s in a daze and walked the familiar fifteen minutes down Oxford Street to the Leaky Cauldron. When he arrived, Ron and Hermione were sitting at their usual table, heads together, deep in conversation. Harry stood by the door and watched them for a moment. His eyes followed the way Hermione’s fingers smoothed out the sleeve of Ron’s robe, the way Ron absently caught them in his, neither of them paying the slightest bit of attention to what their hands were doing while they talked. How long did two people have to know each other for their bodies to thoughtlessly love each other in such small ways? If it was ten years, fifteen years, and Harry didn’t get his memory back in the next two months, he might not have anything like that until he was forty years old.

Ron looked up, caught sight of Harry and waved him over.

“How was it?” Hermione asked, before he had even sat down.

“And how was Malfoy?” The contempt was obvious in Ron’s tone.

Harry considered both questions as he settled himself across from them. Their hands were still intertwined. “I don’t know,” he said eventually. “Interesting. Confusing.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically. “You said that last time you worked with Mind Magic, too. Back in fifth year.”

“Hm?” It took a moment for Hermione’s words to make sense. “Oh – no. We didn’t actually do any Mind Magic.”

“Prick,” Ron said. “Backing out, is he? Not bothering to do his job?”

Harry picked up a sticky menu, though he knew every dish by heart. “He wanted to run through some tests first,” he said, scanning through the sandwich selection instead of looking at Ron’s scornful expression. “I’m seeing him again tomorrow morning.”

“Running tests first is responsible,” Hermione said, sounding impressed. Ron scoffed.

Seeing the Dark Mark on Malfoy’s arm had complicated Harry’s initial enthusiasm; the duel even more so. At least Ron’s reaction made sense now; if anything, Harry wondered at his own lack of revulsion. He’d been told over and over, in various tones of awe, about the fight against Voldemort and the Death Eaters (of whom Harry had no recollection whatsoever), about what his own place had been in the War. Surely he of all people shouldn’t want anything to do with anyone who had been fighting on the other side.

And yet despite that, despite Malfoy’s initial snappiness, Harry had every intention of going back. He couldn’t say that he’d particularly liked Malfoy, but he was intrigued. Malfoy had managed to learn in just a few questions that Harry could see Thestrals, which meant that Harry had seen someone die. Harry could have guessed that, given the things he’d been told, but he hadn’t known for sure. He’d had made more progress that morning than in the last two months put together.

Then there was the duel. Malfoy had called it a test, but Harry had never felt exhilaration like that in a Healer’s office – or anywhere else, for that matter. It had been nothing short of thrilling, another clue to what Harry had spent his time doing, what he was good at.

And there was the feeling of Malfoy’s magic, which ignited a strange spark of almost-familiarity. He hadn’t even had that with Ron or Hermione…

Without the need to nurture Harry after an invasive Legilimency session, Ron and Hermione shifted easily into lighter conversation. They took the trouble, every single time, to give Harry the backstory to each person they mentioned, each place, each tiny detail of their shared history. But Harry struggled to keep track of all the faceless names and found his attention drifting.

It occurred to him, suddenly, over a crisp bacon sandwich, that Malfoy might have shown him the Mark on purpose. “If you wish to continue, I will see you back here tomorrow,” Malfoy had said. And then he’d rolled up his sleeves, slowly, lazily, making sure Harry was paying attention. Had he been ensuring Harry was aware of his past before Harry let him into his mind?

He knew better than to mention his theory to Hermione while Ron was listening, but the tentative thought bolstered him as he headed home. He settled himself on what he’d finally come to think of as “his” sofa and closed his eyes. For the first time he could remember, he had some homework to do.

Chapter Text

Harry woke to a pair of drooping, bloodshot eyes looming over him.

“Shit!” he yelped, recoiling. “What are you doing, Kreacher?”

“Master has an appointment in thirty minutes,” Kreacher croaked. “Kreacher has brought Master his morning tea.” He held up the teapot as proof.

“Thirty–?” Kreacher was right: the clock on the mantelpiece read half past nine. “Shit. Shit!”

He scrambled off the sofa and dashed upstairs, shedding yesterday’s clothes as he went. He arrived in the bathroom completely naked and jumped straight into the shower, squeaking manfully under the icy water until it warmed.

As the fact that he’d fallen asleep on the sofa last night proved, his attempts at boxing up his thoughts had been less than successful. He had tried, really, but it was so boring – all he’d done in the last four months was stay at home, spend time with Ron and Hermione and get poked at by Healers. Trying to file those memories into imaginary cardboard boxes did not make them any more compelling. And all too often, he’d found his mind drifting back to the day’s session, and to Healer Malfoy – his vicious glare, his bright laugh, his Dark Mark…

Harry managed to Floo to St Mungo’s – cleaned, clothed and caffeinated – for exactly ten o’clock. He knocked and, like yesterday, opened the door without waiting for an answer.

“Potter.” Malfoy glanced at the clock on the wall and deflated a little, as if he’d been hoping Harry would be late. “Right on time,” he said grudgingly.

“I’ve been awake for hours counting the minutes until we could get started,” Harry told him. He crossed the room and settled himself into the wingback chair.

Malfoy’s eyebrows shot up. His quill froze over the page of his notebook. “Really?”

“Nope, I was asleep thirty-five minutes ago,” Harry said cheerfully. “How has your morning been?”

“How has my …?” Malfoy seemed wrong-footed. He straightened. “Fine. It’s been fine.” His gaze raked over Harry. Harry tried not to squirm under the weight of it.

“I had lunch with my friends yesterday,” Harry said, when Malfoy didn’t say anything else.

Malfoy’s expression grew even more baffled. “Did you.”

“Yep,” Harry said. “I know you know Hermione, but I think you know her husband too? Ron Weasley?”

“Ah.”

Harry watched Malfoy carefully. “Ron doesn’t like you very much.”

“I can’t imagine he does.”

“Hermione wouldn’t let him tell me why,” Harry continued. “But I reckon it might be to do with the fact that you were a Death Eater. Am I close?”

“Merlin, Potter.” Malfoy put down his quill and ran a hand through his hair. It fell easily back into place. “For a moment, I was impressed that losing your memory had taught you to use social pleasantries.”

Harry shrugged, unapologetic. “None of you will tell me how we know each other. And I couldn’t help but notice your arm yesterday.”

“Quite.” Malfoy rubbed an absent thumb over his left forearm. “Well, you already know we were in the same year at school. And now you are also aware of my, er–” he held his arm up jerkily– “unfortunate history. Your friend Weasley and I – well, we never quite managed to find the time to talk things over after the War.”

“But if you’re working at St Mungo’s, I’m assuming you had a trial and everything? They ran … checks and things?”

Malfoy met his eyes unflinchingly. “Yes, I had a trial. And I went through the same ethics tests as every other person in a Healing-adjacent field. My scores are in the public domain in St Mungo’s Research Library, if you’d like to see them.”

Harry cocked his head, considering. Whenever he’d imagined what a Death Eater might look like, he hadn’t pictured anything like Healer Malfoy.

“Do you regret it?” Harry asked. “Being a Death Eater?”

Malfoy looked at him as if he’d grown two extra heads. “Of course I do. What sort of question is that?”

Harry shrugged and picked at the arm of the chair. A heavy silence fell.

“I’m surprised you came back.” Malfoy watched Harry over linked fingers.

“Why?” Harry asked. “Because Ron thinks you’re a knob?”

“Well, yes – that and the brand of a murderous fascist burned into my forearm. I was expecting that to be a significant deterrent.”

Harry shrugged. “I don’t remember anything about the War,” he said. “Obviously I know about it – Hermione gave me about twenty books and I read a couple for lack of anything better to do – but it’s not personal for me like it is for them.” Ron and Hermione didn’t look how he imagined leading fighters in a war that had been fought ten years ago should look, either. They were only in their twenties, for one thing.

The thought prompted another. “Hang on,” Harry said. “If we were in the same year at school, you couldn’t have been more than eighteen when you took the Mark, right?”

“I had just turned sixteen,” Malfoy said, his voice low. “But that doesn’t excuse it.”

Ever since Harry had learned about the War and his role in it, he’d been uncomfortably aware that he and his friends had fought and hid and mourned and killed before they had even finished school. Nobody else seemed to find that strange – not even Ron and Hermione. It felt almost silly to bring it up again.

“Either way,” he said, forcing his voice into brightness, “you might be my best shot at fixing me, Death Eater or not. You already got me one memory back, didn’t you? And Healer Brisley says you’re brilliant.”

Malfoy’s face twisted strangely, then he straightened, his nose in the air. “Well, she’s right,” he said loftily. “I am brilliant.”

Harry smiled, though he wasn’t sure whether or not Malfoy was joking.

The praise seemed to have snapped Malfoy back to the present. “So,” he said, “do you want to keep discussing my long history of bad decisions, or shall we make a start?”

Harry did want to know more about Malfoy’s past, but it felt like he’d pushed his luck enough already. “Let’s do it.”

“Before we start working with Mind Magic, you are welcome to use my Pensieve to store any thoughts or memories you wouldn’t want me to see.” Malfoy gestured to the dark wooden cabinet that lined the left wall.

Harry scraped his limited memory for anything he’d want to keep private. He’d been signed off Auror duty immediately after the Healers had realised he hadn’t just been on the wrong end of a stray Obliviate, so there was no risk of spilling Ministry secrets. He couldn’t think of anything Hermione and Ron had told him that was embarrassing or personal, and it wasn’t like Harry himself had been up to anything particularly confidential.

He said as much, and Malfoy nodded slowly. “I see,” he said. “Well, if you change your mind at any point, or if I happen to see a memory that you’re not comfortable with me seeing, just say ‘Jarvey Janglers’ and I’ll end the spell immediately. Understand?”

Harry snorted. “‘Jarvey Janglers’?!”

“First rule of safewords, Potter: they have to be memorable.” Malfoy smirked, pale eyes glinting, then seemed to catch himself. He cleared his throat. “So. How did you get on with visualising a physical space in your mind?”

“Er,” Harry said.

“Ah.” Malfoy was suddenly all business. “You found it difficult? Was there any physical pain associated with the attempt? Any flashes of light? Unusual sounds or sensations?” His quill was back in his hand, nib hovering over the page of his notebook.

“No,” Harry said. “No, nothing like that. It’s just, er … It was really boring.”

Malfoy raised one eyebrow, quill still poised. “Really boring,” he repeated flatly.

Harry didn’t feel he quite deserved Malfoy’s disapproval. “I did try!” he protested. “But then I, er … I fell asleep.”

Malfoy put his quill down. “Right,” he said. “Well. I suppose we can come back to that.” He frowned, picked up his quill again, and scratched something in his notebook.

Harry wondered what he was writing. ‘Harry Potter is an idiot’? ‘Patient 734 shows remarkable lack of any kind of mental function, not just memory’? He squinted at the page – then looked away guiltily when Malfoy glanced up at him. He tried to distract himself from the prickles of shame that crept up his spine. The shattered window and the burn on the wall from the duel yesterday had both been fixed, he noticed. Sunlight fell, buttery and warm, onto the dark wood of Malfoy’s desk.

“Well,” Malfoy said, and Harry caught the disdainful curl of his lip just before it smoothed into a flat line, “if the exercise caused no adverse effects other than the onset of a quick nap, then I feel comfortable getting started.” He took his time finishing his notes, blotting the ink, and putting the notebook and the quill in his desk drawer. He straightened his sleeves, tucked his hair behind his ear, and, finally, picked up his wand.

“Granger’s notes said that you had a negative experience trying to learn Occlumency.” Malfoy’s face and tone were so mild and professional that Harry thought he must have imagined the disdain. He shook his head, annoyed at himself – he was letting Ron’s dislike of Malfoy get to him, just like Hermione had said. “I’m hoping you’ll find this a little easier,” Malfoy continued, “since we’ll be working together rather than against each other.”

It suddenly occurred to Harry that perhaps he should be worried about the whole Legilimency thing. Ron and Hermione had seemed awfully tense yesterday after his first session with Malfoy. And how had Ron phrased it? Malfoy would be “forcing his way into Harry’s brain and rifling around”?

“We’ll have to maintain eye contact.”

Harry gulped, and met Malfoy’s gaze. It was weird, to stare so intently into a stranger’s eyes. Malfoy’s dark eyelashes were the only things on his face that weren’t pale. It made his eyes strangely captivating. Now Harry was looking into them, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to look away.

“Let me know if you want me to stop.” Malfoy raised his wand. “Ready? One … two … three … Legilimens.”

Harry braced himself. A few tense breaths later, he unclenched. He counted to five, waiting. A breeze passed over him from the open window. He shivered.

“Did … Did it not work?” he asked, trying not to sound disappointed. Malfoy was supposed to be amazing at this.

“Hm?” Malfoy’s intense gaze was still firmly fixed on Harry.

“The spell. Did you do it wrong?”

In Harry’s peripheral vision, the corners of Malfoy’s mouth quirked. “Weasley and Granger didn’t set your expectations of me very high at all, did they?”

“What? Oh–!” Suddenly, he wasn’t in Malfoy’s office at all; he was in the Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Ron and Hermione, three bowls of half-eaten rhubarb crumble on the table between them. Harry, disconcerted, tightened his grip on the arms of Malfoy’s wingback chair. The smooth leather squeaked under his fingers.

“It did work,” Harry breathed, and Malfoy laughed. The sound was strange – it came from behind the image of Ron and Hermione, but it echoed inside Harry’s head. He remembered Malfoy’s bright, delighted laugh yesterday after the duel. The Leaky Cauldron warped and became Malfoy’s office again, but the office as it had been yesterday: the furniture cleared, Malfoy standing across from him, his hair ruffled. Harry felt his face grow hot.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was apologising for.

“Don’t worry,” came Malfoy’s voice, although the mouth of the grinning, panting Malfoy in front of him didn’t move. “Memories switching like that is completely normal at this stage. You thought the spell hadn’t worked. Concentrate. Can you feel it?”

Harry tried to focus his attention away from post-duel Malfoy’s pink-tinged cheeks and thought about it. The way Hermione and Ron had talked about Legilimency, he had expected it to be painful – or at least uncomfortable, like the defensive prickles that rose around him during a Diagnostic Charm. But Harry didn’t feel anything at all.

“What am I supposed to be looking for? I thought it would be obvious.”

“It can be,” Malfoy said. “Granger mentioned that your Occlumency tutor had been rather heavy-handed. She was not too polite about it – but I suspect he thought you would react instinctively to a more brutal approach.”

Malfoy’s grinning face flickered and a man Harry had seen only as a portrait floated to the front of his vision. The hooked nose and curled lip of Severus Snape – Harry’s previous Occlumency tutor, according to Hermione – sneered down at him from the wall of Professor McGonagall’s office: a memory from Harry’s unsuccessful trip to Hogwarts.

“I didn’t get the impression that he liked me very much.”

Malfoy snorted. “He’s practically smiling at you there. But, for now, direct your attention away from memory and try to focus on the feeling of me in your mind. Once you can identify a foreign presence, you’ll find it easier to learn your own mental boundaries and to control what you see.”

Harry tried again, straining for the elusive feeling of Malfoy, whatever that meant. But the only thing he felt was awkwardness. The image in front of them shifted back to Malfoy laughing breathlessly after their duel.

“I really don’t know what I’m supposed to be feeling.” Frustration began to build in Harry’s stomach. It didn’t help that he couldn’t look away from Malfoy, his bright, joyful laugh playing over and over.

“All right. Finite Incantatem.”

The real Malfoy – the blank-faced, straight-backed, neat-haired Malfoy – shimmered into view. Harry had been so taken by the memory of the duel that for a moment he was surprised to find himself sitting down, his wand in his pocket rather than in his hand.

Malfoy studied him, his head cocked. “Maybe it will be easier to identify the feeling if you are fully immersed,” he said eventually, in tones that suggested he was about to say something he thought he’d regret. “Do you know Legilimency?”

Harry considered. “I know the incantation.”

Malfoy pursed his lips. “Let’s try this, then: I’ll cast, and you block me with a standard Shield Charm. Keep eye contact with me while you do. My spell should rebound and let you into my mind, then you’ll be able to get a greater sense of my mental presence. Are you comfortable with that?”

Harry blinked. He didn’t expect his urge to know more about Draco Malfoy, the Death Eater turned Mind Healer, to be fulfilled so soon. He nodded quickly and shifted in his chair to pull out his wand.

“Let’s do it,” he said firmly.

Malfoy hesitated, watching him warily. “Don’t try anything,” he warned. “You’re just there to get a sense of what it feels like. No snooping around. No barging through doors. All right?”

Harry nodded again. “Sure, of course.” It was easy to agree; he had no idea how to snoop around in someone else’s head, no matter how much he might want to.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes, then raised his wand again. “All right,” he said, holding Harry’s gaze. “I’m going to cast after three. One … two … three … Legilimens.”

The Shield Charm burst out of Harry instinctively, and Harry felt a very peculiar sensation of having his consciousness whoosh forwards while his body remained seated. It wasn’t like falling, or the constriction of Apparition. It was more personal than that. Like the anticipation of being held when being drawn into a hug.

Harry allowed himself to be carried by the current of the magic until he found himself standing on a Quidditch pitch. A faint smell of flowers was carried by a cool wind that ruffled the hair on the back of his neck. Across from him stood seven students in red and gold robes. One of them had messy black hair and round-rimmed glasses.

“Hang on,” Harry said. “That’s…”

“Fifth year.” Malfoy’s voice again came disconcertingly from inside Harry’s head. Or should that be inside Malfoy’s head? “This was the last match we played against each other. You got banned for life after this,” he added fondly.

“What?”

“Oh, don’t worry, you were playing again the year after.”

A younger Malfoy – short and sneering but unmistakable – gestured to a badge pinned to the front of his robes. The fifteen-year-old version of Harry scowled from ten feet away. The students in the stands were chanting something. Harry gazed up at them, fascinated. Had he recognised all these faces, once?

“Try not to get distracted by what you can see,” came Malfoy’s voice. “Focus on what you can feel.”

The floral smell mingled with the sharp tang of broom polish. Malfoy’s teammate elbowed him and sneered towards – was that Ron, standing next to Harry, looking rather green in the face? Harry’s stomach did an unhappy jolt at the sight; he’d been told he’d known Ron since their first day of school – but he couldn’t remember him looking any younger than twenty-seven.

“Really take note of the sensations,” Malfoy murmured. “And compare it to the next memory. Hold on.”

Harry gasped as the green of the pitch warped, colours twisting and twining and eventually forming the dark shapes of bookshelves. Lots of bookshelves, rows and rows of them. The back of Malfoy’s pale head moved purposefully through them.

“Is this Hogwarts?”

“St Mungo’s,” Malfoy said. “The Research Library.”

Harry quashed a stab of disappointment. He didn’t know if he’d ever been there, but it was unlikely.

“We’re not here to try to trigger your memory,” Malfoy reminded him. Harry tensed; he’d forgotten that Malfoy would be able to hear his thoughts when their minds were linked like this. “You’re in my mind so you can identify my mental presence to better know your own. Remember to take note of what you can feel.”

It was difficult to focus on feelings when Harry had no way of closing his eyes, of blocking out the image of Malfoy – and it was obvious now, the Malfoy in front of him was definitely older than a teenager, his cheekbones sharp, his eyes tired – pausing in front of a bookcase, reaching out to run elegant ink-smudged fingers along the books’ spines. Harry stared at the movement, fascinated.

“Concentrate,” said Malfoy’s voice again.

Harry snapped back to himself. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy said. “This will take some getting used to. Take your time. Does anything feel strange? Different to what you’d expect a library to feel like?”

Harry tried his best to ignore the hand still trailing over the books. He concentrated. After about thirty seconds of feeling nothing at all, he let out a groan of frustration.

“I don’t know! I’ve never been in a library! It all feels normal!” He stared around helplessly. “The floor creaks when someone walks on it. There’s a bit of a draft. Someone’s done an Air-Freshening Charm to cover up the smell of dusty old books. That bloke in the corner keeps picking his nose. I dunno what you want me to say!”

A warm, pleased feeling wrapped around him for a second, and Harry shivered; he didn’t think it had come from him. Strangely, the sensation of being able to feel someone else’s emotions was not as unnerving as it should have been.

“Very good,” Malfoy murmured, that same pleased note in his voice. “One more.”

The library swirled away and resettled to form the familiar shape of the inside of the Leaky Cauldron. Harry was sitting next to Malfoy at a different table than usual, but could easily identify a few fellow regulars: the barman, a white-haired old witch who shook Harry’s hand enthusiastically every time she saw him, the two bald-headed warlocks who invariably sat huddled over the table in the far corner.

“Granger mentioned you’ve spent some time here,” Malfoy said.

Harry nodded, then realised he wasn’t sure how physical gestures worked inside someone else’s mind. “Er, yeah.”

“Is there anything different than usual?” Malfoy asked. “Anything that you experienced in the library, or on the Quidditch pitch?”

“Is one of those bald warlocks picking his nose, you mean?”

A flash of impatience.

“Joking,” Harry said quickly. “Hang on, let me think.”

He took a deep breath, prepared for more frustration and bewilderment, but this time, the differences stood out easily. The comforting aroma of hot food and mead usually filled the pub; right now, Harry could smell the same floral scent from the Quidditch pitch – which he realised was also what he’d taken to be an Air-Freshening Charm in the library. The large fireplace, the main thoroughfare for witches and wizards on their way to Diagon Alley, usually burned constantly; even in winter, the room had always been warm and stuffy. Just then, in Malfoy’s mind, it was pleasantly cool.

“Very good,” Malfoy said when Harry hesitantly said all this. “I’m going to end the spell now. Ready? Finite Incantatem.”

Harry blinked, and found himself back in Malfoy’s office. He squinted at the window; the sun had shifted while he’d been in Malfoy’s mind; Harry’s chair was bathed in warm mid-morning light.

Across the desk, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry. “I’m going to cast one more time and enter your mind again,” he said. “Now you know what to look for, see if you can identify the feeling of the spell. Do you need a moment to prepare yourself?”

Harry tightened his grip on the arms of the chair. “No,” he said firmly. “No, I’m ready.”

Malfoy’s eyes locked onto his. “Three … two … one … Legilimens.”

This time, as the first, Harry was not whooshed away anywhere, not transported to any halcyon memory of school Quidditch games or study sessions of years gone by. The breeze from Malfoy’s open window passed over him – and then Harry remembered: Malfoy’s window wasn’t open. He’d looked at it several times over the last hour, noticing that it had been repaired, that the sun had moved. The window had been closed all morning.

“The breeze,” he said. “That’s you, isn’t it?” He focused on the feeling – now he thought about it, it was less like a breeze and more like a cool patch of – something. What had Malfoy said? A presence.

Malfoy murmured his approval. “What else?”

Now Harry could feel Malfoy in his head, it was hard to know how he hadn’t recognised it before. Having someone else in your mind was like having someone stand right behind you, except much more intimate. Like having someone stand behind you with their arms around your waist, chin hooked over your shoulder. Harry struggled to gather himself.

The scent that had been so out of place in the Leaky Cauldron, that had floated over the stands in the Quidditch pitch, that had twined with the mustiness of books in the library – that was here too. Like the breeze, it wasn’t quite there – more like, Harry knew it was there, without smelling it at all.

“What is that?” Harry asked. “It’s sort of … not like a gingery flowery lemony smell, but also … that’s exactly what it’s like. What is it?”

Malfoy snorted. “I’ve never heard it described so eloquently. Usually I’m told my mental presence evokes the scent of a spiced Earl Grey tea.”

“Earl Grey,” Harry repeated. “I don’t think I’ve had that.” He inhaled – the action didn’t increase the strength of the not-a-scent, but it helped him to focus. “I can’t decide whether I like it or not.”

“Quite.” There was a strange note in Malfoy’s voice, but Harry was still mentally poking at the presence in his head, baffled that he hadn’t felt it the first time. Then, suddenly, it vanished.

Harry frowned at Malfoy, who hadn’t moved. “Where did it go? Did you end the spell?”

A smile. “Yes.” He held up his wand from under the desk. “Very good. I’m impressed. That’s quite a lot of progress for one session. We’ll end it here for today.”

“What?” Harry glanced at the clock and was shocked to see that it was already past midday. “But – we didn’t do anything.”

“On the contrary. You learned to identify when the spell had been cast and truly recognise a presence in your mind.”

Harry pulled a face. “So what? The intense eye contact and someone shouting ‘Legilimens’ would usually be a clue.”

“More powerful spell-casters may not need the incantation. And besides, learning to identify a foreign presence is a key skill in Mind Magic, especially Occlumency. And while Occlumency is not our end goal, there are many teachings that will be extraordinarily useful in aiding your recovery. And also,” he continued importantly, “I’m the Healer, and I say so.”

“I thought you said you weren’t a Healer.”

“Yes, but ‘Practical Mind Magic Instructor’ doesn’t have the same ring to it.” He grinned at Harry, and Harry again felt that strange urge to reach out to him, to move closer.

Malfoy’s smile faltered. He cleared his throat and laced his fingers together. His right thumb rubbed at the thick silver ring. “Homework,” he said.

That got Harry’s attention. “Homework?”

“Mm, and if you could trouble yourself to take a minute or two out of your busy schedule to actually do it this time, it would be appreciated.” Malfoy arched an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I did try–!”

“Possibly I gave confusing instructions,” Malfoy allowed, which surprised Harry into silence. “Forget putting memories inside boxes. I’d like you instead to focus on the space itself. Try to come up with a large, comforting room inside your mind. I won’t ask to see it tomorrow, you can take a few days to work on it.”

“A comforting space.” Harry tried to think of the last time he felt comforted. Nothing sprang to mind.

“It can be somewhere you have been, or somewhere new,” Malfoy continued. “It could be indoors or even outdoors – but I’d like you to make sure it has some sort of doorway. Preferably several.”

“Doorways? Where do doorways in an imaginary mind-room lead?”

Malfoy smiled. “Wherever you want them to. That one, for example,” he pointed behind Harry, “takes you out of my office to the fourth floor corridor. If you have no other questions, you should go through it. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Harry’s fourth session

“I can feel you.”

“Good,” Malfoy murmured. A shiver went down Harry’s spine.

A few days into his Legilimency sessions, Harry was consistently able to identify the feeling of Malfoy in his head. It was still peculiar – a cool, fragrant, too-intimate pressure in his mind – but the presence itself wasn’t unpleasant. He couldn’t help but mentally poke at it, and felt a flicker of reproval in response.

“Remember what I said. Gently correct yourself when you notice your attention wandering. Don’t force anything. Let the memories flow. Don’t worry what form they take. Do you understand?”

Harry hummed his assent.

“Focus on me, on my presence in your mind,” Malfoy continued. “Allow it to ground you.”

Harry wished he could close his eyes. It was hard to concentrate on guiding the flow of your thoughts when you were in a staring contest, especially when your opponent’s gaze was so gripping. He tried to focus his attention inward, on that citrusy scent that was fast becoming familiar. A cool ripple of approval ran through him.

“Good. Now, when you are ready, think back to the first day you can remember. What happened when you woke up?”

His bedroom at Grimmauld Place appeared around them before Harry had made the decision to think of it. It was quickly replaced by the downstairs mantelpiece – the rows of photographs on the wall – Kreacher’s bleary eyes peering up at him from the nest of blankets in the kitchen cupboard.

“Good,” said Malfoy, but the images kept coming. Hermione’s shocked face, the barrage of itchy Diagnostic Charms, the flash of a camera in the hospital corridor, the headline POTTER SEEN IN SPELL DAMAGE WARD – THIRD TIME IN THE LAST TWO MONTHS!

More flashes, more headlines:

HARRY POTTER SKIPS CHARITY GALA

IS THE SAVIOUR BORED OF SAVING? POTTER TAKES “INDEFINITE BREAK” FROM AUROR CAREER

FORMER SCHOOL FRIEND REBUFFED BY BOY WHO LIVED

“This is normal,” Malfoy said, his voice cutting through Harry’s increasingly frantic thoughts. “Gently guide yourself back to the moments after you first woke up.”

Harry took a deep breath. He remembered the stillness, the peace, the owl at his window. The letter from Hermione – the hundreds of other letters he’d received over the last few months. The Head Auror asking him whether he could make a few appearances. People thanking him, criticising him, asking him for help. Foreign dignitaries requesting his presence at events and parties and conferences. Pages and pages and pages from St Mungo’s – We’d like to investigate another avenue – As you are aware, your previous test results came back negative – While we still do not know the cause of your condition – We remain hopeful – Our experts are confident – We need to run more tests–

“Gently guide your thoughts…”

Another deep breath. They were back in the bedroom, an owl at the window, a scroll tied neatly to its leg. His hand reached for the owl treats. More owls, beaks tapping on glass, letters gripped by sharp talons. Just a brief speech about the department, nothing personal – Following our discussion in January, I propose – No progress on the investigation into your accident – We’d like to interview you for our March feature – Do you have any comment on Smith’s story? – Dear Mr Potter – Dear Mr Potter – Dear Mr Potter–

“All right.”

The presence in Harry’s head vanished; the images stopped. His ears rang in the sudden silence of Malfoy’s office.

“Sorry.” Harry scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t control it.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Don’t worry. You have many memories overlapping. The memory of your first day is evidently too similar to things you have done since. Is there somewhere you’ve been only once in the last few months? Something specific and different to your everyday life?”

Harry considered. “Hogwarts?” he suggested. “I was only there for a couple of hours, right back at the beginning.”

“Hm.” Malfoy ran a thumb over his lip. Sunlight glinted off his ring like a glimpse of a silver Snitch. “Perhaps. But at this stage, I’d be hesitant to suggest anything that you had an emotional connection with prior to your memory loss. Is there anywhere else?”

This time, Harry barely needed to think about it. “No,” he said dully. “All I do is go to St Mungo’s and the Leaky Cauldron.”

Malfoy frowned. “Why the Leaky Cauldron?”

Harry shrugged. Picked at the arm of the chair. “Hermione says being immersed in a familiar wizarding environment is helpful.”

Malfoy’s frown deepened. “And how often do you go there?”

“Dunno. Most days. Five times a week, maybe.”

“Five?” There was a sharp edge to Malfoy’s voice. “You know, for someone so clever, Granger talks a lot of shit.”

The curse surprised a startled laugh out of Harry.

“How on earth is your mind supposed to get stronger if you never give it new information?” Malfoy demanded.

“She says having a routine is important–”

“So go for a walk at the same time every day and have your house-elf bring you a cup of cocoa before bed!”

Harry didn’t know what to say. Malfoy’s reaction was unexpected, but it was also gratifying: Harry really was getting sick of the Leaky Cauldron.

“More homework,” Malfoy snapped.

“I need to work on picturing a mental space, you said.”

“Do that too. We’ll come to that. But over the next few days, find the time to do something new. Something different.” He arched an eyebrow. “From what you’ve told me, it shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Right,” Harry said.

“That will be all for today.”

Harry glanced at the clock. “It’s only half ten,” he said.

Malfoy looked at him levelly. “That will be all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Harry’s sixth session

By now, Harry was used to the constant stream of owls that pecked on his window like they were trying to tap-tap-tap their way directly into his brain. Mostly, he glanced at the letters and threw them aside – an error-ridden reply would raise suspicions, better to not say anything at all – but every now and then, there was a letter that was actually meant for him – that is, the version of him with no memory.

That morning, there had been one such message from the Auror in charge of Harry’s case – someone Harry had apparently worked with a lot over the last five years. Harry had had no idea who she was, obviously, but he’d liked her well enough at first. His good opinion dwindled with every subsequent letter.

Harry,

Bad news: the lead we thought we had turned out to be a dead end: Mulciber genuinely did try to sign up for a Muggle ballet class. Obviously none of us predicted that (apart from Thistlewick, who I now owe ten Galleons – you’ll find that funny when you get your memory back) so, essentially, we’re back to square one.

Robards is getting frustrated at our lack of progress. He plans on assigning Whitehart and Peters back onto the Jugson case, he reckons that’s more urgent – I know, I don’t agree either. I think he’s going to try to pull you into a meeting this week to talk you around, so keep an eye out for that.

I’ve sent an owl to Hermione, too. Knowing her, she’ll have Robards back in line by tomorrow. Will keep you updated.

Alicia

Harry had crumpled the letter in his fist. “Back to square one” – that was four whole months wasted. His time was running out.

He arrived at Malfoy’s office in a foul mood, the letter still clenched in his fist. He stuffed it into his pocket and opened the door with a little more force than necessary.

Malfoy’s only response to Harry’s noisy entrance was a raised eyebrow. Harry muttered a greeting and slumped into the waiting wingback chair. Malfoy continued to write in his stupid notebook for what Harry considered to be an obnoxiously long time.

“So,” Malfoy said eventually, carefully blotting the ink on the page. “Are you ready to get started?”

As if Harry had been the one making Malfoy wait! “Yes.”

“I was hoping to revisit the concept of a mental space today. Have you managed to envisage a place you are comfortable with?”

“Yes.”

Malfoy’s mouth quirked. “You didn’t find it too boring this time? Didn’t lull yourself into a nap?”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Well done.”

Something in Malfoy’s condescending tone dug fingers into Harry’s chest and wrenched his poorly controlled frustration out through his mouth.

“Look, what’s the point of all this?” Harry demanded.

The smirk dropped off Malfoy’s face. He had the nerve to look confused. “I’m sorry?”

“You’ve had me for a week and all you’ve done is make me sit around for hours making up imaginary rooms and doors and bloody cardboard boxes. What’s the point?”

“I was under the impression that you were taking advantage of my considerable knowledge of Mind Magic to attempt to regain your memory,” Malfoy said coldly.

The crumpled letter from the Aurors was hot in Harry’s pocket. “How is this supposed to help? How is any of this supposed to help if we don’t even know what happened to me?”

Malfoy sneered and opened his mouth, then closed it again abruptly. He took a deep breath and laced his fingers together. “I understand that it must be disappointing not to have the answers you’re looking for,” he said. “But what happened to you may be irrelevant.”

“What? Of course it’s relevant,” Harry snapped. “How are we supposed to fix me if we still don’t know what happened?”

“I believe,” Malfoy said slowly, “that in your case, recovering your memories is not dependent on identifying the cause of their disappearance.”

“But sitting around and thinking about imaginary doorways is the best way to do that?” Harry scoffed. “Surely it would be more helpful to find whoever did this to me and get them to reverse it.”

Malfoy took even longer to reply this time. When he finally spoke, his sentences felt heavy, as if he had carefully considered each word. “Since there is no guarantee of finding a culprit,” he said, “and no guarantee that, if such a person did exist, they could reverse what has been done to you, yes. I believe it is worth your while to pursue strengthening your own mental capabilities.”

Malfoy was talking shit. “What do you mean, ‘if such a person did exist’? Of course they exist. I just need the Aurors to stop being useless and actually find them!”

“Well, by all means, if you feel your time would be better spent out in the field assisting the Aurors, you know where the door is.”

The dismissiveness in his tone pulled Harry up short. “What?”

“It’s there,” Malfoy clarified, pointing over Harry’s shoulder. “Please, do not hesitate to use it.”

Harry was once again struck by how different Malfoy was to the other experts he’d worked with. This wasn’t the first time that Harry had lost his temper at a Healer – it wasn’t the first time it had happened after he’d received a letter from Alicia, either. But usually, the Healers would coo at him, coax him back into his chair, gently explain that everything would be all right in the end, Mr Potter, just you wait and see. He’d never had one of them tell him to fuck off if he didn’t want to be there.

What did it say about him, Harry wondered, that Malfoy’s dismissiveness made Harry like him more?

“I … sorry,” Harry said, deflating. “I don’t want to leave.”

“Good.” Malfoy shot him an incredulous look and pulled out his wand. “Well then. Your mental space.”

“I – yes.” Harry watched with fascination as Malfoy’s expression settled into one of distant, polite professionalism. His thin shoulders pulled back into a clean line and he reached out to straighten the quill on his desk.

“You said that you’ve come up with something that you would feel comfortable showing me?”

Harry nodded warily, unnerved at the abrupt shift in mood.

“How did you find the process? Did you experience anything unusual while you were putting the space together? Any strange sights, sounds, sensations?”

“I don’t think so.”

“All right.” Malfoy raised his wand. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

Harry locked eyes with Malfoy, and could see no sign of Malfoy’s earlier impatience. When Malfoy cast the spell, his voice was calm, smooth. The cool spiced bergamot of his mind flowing into Harry’s was becoming more familiar by the day. How had Harry’s fifteen-year-old self thought having someone in his head was unpleasant?

“The space you came up with?” Malfoy prompted.

“Oh – yeah.”

Harry concentrated. The image of the room he’d thought up appeared around him, replacing the dark wood and summer sunlight of Malfoy’s office. Harry let out a quiet noise of surprise – it was strange, seeing a figment of his imagination look so real.

“Can you see it?” Harry asked, embarrassingly eager.

“Yes,” Malfoy said from somewhere beyond the walls of the room. “Very good. Can you describe the space for me?”

“Oh.” Harry had been quite proud of the work he’d put in to making up this stupid room. He’d considered everything from cosy sitting rooms to rolling fields to rustic inns – but it was only when he’d become frustrated with the same four straight walls boxing him in and imagined this particular space that something had clicked. He had been surprised at how right it had felt. The fact that he wasn’t visualising it well enough for Malfoy to see it in detail was disheartening.

“Erm, it’s a circular room with stone walls.” Harry looked around. “Sort of medium-sized, I suppose? There are big windows that look out onto fields, but we’re quite high up. There are some doors, like you asked for. Wooden ones. I dunno where they go.”

“Very good,” Malfoy said again. “How many doors are there?”

“Four.”

“Four,” Malfoy repeated thoughtfully. “I see.” He felt so close, like he was standing right beside Harry. It was strange not to see him.

“Is there any sound?” Malfoy asked.

Harry didn’t know he was supposed to think about sound. He considered it. “No,” he said after a while.

An aborted jolt of unease pulsed through him – Malfoy’s feeling, not Harry’s. Harry widened his sightless eyes. “What? Is that a bad thing?”

A wave of calm washed away the unease so thoroughly that Harry wondered if he hadn’t imagined it. “Not at all,” Malfoy said. “This is a safe place for you to retreat to if your memories get out of control, like they did yesterday. The doors will allow you to sort through your thoughts and store them separately. What you find behind each door is entirely up to you. We’ll dedicate some sessions to that. All of this is about strengthening the control you have over your mind.”

Harry still didn’t see the point if they didn’t know whether he’d been cursed or poisoned or just knocked really hard on the head. But since Harry couldn’t actually help the Aurors investigate the case (he’d asked), he supposed he might as well carry on doing what Malfoy told him, even if it did feel useless.

“I hope you’ll feel more positively towards the field as we progress,” Malfoy said, and Harry belatedly remembered that Malfoy could read his thoughts.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

“It’s reasonable to have doubts. You’re doing remarkably well, by the way – you’ve held the image stable for several minutes now.”

As soon as Harry realised Malfoy was right, the circular room flickered and was replaced by his kitchen at Grimmauld Place. Then Ron and Hermione’s living room – Harry’s bedroom – Healer Brisley’s office.

“Don’t worry. Take a breath. See if you can guide yourself back.”

Harry clenched his fists. The circular room appeared again. The image quickly warped into the Grimmauld Place parlour – the Leaky Cauldron – the St Mungo’s reception.

“Don’t force it.” Harry reached out to Malfoy’s cool presence instinctively and the image of the reception held, though it shimmered at the edges like it wasn’t quite in tune. “Good,” Malfoy said. “Let your thoughts flow back to where you want them to be. Are you ready? Try again.”

Harry’s ninth session

“Morning,” Harry said. He sat in the wingback chair and smiled at Malfoy. “How are you today?”

Malfoy’s quill stilled on the page of his notebook. “Good morning,” he said warily. “You’re awfully chirpy.”

“Lovely weather outside,” Harry said. Malfoy glanced over his shoulder at the overcast sky visible through the window. “Plus,” Harry added, “I did what you told me.”

A strange expression flashed over Malfoy’s face before it was replaced by one of polite professional interest. “Oh?”

“Yep,” Harry said, and couldn’t keep the grin from pulling at his mouth. “I did a new thing. Something other than having dinner at the Leaky bloody Cauldron.”

“Ah.” Malfoy put the quill down and leaned back in his chair. He smiled. “Good. What did you do?”

Harry waved a hand. “Oh, some Muggle garden thing. Hermione wanted to go, said it was an insight into Muggle attempts at potion-making or something, I dunno.”

“That’s quite a vague description. You didn’t enjoy yourself?”

“Are you kidding? It was bloody brilliant.” The grin took over Harry’s face again. “Never been so excited to see plants. At least, I don’t think I have.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Malfoy said softly, but it was in his usual professional tone that he added, “Would you be comfortable showing me?” He raised his wand.

The smell of damp earth and Earl Grey. Gravel crunching underfoot. The heat of the early summer sun cooled by the balm of Malfoy’s mental presence. Ron, Hermione and Harry stood, chatting idly, surrounded by fresh green leaves.

The image remained steady.

“Where is this?” Malfoy’s refined accent was almost incongruous with the earthy surroundings.

“Chelsea,” Harry said, and the journey flashed in front of him – the walk from Knightsbridge, the bustling Muggle high street, the white-accented townhouses of quieter neighbourhoods. “Sorry,” he said. He tried to focus on the garden again.

“Don’t force it,” Malfoy reminded him. “Let the images come and gently guide yourself back.”

His voice helped. Harry inhaled. Exhaled. The flashes resolved into a single street – a small, unassuming road, brown brick walls on either side. A handsome man with curly brown hair was waiting for someone next to a green sign with white text: Chelsea Physic Garden.

“‘Physic’?” Ron asked. “I’ve heard of that.”

“It’s a term Muggles used to use to mean potions,” Hermione said quietly, mindful of the curly-haired Muggle. She led the way through the unassuming iron gate. Harry glanced at the man and his soft-looking hair again before following. “The blurred line between what they call medicine and what we call potions is fascinating – especially in the past. Not so much now, of course.”

“Of course,” Ron agreed, and exchanged a shrug with Harry, who laughed.

The image warped and became the three of them laughing in Ron and Hermione’s living room – then in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place – around their table at the Leaky Cauldron.

“Fuck, sorry,” Harry said. The Leaky Cauldron vanished and Harry saw Malfoy across the desk, his eyebrows pulled together in concentration, before they were back in the Garden.

Hermione bent over to inspect a plant with large, flat leaves.

“It’s awful, when you think about it,” she said. “Quite a lot of Muggles were persecuted during the trials of the 1600s for using the natural healing properties of plants. You don’t need magic to chew on a bit of echinacea, do you? It’s hardly any sort of professional Healing.”

Suddenly, they were in St Mungo’s.

“I have to say, I’ve worked in Healing for twenty years, and I have never seen anything like your case before.” Healer Medlar stroked his goatee and leered at Harry. “But it’s hardly surprising you have stunned magical professionals. It wouldn’t be the first time!”

Back to the Garden. They were in a greenhouse. The air was thick.

“It’s not that I think he has definitely fooled everyone at St Mungo’s and has tricked his way into a position of power,” Ron mused, idly drawing a crude cock and balls in the condensation that had gathered on the window. “But I’m just saying, we can’t rule it out.”

In the present, heat flared through Harry. “God, I’m sorry, I–”

“Don’t worry,” Malfoy said, his voice soft in Harry’s mind, but the image in front of them shifted again – the Leaky Cauldron.

“He seemed fine in Brisley’s office,” past-Harry was saying, “A little … I dunno…”

Ron leant forwards. “Slimy? Untrustworthy? Evil?”

“Jesus,” present-Harry said. “Really – I’m really sorry, I can’t stop it.”

“Do you need me to end the spell?”

“No. No, I can–”

The garden again.

“You said yourself that you’re not making progress,” Ron insisted.

“Honestly, Ron, he’s only been having sessions for a week. Will you grow up?”

The Leaky Cauldron.

“We didn’t actually do any Mind Magic,” past-Harry admitted.

“Prick,” Ron said. “Not bothering to do his job?”

In Malfoy’s office, another day, another time. The room was empty of furniture. Malfoy was rolling up his sleeve, the Dark Mark an ugly scar on his smooth, pale skin.

“Finite Incantatem.”

The image faded and Harry found himself back in the wingback chair. His face burned.

“I’m really sorry,” he said weakly.

“Don’t be,” Malfoy said. “The more you worry about it, the less control you will have. Did you notice how much harder it was to direct your thoughts once you became emotional?”

Harry nodded sadly.

“That’s normal,” Malfoy said. “You were trying to force yourself not to think of something, which will always have the opposite effect. If I were to cast Legilimens right now and told you to think of anything but an erumpent, I know exactly what we would both see.”

Harry, who was absolutely suddenly thinking of an erumpent, had to concede the point.

“Imagine the way a dream slips through your fingers, the way a collection of memories swirls in a Pensieve,” Malfoy continued. “Thoughts are fluid, dynamic things. Like liquid, thoughts are easy to direct, but just as easy to lose control of. Fighting your mind’s natural current is like standing in the middle of a river and trying to hold the water back by force. You must instead gently guide the stream until it flows to your will.”

Harry imagined himself stranded in the middle of the Thames, the murky brown water replaced by silver memories. “That sounds hard,” he said.

Malfoy laughed. “Of course it is. That’s why I have a job. But with practice, you will get there.”

“And that will bring my memory back, you think?”

“No,” Malfoy said bluntly. “But it will strengthen your mental power, which in turn will enable you to look deeper within your mind and access that which may be buried there. Are you ready to give it another go?”

It was exactly as easy as Harry had anticipated, which is to say that by the end of the session, he felt like he had made no progress at all. He was also beginning to regret not taking Malfoy up on his offer of using the Pensieve; by 12 o’clock, Malfoy had been subjected to every colourful insult that Ron had directed towards him over the last fortnight.

It was a deeply embarrassed Harry that stood to leave at the end of the session, not looking Malfoy in the eye as he made his goodbyes.

“Before you go,” Malfoy said awkwardly.

Harry did look at him then. “Yeah?”

Malfoy’s expression was almost pained. “I meant it when I said that the memories that come to the forefront of one’s mind during exercises like this are not necessarily a reflection of one’s true feelings. But if you do have doubts about my suitability, I am not the right person for you to be working with. It’s not too late to explore other options. There are other people who could do this with you.”

The thought of another smarmy Healer Medlar giving him knowing looks and then diving into his head made Harry shudder. “Nah,” he said. “Ron just likes complaining. I don’t listen to him, really.”

Malfoy hesitated. “The memory of the moments before our duel,” he said. “With–” A stiff gesture to his left arm. “It would be understandable if that is a problem.”

“It’s not a problem,” Harry said firmly. “Whatever you did in the past, I know you’re better than that now.” He was startled by the force of his reaction.

Malfoy seemed similarly surprised. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Harry’s embarrassment returned. He dropped his gaze. “So I’ll, er, see you tomorrow? Same time as usual?”

“Ah – Yes,” Malfoy said, not sounding like himself at all. “Absolutely. Same time as usual.”

Harry’s eighteenth session

Harry’s thoughts still jumped around, but he was getting better. It was easier now that Malfoy had unflinchingly heard every awful thing that Ron had said about him dozens of times. He’d also seen Harry suffer through several frustrating conversations with the Head Auror, had a tour of the cafés, pubs and restaurants that an abashed Hermione had taken them to after Harry had mentioned Malfoy’s opinion of their omnipresence at the Leaky Cauldron, and had watched Harry fumble his way through countless interactions with oblivious longtime acquaintances.

After two weeks, it felt like Malfoy had lived every moment that Harry himself had done. It was strange, having someone know you so thoroughly yet knowing almost nothing about them in turn. Harry had never been particularly enthusiastic about his memory loss, but the knowledge that his past self knew things about Malfoy that Harry was achingly curious about made his resentment burn anew.

So, when Malfoy said he wanted to teach Harry a new skill – how to focus on specific details within memories – Harry was quick to say, “Can you show me? Can I see in your head?”

Malfoy had given him a strange look but agreed.

They used the Shield Charm again (Harry almost forgot to raise the spell against Malfoy’s Legilimens out of habit) and Harry fell forwards into a large, white, high-ceilinged room. The walls were lined with rows of white wooden doors – dozens of them. The suggestion of Earl Grey hung heavy in the air.

“Where is this?”

“My mental space,” Malfoy said. His voice echoed inside and outside Harry’s mind.

“Huh.” Harry looked around with renewed interest. It was a lot bigger than Harry’s circular stone room. “What do you need a mental space for? Did you lose your memory too?”

At his words, the image warped. It settled almost immediately.

“There was a time in my youth when I needed to learn Occlumency as a matter of some urgency.” Malfoy said. “It required strong mental control. The space came from that. It’s part of the reason I got into Mind Magic in the first place.” His discomfort was palpable, settling around them like an invisible fog.

“Huh. What’s behind the doors?”

“Memories. But not ones we’re going to see today. We’ll start with something a little more civilised, shall we?”

The white walls of the high-ceilinged room blurred into browns and blues; they were in Malfoy’s office. For a moment, Harry couldn’t identify why it looked peculiar. Then he realised: he was used to seeing it in the bright morning light. The room before him glowed with the oranges and reds of sunset.

Malfoy himself was leaning back in his chair, his soft hair rumpled, his notebook held open in front of him with one elegant hand.

“When we remember things, we tend to overlook the finer details,” came Malfoy’s voice. “We retain a sense of what happened, our recollection emphasising how the events made us feel. This can make it difficult to focus on details. Look at the pages of the notebook.”

Harry did – and found it to be full of blurred scribbles, only the occasional phrase – memory loss … unknown cause … tempting – legible.

“Erm,” he said.

“It takes a concentrated effort to focus on the specifics of a memory without the use of a Pensieve. But once you have mastered the skill, you will find that every aspect of your recollection will improve. Watch.”

The Malfoy in front of him turned the page – more scribbles. But as Harry watched, the scribbles resolved into words, until the entire page was filled with small, neat handwriting.

It was some sort of schedule – Harry did a double take when he saw the words “Grimmauld Place”. He peered closer and gasped; it was an account of the last two weeks of Harry’s life before he lost his memory. Harry himself didn’t know most of the information laid out before him.

“Wow,” he said. “Is that Hermione’s research?”

“Mine, actually.” Malfoy’s voice was dry.

“Huh.” Harry raked his eyes over the page again, taking in as much as he could. “Do the Aurors have this?”

“Of course.”

“God.” His past self had done more in two weeks than Harry had managed in four and a half months. Each day had at least six things listed – so many unfamiliar names and places. There was a painful tug in Harry’s gut. These days, he considered it a busy day if he stopped at the shop on the way home from lunch.

“How do you remember all of that?”

“Years of practice,” Malfoy said. “But to begin with, to achieve this level of detail, you need to pick something you’ve spent a lot of time with and know well. A room in your house, perhaps. A memory of yourself reading your favourite book or … Which Broomstick? article.” His tone was light, but Harry caught the jibe.

“Nah, I only look at the pictures in Which Broomstick?,” he said gamely, and shivered as Malfoy’s amusement wrapped around him in cool bergamot tendrils.

The Malfoy at the desk hummed and turned the page. Harry leaned closer, curious to know more about his past. But this page didn’t hold a schedule, but a journal entry. Harry only managed to read a snippet – he’s exactly the same, yet the way he looks at me is so different – before he was shoved out of Malfoy’s mind so violently that he rocked back in his chair, reeling.

“What was that?” he yelped.

Malfoy was, inexplicably, very pink in the face.

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “It was nothing. Notes on another patient. I couldn’t let you see them – confidentiality.” His eyes were wide and wary. “How much did you read?”

Harry blinked. “Not much,” he said, then when Malfoy’s panicked look intensified, added, “None of it! I was still thinking about the schedule. What was I doing in France? I didn’t know I was in France.”

Malfoy looked dubious but jumped on the change of subject. Harry tried to listen while Malfoy explained, but found himself quite unable to concentrate. Malfoy’s long fingers twisted his silver ring around his thumb, over and over and over.

Harry’s thirty-fourth session

“Today we’re going to be re-focusing on your mental space.”

“Again?”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow at him. “Oh, sorry. Do you have a better idea?”

Harry hid his grin behind a disaffected sigh. “I suppose not,” he said, trying to sound put-upon.

Malfoy tutted, his lips pursed, and Harry’s grin won out. Malfoy’s disdain was still bizarrely exhilarating. Harry had had several meetings with Healer Brisley over the last few weeks and had realised anew how much he disliked the way she talked about him: as if he were something special, something unparalleled – something he was not.

“So, mental space?” Harry prompted.

“Yes. We’ve spent a lot of time using the doors to connect memories. Today I want you to hide a memory behind a door so I can’t access it.”

“Hm.” Malfoy kept reminding Harry that he could use the Pensieve whenever he liked, and Harry had always refused. After Malfoy had seen the memories of Ron’s insults – many, many times – there really was nothing Harry could possibly want to hide from him. “What’s the point of this one?”

Malfoy sighed. “You should know I cherish every instance of you questioning whether or not I can do my job.”

“Me too,” Harry said. “What is the point, though?”

“You mean aside from strengthening your mental control, which is the whole reason for you being here?”

“Aside from that, yeah.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Once you have mastered closing doors, it will be easier to open them.”

Harry may have become a self-described expert at winding Malfoy up, but he was still no better at deciphering Malfoy’s riddles. “What? All the doors in my head are open.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy allowed. “But the point stands: being able to hide information in your head may give you the skills to reveal it.”

Harry sat up straighter. Apart from the Thestral revelation in his first session, most of Harry’s memories were still as absent as they had been two months ago. Given the accolades that Malfoy had (Hermione had shown him pages and pages of Malfoy’s Mind Magic achievements while Ron sputtered protests in the background), Harry had expected to have made a bit more progress by now.

That wasn’t to say that Harry resented their sessions. Quite the contrary – he found himself looking forward to the next one almost as soon as he left Malfoy’s office. But although Malfoy insisted that worrying about it was unhelpful, that six-month time limit was looming ever closer…

“Harry,” Malfoy said sharply.

Harry looked up. “What?”

Malfoy frowned. Harry couldn’t tell whether he was annoyed or concerned. “I said, are you willing to give it a try?”

“Oh – yeah. Sure. If you think it will help.”

“‘If I think it will help’?” Malfoy repeated. “You do have a wand up your arse today, don’t you. What is it?”

“Nothing!”

Malfoy raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Really!” Harry protested. “I just – I dunno. I sort of expected to have recovered a few more memories by now. It’s fine, it’s just – I thought it would be a bit more like it was in that first session, you know?”

Malfoy studied him for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then, abruptly, he said, “What is the name of the ghost of Gryffindor Tower?”

“Er. What?”

“Answer the question.”

“Nearly Headless Nick,” Harry said, confused. What did that have to do with his memories? Was Malfoy going to hand him off to a ghost next?

“And the Slytherin ghost?”

“Er, the Bloody Baron. Why–?”

“The Hufflepuff ghost?”

“The Fat Friar – but I don’t see–”

“What does it feel like when a ghost walks through you?”

“Like having a bucket of ice dumped over you, isn’t it, but–”

Malfoy changed tack. “What’s the name of the plant that enables you to breathe underwater?”

“What?”

“Answer!”

“I – Gillyweed?”

“Does Gillyweed taste more like cabbage or cucumber?”

“Well, cabbage, I suppose–”

“Which is heavier, a Quaffle or a crystal ball?”

“A crystal ball, easily, but what does that have to do with–?”

“There you go.” Malfoy looked down his nose. “Now you know you’ve walked through a ghost, eaten Gillyweed and held a Quaffle and a crystal ball. Is that what you wanted?”

Harry stared. Malfoy had drawn the details out effortlessly – Harry hadn’t even noticed it happening. After a month of no progress, the bright spark of hope ignited inside Harry’s chest again. He hadn’t realised that it had dimmed.

“What the fuck,” he said hoarsely. “How–?”

“The point of the Thestral question was to check that you retained sense memory. It was a very simple test to confirm what we already knew. I didn’t think there was much point repeating the exercise, but if you’d rather we stop working on things that actually have a chance of success to hammer out superficial details that will make you feel better, it would actually be much easier for me, so I’d be happy to indulge you.”

Malfoy’s face was pinched, unpleasant. Harry couldn’t stop staring.

“I wasn’t–” he said weakly. “I–”

“Can we get back to working with your mental space now?”

Harry nodded dazedly. “You’re amazing, you know.” He’d eaten Gillyweed. He wanted to laugh. Why on earth had he eaten Gillyweed? “God, no wonder Brisley won’t shut up about you.”

The unpleasant pout on Malfoy’s face softened. “Well – thank you.” He blinked, gathered himself and continued sternly, “But if you had listened in our first session you would have known that retrieving semantic memories is much easier than–”

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Harry grinned. “Well done on proving your point. What were you saying about mental space?”

“Unbelievable,” Malfoy muttered. He laced his long fingers together. “Fine, yes, let’s get to it. I want you to close your eyes and focus on your breathing. When you’re ready, visualise your mental space.”

Harry did so. That glimmer of hope still burned within him, and he relaxed into the image of the circular room like sliding into a warm bath. He let Malfoy’s voice wash over him as he gave further instruction: choose a unique memory of a specific place or person and move it behind one of the four wooden doors. They’d done similar exercises in the past. It was all quite soothing.

“Make sure the door is locked,” Malfoy murmured. “Nice and tight. Really focus on how impenetrable it is. There’s no movement if you pull the handle. No chance of the latch coming loose. Let me know when you’re done.”

Harry hummed and did as he was bid, concentrating on the heaviness of the door as it closed, the squelch of a Colloportus, the sturdiness of the wood beneath his hands. “Okay.”

“Okay,” Malfoy repeated. “Now, hold the image steady and open your eyes. I’m going to cast as soon as you do.”

Harry breathed once, twice. He opened his eyes. He only had a glimpse of Malfoy’s steady gaze before Malfoy said, “Legilimens.”

The sensation of Malfoy’s consciousness spilling into Harry’s mind was by now so pleasant that Harry struggled to stop his eyes from fluttering closed again when Malfoy’s mind met his.

“Focus on your mental space,” Malfoy reminded him, his face unreadable.

The image was easy to bring up, and the Malfoy in front of him vanished. He was replaced by a version of Malfoy standing next to Harry in the circular stone room inside Harry’s head. They had only introduced representations of themselves within their mental spaces three days before. It was still incredibly odd, seeing Malfoy in surroundings that Harry had dreamt up.

“Which door did you hide the memory behind?”

Harry focused. The room around them shifted until they were standing in front of the one locked door. Malfoy’s approval rippled through him, sending a cool tingling through Harry’s mind and down his spine.

“You’re sure this is the right door?” Malfoy pressed. “Take a moment to look around at the others. Count them. Focus on each one in turn. You’re sure it’s this one?”

Malfoy did this a lot when they were working with the doors – doubting Harry, making him check. Each time, Harry would look around at the other three doors and affirm he had the correct one. Each time, he’d been right. He wished Malfoy would stop asking.

“Don’t get your wand in a knot,” Malfoy said lightly. “I’m going to try to open the door and access the memory. It might feel a little invasive. You can tell me to stop if it’s too uncomfortable.”

“You’re not going to trick me into saying ‘Jarvey Janglers’, Draco, so stop trying.”

A brush of teasing amusement. “If you don’t need to use the safeword, I’m doing a good job. But I’m glad you remember what it is if you need it. Ready?”

When they were like this, Harry didn’t need to say anything. Harry knew he was ready, so Malfoy knew he was ready. The Malfoy in his head reached out and tried to turn the knob of the door. Much to Harry’s satisfaction, the door didn’t budge.

“Very good,” Malfoy murmured. Harry shivered again. Malfoy drew his wand and pointed it at the door. “Alohomora.” The door swung open, revealing the disapproving face of Professor McGonagall.

“That’s cheating! You can’t use Alohomora!”

Malfoy ended the spell. “Of course I can.” He smirked at Harry’s outrage. “If someone were to use Legilimency to try to access your memories, they wouldn’t be a Muggle, would they?”

“They might be,” Harry said obstinately.

Malfoy’s eyes sparkled. “Well, if you ever need to defend yourself against a mental invasion from a Muggle, you can rest assured that you’ll do well. It was very good for a first attempt, either way. Take a moment to choose another memory, strengthen the door, and we’ll try again.”

Chapter Text

Another night, another dinner at a pub. They had exhausted themselves trying to find a new place to eat every time none of them wanted to cook and so: they were back in the Leaky Cauldron.

It was actually nice to be back. The barman beamed when they walked in, and personally ushered them to their usual table. Harry recognised the familiar smattering of regulars. There were a few people he didn’t recognise, too. A handsome man with dark eyes and a full mouth smiled at Harry as they passed. Harry found himself smiling back.

“Do we know him?” Harry hissed as they sat.

Ron and Hermione both turned to look. The man averted his eyes, abashed.

“Nope,” Ron said cheerfully.

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “Why?”

Harry glanced at the man, who leant over to say something to his friend. He was wearing a Muggle T-shirt; a strip of rich brown skin showed above the waistline of his trousers. “No reason.”

But the interaction nagged at him while they ordered, and while the barman, still beaming, delivered them three steaming steak pies. It was something he’d been wondering about for weeks. A tiny frustration, really. Insignificant in the grand scheme of things. But something that, suddenly, he was unable to keep to himself.

“Why didn’t you tell me I’m into men?” he blurted.

Hermione and Ron glanced at each other. Hermione lowered her fork. Ron swallowed.

“What?” Hermione said.

Harry stabbed at his pie. “I mean, I know that sort of thing isn’t a priority right now. But it would’ve been nice to know.” He thought about Malfoy’s long ink-stained fingers running slowly over the spines of books on a dusty bookshelf. The curly-haired Muggle leaning against the wall of the Chelsea Physic Garden. The hint of promise in the dark-eyed stranger’s smile.

The pastry broke apart satisfyingly under his fork.

“Mate,” Ron said. There was something odd about his voice.

Harry looked up. Both of them were staring. “What?”

“We didn’t know,” Hermione said.

Harry let her words sink in. “Oh.” Behind her, the bell above the door tinkled, and the roar of Muggle traffic drifted inside. Harry tried to think of something to say.

“Well, now I feel better about you dumping my sister.” Ron reached over and took a chip from Harry’s plate. “I’ve got four brothers, though, if you still want to marry into the family. I reckon at least two of ’em would consider it.”

Harry batted Ron away as he reached over again. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll let you know.”

“See that you do.” Ron’s hand darted around Harry’s and he brandished a second chip triumphantly. “Mum’d be over the moon.”

“Was there something in particular that prompted this, Harry?” Hermione asked innocently.

“Oh, bollocks,” Ron said, saving Harry from dredging up a response.

Harry followed Ron’s gaze. His jaw went slack.

“What the hell is he doing here?” Ron demanded.

“I don’t know,” Harry said weakly, staring. He had never thought of the Leaky Cauldron as grubby until he saw elegant, ivory-skinned Malfoy lean against the worn wood of the bar.

Hermione coughed and Harry dragged his gaze away. Her eyes were shrewd. Harry didn’t like it.

“We should invite him to join us,” she suggested brightly.

“What?!” Harry and Ron yelped in unison.

“Hermione,” Ron said. “You can’t be serious.”

Hermione put her hand on Ron’s thigh. From his wince, Harry suspected she had squeezed it quite firmly.

“He is Harry’s Healer,” she said, smiling sweetly. Ron’s wince intensified. “To have a chance of recovering his memories, Harry needs to be completely comfortable around him. I think a drink with us in a casual setting would be extremely beneficial.”

“I’m comfortable with him already,” Harry said quickly. “There’s no need.”

“See? Harry’s comfortable with him already. Wait – really, Harry?” Ron pulled a face. “That’s fucked up – ow!” There was a scuffle on their side of the table. Hermione pulled her hand back and rested it primly in front of her.

“Go and invite him over, Harry,” she said firmly. “I’ll talk to Ron.”

“Hermione,” Harry whined.

“Go!”

Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced helplessly. Harry groaned – but the thought of Malfoy sitting next to him and laughing along with them was inviting, enticing, and suddenly impossible to resist. “Fine.” He stabbed his pie once more for good measure. “But we all know this is going to be awful.”

Malfoy didn’t look up as Harry walked over. Harry stood at the bar beside him, allowed himself three seconds to study Malfoy’s face at a closer-than-usual range, then said, “Hey.”

Malfoy jumped, his gaze snapping to Harry’s. “Potter.” His voice was almost guilty. “I didn’t expect you to be here. I thought you dined elsewhere now.”

“We do,” Harry assured him, as if Malfoy hadn’t seen every single café, pub and restaurant Harry had been to over the last month. “This is the first time we’ve been here in weeks.” He grinned. “We really missed the rhubarb crumble.”

Malfoy nodded distractedly. “Understandable.” The torchlight danced over him in soft, golden flickers. “Well.” He cleared his throat and raised his glass in Harry’s direction. “Have a good night, then.”

“Erm, actually, do you want to join us?” The look of incredulity that overtook Malfoy’s face made Harry laugh. “I’m serious!” he said. “Hermione says it would be beneficial to be with you in a casual setting. It will increase our level of trust, or something.”

Malfoy glanced over at Ron and Hermione and raised an eyebrow. “Granger continues to spout wisdom in a subject she has zero training in, I see.”

“To be fair, she’s read a lot of books,” Harry said, and grinned again. “It is nonsense, though, I agree; I already trust you. But it might be nice to show Ron that you’re not an evil bastard trying to brainwash me. If one awkward conversation makes him shut up about you, I’ll put myself through that.” He paused. “Or would it get in the way of this tragic thing you have going on, drinking alone on a Tuesday night?”

Malfoy’s eyes latched onto Harry’s. His cool presence echoed through Harry’s mind.

“You are exactly the same, you know,” Malfoy said eventually. “Twenty-seven years of formative memories gone and yet, somehow, you are the exact same person.”

Given what he knew of their history, Harry didn’t quite know how to take that. “So that’s a … yes?”

Malfoy snorted. “Yes, it’s a yes, you tireless arsehole.” He waved an impatient hand. “Lead the way.”

They returned to a smiling Hermione and a scowling Ron. Harry slid into the booth easily; Malfoy hovered at the edge of the table.

“Granger,” he said, tipping his head in her direction. “Weasley.”

“Malfoy,” Ron said, glaring.

Hermione’s hand found Ron’s thigh again. “Draco,” she said warmly. “Harry has told us so much about your sessions with him; they sound fascinating. Please, do sit down.”

“Yes, please do,” Ron said sarcastically. Malfoy sighed, but sat next to Harry without comment. He sniffed, and his eyes fell to the half-drunk cup of Earl Grey tea that sat next to Harry’s plate. His head snapped up to stare at Harry, his expression unreadable. Harry flushed and looked away.

“So,” Hermione said brightly, her eyes darting between the two of them. “Legilimency-based Mind Healing. I’ve been doing a lot of reading into the subject – it’s fascinating.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. Harry was concentrating very hard on a spot on the wall, but could see out of the corner of his eye that Malfoy was still staring.

“How did you get into the field? It can’t have been easy.”

Finally, Malfoy looked away. Harry exhaled.

At Hermione’s prompting, Malfoy talked somewhat reluctantly about the training and research he’d done to become a Mind Healer. Ron stayed mulishly silent. Harry had nothing of interest to contribute, but listened intently for more details about Malfoy’s past.

As Hermione and Malfoy chatted, Harry slowly relaxed. Maybe this had been a good idea after all. Ron’s ears were still dangerously close to crimson, but if Hermione liked Malfoy, Harry was sure that Ron would come around. Whatever Malfoy had done as a teenager couldn’t have been that bad, otherwise Hermione wouldn’t be talking to him now – and St Mungo’s wouldn’t have hired him in the first place.

As the conversation veered into obscure principles of Mind Magic, Harry struggled to keep his eyes from drifting to Malfoy. He was unused to seeing him in profile like this – they were so often face-to-face, Malfoy sitting across from him, their eyes locked, their minds linked. His nose looked different from the side – straight and sharp rather than pointy. The flickering candlelight cast dark shadows under his jaw, making it look even more striking than usual. As Harry watched, a lock of white-blond hair fell from where it had been tucked behind Malfoy’s ear. Harry had the bizarre urge to reach out and fix it.

“… much more promising than the previous specialists he’s worked with. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Harry lifted his head from his hand and quickly replayed Hermione’s words in his head. “Yeah, definitely,” he said, nodding. “Much more promising.”

Hermione’s mouth twisted in a strange way – as if she was trying not to smirk. “Of course,” she said, turning back to Malfoy, “I’m sure Healer Medlar is incredibly skilled. But I never got the impression that he had taken the time to really familiarise himself with Harry’s case.”

“Perhaps he didn’t have a spare twelve hours to dedicate to reading your notes,” Malfoy said wryly, but he was smiling.

“Watch it, Malfoy,” Ron snapped. It was the first thing he’d said since Malfoy had sat down.

The humour disappeared from Malfoy’s face as if it had been wiped clean. “Oh, forgive me, Weasley. I should have known you wouldn’t understand.” His tone was achingly polite. “The joke is that twelve hours is quite a long time to spend reading case notes. Of course, I can’t imagine you’ve spent more than twelve hours reading over the entirety of the last ten years.”

Harry laughed.

Ron made a wounded noise. “Harry!”

“What?” Harry said, grinning. “It’s true! You told me as much! Remember, the first time you showed me all the books in your spare room?”

Hermione giggled and Ron sputtered out a protest. Harry glanced at Malfoy. His face was carefully blank.

Hermione and Malfoy picked up the thread of their conversation again, but the mood had shifted. This time, Harry’s eyes were uneasily fixed on Ron, who sat with his back ramrod straight, his mouth a firm, furious line. His knuckles were white around his tankard of mead.

From the mention of books, Hermione and Malfoy had deviated into the merits and failings of various wizarding libraries. Malfoy – a spark in his eyes that kept stealing Harry’s attention away from Ron – was extolling the virtues of a place called the Clementinum (Hermione considered it ostentatious and preferred the wizarding division of Chetham’s) when Ron slammed his tankard onto the table. Mead sloshed over their empty plates. Harry noticed a few faces flicker in their direction.

“I can’t do this,” Ron said abruptly. “You three can keep pretending this is normal, but I’m going home. Let me out, Hermione.”

Hermione’s mouth fell open. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m deadly serious,” Ron said. He sounded like he meant it. “Let me out.”

“No!”

Harry’s heart sank. In just five months, he’d witnessed enough fights between Ron and Hermione to be able to accurately identify which ones were going to end with an eye-roll and which ones were going to end with an explosion. He got the feeling that this was going to be the latter. He cast a quick Muffliato around their table. Malfoy’s eyes followed the movement.

“You’re going to stay here and support your best friend,” Hermione insisted.

“I’m heading home anyway,” Malfoy said smoothly, getting to his feet. “It was an unexpected pleasure talking to you, Granger.”

“Shut up and stay where you are,” Hermione snapped. To Harry’s great surprise, Malfoy sat down again immediately.

“Sorry,” Harry murmured to him. “I shouldn’t have invited you over.”

Malfoy shook his head and leaned towards Harry to reply, but Ron cut him off before he could speak. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this! Harry, mate, if you could remember what a shit he is, there’s no way you’d be seen dead at the same table as him.”

“Erm, hello?” Hermione snapped her fingers in front of Ron’s face; he swatted her hand away angrily. “I’m perfectly able to remember our history with Draco, thank you,” she said. “And I was having quite an enjoyable conversation with him before you started having your little tantrum.”

“Whatever rivalry we had at school – we were kids, Ron,” Harry reminded him.

“It wasn’t a rivalry,” Ron snarled. “I’m sick of pretending we just threw Dungbombs at each other across the Great Hall.” He looked Harry dead in the face. “He’s a Death Eater, Harry.”

Hermione inhaled sharply. Harry felt Malfoy stiffen on the bench next to him.

Harry met Ron’s gaze unflinchingly. “I know he was.”

Ron gaped. With his mouth open and his ears as red as they were, he looked like a fish with bright red fins. “And you’re all right with that?” he demanded.

Harry shrugged. “It was ten years ago. People change.”

“He doesn’t,” Ron insisted, pointing at Malfoy. “He’s only doing this because he likes having power over you. It’s all he ever wanted!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Harry snapped. “I’ve told you how embarrassing it is when Malfoy hears your stupid lies about him in my head, and now you’re doing it in person, too? He was dragged into the War when he was a kid, just like the rest of you.”

“Potter–”

“He wasn’t dragged into anything,” Ron said stoutly. “He loved it, he bragged about it constantly when he got the Mark–”

“That’s hardly fair, Ron, you know what happened during sixth year–”

“Not fair, Hermione?” Ron whirled on her. “Not fair? What’s not fair is that you’re letting Malfoy dig around in Harry’s head when Harry doesn’t know the full story. Just ’cos he can’t remember it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen! He’s sitting there defending him, talking like Malfoy was forced into it, but he wasn’t, was he?” At this, he turned his glare back to Malfoy. “You weren’t, were you? Nobody made you try to kill Dumbledore. Nobody made you let Greyback into Hogwarts so he could hack open my brother. Nobody made you sit there and watch while Hermione was tortured in your front room.”

Harry’s face was hot, but his insides went cold. “While Hermione was – what?” Hermione and Malfoy both avoided his eyes. “Draco?”

Ron smirked. “Talk yourself out of that one, Ferretface.”

“No,” Malfoy said simply. He stood. “I’m leaving. Thank you again for the invitation, Granger.”

Harry looked from Ron – red, triumphant – to Hermione – bright-eyed, angry – to Malfoy – politely blank. He made a snap decision. “I’m going with you,” he said to Malfoy. He stood too.

Malfoy grabbed Harry’s arm. “It’s fine,” Malfoy said. Harry stared at Malfoy’s fingers wrapped around his bicep. Malfoy let go quickly. Harry still felt the echo of his grip. “Really. I think you have some things to discuss with your friends.”

“I don’t think I do.” Harry glared at Ron, who gaped at them. “We’ve both heard enough of his dragonshit over the last month. I’m not sticking around to hear more.”

“It’s not dragonshit!”

“Night, Hermione,” Harry said over Ron’s objection. He stalked out of the pub without waiting for a response.

He leant against the brick wall of the Leaky Cauldron, his head tilted back, and let out a slow breath. Malfoy came to stand wordlessly beside him.

“I really am sorry,” Harry said to the darkening sky. “I was being selfish, inviting you over. I know you’ve heard that sort of thing hundreds of times in my stupid head, but you shouldn’t have to hear it in person.”

Malfoy leant against the wall next to Harry. Their arms touched, reigniting the sparks of heat on Harry’s cheeks that the evening air had begun to calm. Harry didn’t lift his head.

“He’s just being protective,” Malfoy said quietly. “He’s not saying anything that isn’t true.”

Harry scoffed.

“He’s being a dick about it, of course,” Malfoy allowed. “But that’s certainly not your fault. And besides …” A pause. Harry turned his head, watching Malfoy through his lashes. Malfoy was already looking at him. “I like that you wanted to invite me over.”

Malfoy’s eyes were molten silver. Perhaps it was just the habit of having to maintain eye contact with him during their sessions, but Harry couldn’t look away. If he were to cast Legilimens on Malfoy right now, what would he see?

“Do you want to come back to mine?” Harry asked impulsively. “You didn’t finish your drink. I have a bottle of Odgen’s at home.”

The orange-pink of the twilight sky lit up the small, sharp curve of Malfoy’s smile. His gaze dropped downwards, then back up again. A door slammed somewhere in the distance.

“Harry. I–”

“Harry?”

Harry stiffened at the stranger’s voice. He straightened. Striding up to them was a tall, thin man with an impressive handlebar moustache. He was entirely unfamiliar and was beaming at Harry.

“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you, old boy!” said the man. “The other board members and I think we’re about due another fundraiser – we were hoping to get an update on your schedule for the next few months.” The man paused, taking in Harry’s blank expression. “Ah – so sorry. Am I interrupting?” he asked, looking to Malfoy and back again.

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Not at all,” Malfoy said. “I’ll leave you to it. A pleasure to see you again, Mr Scuttleby.” He met Harry’s eyes meaningfully. “Do let me know when you decide on a date for the Mixed-blood Being Outreach Fundraiser, won’t you, Potter? I’ve always been impressed by your work with them. The ball last November was a wonderful night – I’ve never attended a more well-put together event. The fairy choir was a wonderful touch.”

Scuttleby puffed up. “Why, thank you very much, Mr…?”

“Malfoy,” Malfoy said.

“Oh.” Scuttleby’s voice lost all of its warmth.

Malfoy smiled tightly. “Well, goodnight,” he said. He nodded to Scuttleby, locked eyes with Harry for an intense, confusing moment, then Disapparated.

Chapter Text

Thanks to Malfoy’s not-so-subtle hints, Harry successfully bluffed his way through the conversation with Scuttleby. He was, however, not successful at keeping his temper. He left Scuttleby standing outside the Leaky Cauldron, cowed and confused. He didn’t regret it.

He spent the evening stewing at his kitchen table, resentfully knocking back the Odgen’s that Malfoy wasn’t sharing with him. He stumbled upstairs and stewed some more. The room spun.

When he finally slept, his dreams were disjointed, linked only by a muffled pounding noise – the sound of running feet, a fist on a pub table, someone thump-thump-thump-thumping at his front door. When he woke, he found that the pounding joined him in consciousness – his head throbbed with the echo of alcohol.

The hangover rekindled Harry’s ire from the night before. This was all Ron’s fault. How did he have the nerve? The things he accused Malfoy of – yes, Malfoy could be snappy, but Harry was certain he wasn’t evil. He’d got the Dark Mark when he was sixteen years old, not even of age. Where did Ron get off, blaming him for stuff Death Eaters did when Malfoy was a kid?

Fuelled by his fury, Harry stormed through his morning routine and arrived at Malfoy’s office thirty minutes early. Malfoy was already there, writing serenely in his notebook.

“Morning,” Harry grunted. He winced as the door slammed behind him.

“Good morning. Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“No.” Harry slumped into the wingback chair. The golden gleam of sunlight on Malfoy’s hair hurt his eyes.

“Scuttleby keep you for long last night?” Malfoy’s smirk belied the innocent tone of his question. “That man can talk. You fell asleep during his speech at the ball last November, you know.”

“I managed to get away after about fifteen minutes,” Harry groused. “No thanks to you.”

“I told you enough to get you through the conversation, didn’t I? Nothing else I could have done without a breach of confidentiality. If he had suspected you to be a patient of mine, he could have leaked it to the press. I abandoned you for your own good.” He didn’t look up from his notebook, cheerfully unapologetic.

“Well, you might be hearing from him anyway.” A spark of vicious pleasure lit up in Harry as he recalled his blistering words the night before. “There’s a chance that I mentioned your work in the field of Mind Magic. Something about how well-respected you are and how the Mixed-blood Being Outreach program could do worse than have someone like you as a patron.” He smirked. “Oh, and he might be sending you a personal owl of apology for being a dick to you, as well. Keep an eye out for that.”

Malfoy frowned, still scribbling away. “What are you talking about? He hasn’t been a dick to me.”

“Are you joking? The way he looked at you when you told him your name. I told him where he could shove his fundraiser – in slightly harsher words.”

Malfoy’s head jerked up. He stared at Harry.

“What?” Harry snapped.

“Nothing,” Malfoy said. He looked down at his quill as if surprised to see he was still holding it, then lay it carefully on the desk. “It’s just – It’s nothing.”

Harry’s anger, still simmering, flared. “You always do that.”

Malfoy blinked. “Do what?”

“Start to say something and then go all blank and tell me it’s not important.”

“I’m not – Harry.” Malfoy pressed his lips together.

“You’re doing it again! What are you keeping from me?”

“Forgive me. I…” He trailed off.

Harry waited for him to finish with narrowed eyes.

“I’m trying not to let my prior experiences with you affect our interactions,” Malfoy said eventually. “It’s unprofessional. I keep slipping up.”

The hot flame of Harry’s anger warped into something that felt suspiciously like hurt. Everyone had been so preoccupied with whether Harry could get along with Malfoy that it hadn’t occurred to him to wonder whether Malfoy was struggling to get along with him.

“I see,” he said bitterly. The pounding in his head seemed to intensify. “You’re constantly holding yourself back from hexing me, is that it?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “No! Absolutely not! That’s completely – That is to say…” He trailed off again, looking at Harry helplessly.

There was a rant building in the back of Harry’s throat. He felt no need to stifle it. “Well if it’s not that, then what? Have you been letting Ron get to you? You’re not stupid enough to think I’m on his side, are you? He had no right to talk to you like that.”

“No, it’s nothing to do with…” Harry had never seen Malfoy look so deeply uncomfortable. “But you shouldn’t – Really, Weasley is just speaking from his own experience. It’s not something you should be angry with him about.”

But Harry was on a roll. “And all that crap he was spewing last night – that you only agreed to work with me because you like having power over me!” He scoffed. “Absolute dragonshit.”

“He was right,” Malfoy said.

The rant died in Harry’s throat. He blinked, confused. He must have misheard. “What?”

“I like having power over you,” Malfoy said. His face was unreadable. “Not other patients. Just you. That’s precisely what I’m talking about.”

There was a swooping in Harry’s stomach. It wasn’t unpleasant. “Oh.”

“I’m not proud of it.” Malfoy lifted his chin. “But I won’t lie to you. Our shared history does mean that there’s a part of me that finds this arrangement … thrilling.”

“Is there.” Harry’s voice came out low.

There was heat in Malfoy’s cool gaze. “Harry.”

Right from the beginning, Harry had been fascinated by the mystery of Malfoy, had devoured every detail he could learn about him, but this was different. His pounding headache was suddenly almost audible in the silence of the room.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Malfoy cleared his throat and laced his fingers together. “Anyway. As I was saying. Weasley is just telling the truth as he knows it. There’s no need to be angry with him.”

The mention of last night’s argument was about the only thing that could have distracted Harry just then.

“Please,” he said scornfully. “There was nothing truthful about it. You don’t need to be noble about this, you know.”

He didn’t doubt that Malfoy had been a Death Eater – he’d seen the Mark with his own eyes, after all – but he did find it hard to imagine. The books he’d read about Voldemort and the Death Eaters painted them as black-cloaked thugs, shooting curses and torturing Muggles and blowing things up. He couldn’t imagine polished, professional Mind Healer Malfoy ever being so crass.

He said as much, and Malfoy frowned. “Well, I was a cowardly little shit. I didn’t do much of the raiding and cursing. I mainly just benefited from the” – he pulled a face – “the status of it all.”

“I knew it,” Harry crowed. “I knew Ron was exaggerating. All that nonsense about the headmaster – about Hermione–”

“Ah.” Malfoy paled. “Those … Those were true.”

Harry’s breath whooshed out of him. “What?”

It didn’t make sense. Malfoy had just said – he’d just said, hadn’t he, that he hadn’t done the raiding and the cursing. He hadn’t been a real Death Eater. Not a proper one. Not one that had – that had–

“You … killed the headmaster?”

Malfoy’s long fingers began to twist the silver ring around his thumb. “Not directly,” he said quietly. “But I let Death Eaters into Hogwarts, which led to Dumbledore dying, so in a way, yes. I killed him.”

“Oh.” The world tilted. Maybe Harry was still a little drunk. “And … what was Ron saying about his brother? Did you…? I mean … I know one of them died in the War.”

“It wasn’t that one,” Malfoy said quickly. “Although I suppose it could be argued that was my fault, too. If I hadn’t taken Crabbe and Goyle to the Room of Hidden Things, then maybe…” He winced. “Well. The incident Weasley was referring to last night was, I believe, a different one. His oldest brother. Bill.”

“Bill.” Harry had only met a couple of Ron’s brothers. He still hadn’t learned their names. “What did you … What happened to him?”

“It was the same night as – as Dumbledore. One of the Death Eaters I let into Hogwarts was called Fenrir Greyback. He attacked Bill.”

“Oh.”

Malfoy met his eyes. “Greyback was a werewolf.”

The world tilted again. Harry gripped the arms of his chair, suddenly worried he would fall out. “Fuck.”

“He wasn’t transformed at the time,” Malfoy said in a rush. “I don’t think he – I checked the Werewolf Register every week, the first few years after the War. But I know – I’ve heard – he still has the scars.”

Harry absorbed this slowly. “And Hermione. You … tortured her?”

“My aunt tortured her. But I was there. I didn’t try to stop it. I didn’t try to stop any of it.”

Harry searched Malfoy’s face, trying to see the truth, trying to see something Malfoy wasn’t telling him that would mean he hadn’t chosen to do those awful things. But his familiar grey eyes were unreadable.

Merlin, what if it was all true? What if Malfoy really was what Ron had been saying he was all along? Malfoy’s words tumbled through Harry’s head. I killed him. I was there. I didn’t try to stop it. Harry had defended Malfoy to Ron while Hermione was listening, right there. He felt like he’d been punched.

“Show me.”

“What?” Malfoy said, startled.

“Your memories of what you did. I want to see.”

Malfoy’s face shuttered. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s part of my past!”

“Tangentially; you weren’t actually there.”

“I still deserve to know!”

“You already know. I just told you. What could you possibly hope to gain by being exposed to it first-hand? No.”

Part of Harry knew he was being unreasonable, but he couldn’t stop. His face was hot, his skin prickling uncomfortably. He had been so sure that Malfoy had been a minor character in the story of the War, a side note, his inclusion barely more than a technicality. He had been so sure that Ron had been lying.

My aunt tortured her. I didn’t try to stop it.

“How do you expect me to trust you when you won’t let me see for myself what happened?” Harry demanded.

As Harry got angrier, Malfoy calmed. “Viewing things like that could set your recovery back months, and you don’t have months.” His gaze was cool, his earlier emotion gone. “You know what it’s like to experience a memory; it’s not like hearing or reading about it, it’s like you’re actually there. I wouldn’t show you even if you were fully recovered.”

“I can handle it,” Harry insisted. “I just need to know–”

“No.” Malfoy’s tone was cold, heavy with finality. “If you’re going to continue to insist then I suggest you leave.”

The world had turned upside-down. There was suddenly no other option. “Fine.” Harry stood. Fury seethed through him, fizzing under his skin with nowhere to go. Through a haze, Harry yanked out his wand and sent a hex spiralling towards the wingback chair. It shot backwards, the leather singed and smoking. It didn’t make Harry feel better. “Fine,” he repeated. “Then I’ll leave. Keep your stupid secrets, I don’t care. I should have known better than to work with a Death Eater, anyway.”

Harry caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s impassive expression splintering into shock before he stormed out of the office and slammed the door behind him.

Harry’s anger burned white hot until lunchtime. After hours of raging, he stopped destroying the unused bedrooms of Grimmauld Place for long enough to tear into the sandwiches Kreacher balefully presented him with. In the sudden breathless silence, his anger cooled, solidified, and eventually settled into thick regret that sat heavy on his chest.

He had been unreasonable. Of course he had. He’d been unreasonable to Ron, he’d been unreasonable to Hermione and he’d been unreasonable to Malfoy. He had been utterly convinced that Malfoy was innocent of any wrongdoing, despite what Malfoy himself had said – despite what any of them had said. To find out the details – to find out that it had involved Hermione, who had been a guiding light through the darkness of the last few months – it had felt like a personal betrayal. Even though it had been ten years ago. Even though Ron and Malfoy had both warned him.

This warped sense of grief was the only reason he could dredge up to explain his awful demand that morning. Of course Malfoy would never have shown Harry his memories of being a Death Eater. Harry was horrified that he’d even asked. Aside from anything else, it would have meant that Malfoy himself would have had to relive them. How could Harry have asked that of him? What had he been thinking?

He hadn’t been thinking at all. As much as he believed – and he did believe – that people could change, that they had all been much too young, when it came down to it, that hadn’t been enough.

Harry let his head fall back against the bedroom wall and groaned. God, what a mess. He needed to apologise to everyone – especially to Malfoy. He had to hope that if he grovelled enough, Malfoy would forgive him.

He trudged downstairs and made his own tea – a loose-leaf Earl Grey he’d picked up a fortnight ago – to the distant sound of Kreacher’s wails from one of the destroyed spare bedrooms. Harry winced. At least that apology would be easier – he’d learned on his first day that the way to Kreacher’s heart was the honour of a job that served the House of Black. Harry would get him to strengthen the protection charms around the fireplace or something. He’d be back to normal in no time.

Harry took his mug to the drawing room, inhaling absently, letting the smell of the tea calm him. He sat at the desk, laid out a parchment, quill and ink, and started to compose his apology.

By the evening, crumpled parchment covered the drawing room floor, Harry’s fingers were dotted with ink smudges in a way that tugged oddly at his chest, and he was no closer to finding the words he wanted.

The pounding in his head was back: a painful throbbing almost audible in its intensity. Harry vanished the parchment before Kreacher could see it and slumped back in his chair. This was useless. The Post Office would be closed in ten minutes, and still Harry had nothing.

He’d just have to go to St Mungo’s tomorrow and wing it. He’d get Malfoy to look inside his head and let his thoughts speak for themselves. That is, if Malfoy hadn’t told the St Mungo’s Welcome Witch to turn him away on sight.

The late hour and the rumbling in Harry’s stomach drove him to the kitchen. Kreacher had dinner ready – a slab of unspecified meat and cold mushy peas. Harry ate it without complaint, and made sure to mention how the protection charms on the fireplace could use refreshing. Kreacher’s snout-like nose twitched with interest, but he said nothing. Harry didn’t mind. He’d wear him down.

The evening dragged. Harry took himself to bed early for lack of anything better to do. Despite the inactivity of the day, he was wrung out. He had been so viciously angry then so wretchedly remorseful that he had no emotion left. Instead, his thoughts, only briefly distracted by dinner, drifted back to Malfoy.

He found himself idly recounting happier moments from their sessions. He remembered the way Malfoy’s eyes had lingered on his face when they had met for the first time. He remembered his first visit to Malfoy’s office, the way that Malfoy had gestured lazily to the wingback chair – the chair that Harry had come to think of as his. He remembered their duel, how surprised Harry had been, how much his blood had sung as they fought. He remembered how Malfoy had looked afterwards. His breathy laughter, his pink face, his ruffled hair.

There was a tightening in Harry’s groin. He looked down, shocked to find that he was already half-hard.

In the five months that Harry could remember, erections were not a problem he’d had to deal with. He would have almost been grateful if they were – the occasional wank would have helped break up the tedium of his repetitive days. But every explorative touch had been met with stout disinterest, and eventually Harry had stopped trying. Something to do with his memory loss, he assumed. It didn’t really bother him.

And yet, at this first sign that his libido might not be as absent as he’d thought, Harry found that his legs automatically parted. He didn’t need to think before his hand dipped into his underwear, wrapped around his cock and squeezed. He hissed at the contact – new, familiar, exciting. His other thumb hooked into the waistband of his pants and freed his dick from its confines. He bit his lip. His eyes fluttered closed.

Behind his eyelids was Malfoy. Harry shied away from the image, assuming it would be strange to think of him in such a context. But the snapshot of Malfoy after the duel – pink-cheeked and panting – persisted. The surroundings shifted. Suddenly, Harry pictured Malfoy sweaty and elated, not standing, grinning, framed by the large window in his office, but laid across Harry’s bed in the half-light of dusk, eyes lidded.

“Oh,” Harry breathed. Several things clunked into place in his mind. His hand tightened.

Other memories bubbled to the surface. Malfoy’s instructions in Harry’s first Legilimency session – “Focus on the feeling of me,” – were suddenly scorching. The words morphed from a gentle admonishment to an order breathed over the head of Harry’s dick while Malfoy’s fingers pressed inside him, worked him open.

Harry’s legs spread further.

Next reared the memory of Malfoy teaching him to secure the doors in his mind. “Nice and tight,” he had said. He was saying it again in Harry’s imagination, but he was gasping it, his body stretched above Harry’s, his soft hair stringy with sweat and his mouth open in pleasure as he pushed himself slow and deep, deep, deep inside Harry.

“I like having power over you,” Malfoy had admitted that very morning as his eyes had bored into Harry’s from the other side of the desk. But in Harry’s mind, the words were purred into Harry’s throat, Harry pinned to the office wall, his cock gripped in Malfoy’s long, sure fingers.

Harry groaned. The pressure built. His arm ached – he hadn’t done this for months, after all – and his head felt so, so hot. His mind was a rush of memories and fantasies and he couldn’t stop himself from fucking desperately into his fist, high, tight noises escaping him.

He wanted Malfoy. Fuck, he burned with it. He wanted to touch him, to fuck him, to be owned by him. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, a heavy thud-thud-thud-thud. God, he was close. In his mind, Malfoy leaned against the wall of the Leaky Cauldron next to him after their fight with Ron. In his mind, Malfoy dropped to his knees, right there in the alley, yanked open Harry’s robes and sucked his cock to the root. Harry imagined what it would be like to bury his hand in Malfoy’s hair. He imagined Malfoy looking up, his gaze locking with Harry’s. He imagined how it would feel if Malfoy cast Legilimens, their minds connecting while Malfoy’s hot, wet mouth slid down Harry’s cock.

The rolling waves crested and hot, white, blinding pleasure overwhelmed him. Harry came with a shout, his grip tight and his hips pumping and come shooting over his stomach, his chest, his face. It went on and on, convulsion after convulsion, until eventually Harry was left messy and empty and utterly, utterly confused.

Chapter Text

Harry did not sleep that night. After months of dormancy, his libido seemed to be making up for lost time. A mere fifteen minutes after his first explosive orgasm, he was hard and aching and ready to go again.

He tried to keep Malfoy out of his head. He thought of Ron’s sister, with whom he had apparently been in a relationship for years – but, having only met her once, he didn’t have much to draw on. He thought of the stranger in the Leaky Cauldron, the way his nose had crinkled when he’d smiled at Harry – but when Harry imagined kissing him, touching him, his soft features became pale and pointy, his dark eyes faded to grey.

By round four, Harry stopped trying to resist. He surrendered himself to cool Earl Grey memories and hot spiced fantasies. His arms and thighs and buttocks ached. His whole body dripped with sweat. He still couldn’t stop.

It didn’t feel like long before the yellow tinges of dawn began to paint the sky. Harry raised bleary eyes to the window and cursed. He’d already been nervous about apologising to Malfoy; the thought of having to do it after the night Harry had just had made his stomach churn like he’d swallowed a live pixie.

He dragged himself out of bed and stumbled straight to the shower. The shock of cold water was refreshing after his long, sweaty night. He scrubbed at his stomach and chest, allowing his heavy eyes to fall closed. He had tried, in his more lucid moments, to keep on top of the night’s grime, but there was only so much a Scourgify could fix.

After breakfast – wherein Kreacher made pointed comments about “nocturnal disturbances coming from Master’s bedroom” – Harry Apparated to St Mungo’s. He had grown accustomed to barging into Malfoy’s office without warning, any time between half past nine and half past ten. Today, he hovered in the corridor until ten o’clock sharp.

He knocked.

“Yes?”

Harry pushed open the door. As always, Malfoy was alone, behind his desk, writing in his journal. He lifted his head. His eyes widened.

“Harry,” he said blankly.

“Hi.” Harry closed the door behind himself and lingered on the threshold. There were pewter smudges under Malfoy’s eyes. He looked almost as tired as Harry felt.

“I didn’t expect to see you today,” Malfoy said carefully, putting down his quill.

“I’ll understand if you don’t want me here.”

“Not at all,” Malfoy said, and Harry’s heart sank. Malfoy noticed his reaction. “I mean,” he corrected quickly, “I don’t not want – You’re welcome to–” He huffed and gestured irritably to the wingback chair, which showed no signs of the abuse Harry had hurled at it yesterday. “Please, sit.”

Harry let out a shaky breath. He had been prepared to grovel, to beg Malfoy to take him back (and something new and dark at the back of his mind perked up at the thought of “Malfoy” and “begging”), yet Malfoy was inviting him in like nothing had happened.

Harry didn’t move.

“You were right,” he said. “I’m really sorry about yesterday.”

Malfoy blinked.

“About demanding to see your memories and calling you a Death Eater and storming out,” Harry clarified.

“I know what you meant,” Malfoy said. “I just didn’t – Well. It’s fine. Thank you for apologising, but I understand you must have been shocked. I had assumed that your friends had already made you aware of the details. I should have made sure. It was my mistake.”

Malfoy looked genuinely regretful, which was about the most stupid thing that Harry had ever seen. He shook his head vehemently. “You shouldn’t have had to mention it at all! And I certainly had no right to make such a fuss about it. You have no obligation to share personal details like that, you’re at work–”

His words, rather than helping, seemed to annoy Malfoy. “No, in this case, it was important that you knew. I should have known better than to make assumptions, especially in a situation as delicate as this–”

“Don’t be stupid, I was the one who made assumptions. You told me all along, right from our first meeting. If I had just paid attention–”

“And none of it would have been a problem if I hadn’t been foolish enough to join you at the pub–”

“That was my fault too,” Harry pointed out. “I shouldn’t have asked you, I was just being–”

“– selfish, I cannot believe how–”

“– was completely self-centred, I don’t know what I was–”

“– wasn’t thinking, entirely unprofessional–”

“– wouldn’t be surprised if–”

“– expected you to say that you–”

“– never wanted to see me again,” they said in unison.

Malfoy frowned at him. “What are you talking about, Potter?”

“What are you talking about, Malfoy?” Harry retorted, glaring.

Unexpectedly, the frown melted from Malfoy’s face, revealing a soft, almost awed expression that Harry couldn’t interpret.

“What?” he snapped.

Malfoy visibly shook himself. “Sorry. You reminded me of someone for a moment.”

Harry scowled. “Who?”

“You,” Malfoy said simply. Harry opened his mouth to tell Malfoy that he wasn’t making sense, but Malfoy cleared his throat and continued over him. “Anyway, it seems we agree that mistakes were made. I’m happy to put yesterday’s incident behind us if you are absolutely sure the particulars of my past will not impede your progress going forwards.”

“It won’t,” Harry said fiercely. “I told you, we were kids. I meant it. I was just – surprised.”

“Understandably,” Malfoy said. “And – about…” He faltered. “About the other thing.” At Harry’s blank expression, he continued, pained. “The discussion we had regarding … my feelings towards you in particular as a patient.”

I like having power over you. Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t need reminding. He’d been thinking about it all night.

“While I appreciate you coming back, I think you should consider working with another Mind Healer. It wouldn’t be ideal after the work we’ve done together, but I cannot in good conscience recommend continuing with me when I’ve proven that I – I cannot remain professional with you.”

The hot lick of desire that swept through him at Malfoy’s words was quickly tempered by the thought of having to replace him with another useless, toadying, arse-licking twat.

“Has your work with me been worse than it would have been with anyone else?” Harry demanded.

Malfoy frowned. “I – Well, no, I can’t say it has, but that’s not to say–”

“Do you honestly think I would be better off with some idiot who would waste the month I have left by going on and on about what a shame it is I can’t remember the glory of my victory against the forces of evil?”

Malfoy couldn’t deny that it might happen. He’d seen Harry’s memories.

“The point still stands…”

“Draco,” Harry said. “I’ve seen dozens of Healers. You’re the best one.”

A flush worked its way up Malfoy’s pale neck. “I…”

Harry waited, determinedly keeping his eyes away from Malfoy’s neckline, but Malfoy didn’t finish his sentence.

“I want to stay with you,” Harry said. “If you’ll take me.”

Malfoy made a strange noise and immediately looked embarrassed. “Well … I shan’t turn you away,” he said. The flush had climbed up to his cheekbones. “So, if – if you insist…”

“If you’re sure that I haven’t ruined everything by being a hot-headed dickbag.”

“Not at all.” A tentative smirk. “It was just like old times.”

Harry snorted, pleased. Malfoy was making fun of him again.

Malfoy gazed at him for a long moment, the suggestion of his smirk still lingering at the corners of his mouth. Then he straightened and laced his fingers together, suddenly all business. “Shall we get started with today’s session? I’d like to spend more time working with your earliest memories to test your recall.”

Harry sat in the wingback chair. The sky had begun to cloud over, snapshots of shadows breaking up the stretches of sun. Malfoy’s pale skin shifted from golden to grey, even as his expression remained stoic, unchanging.

“So. Are you ready to begin?”

Harry nodded, though truthfully he wasn’t sure. Malfoy’s ready acceptance of Harry’s apology had been so unexpected that Harry felt out of sorts. He was sure there had been something else he’d wanted to say, something he’d wanted to ask, but in the face of Malfoy’s acquiescence (and his easy flushes), it had quite gone from his mind.

Malfoy drew his wand. “All right,” he said. “On three, then.” Harry dragged his eyes up from Malfoy’s hand, from the way his long fingers wrapped around the wood. “One…” Malfoy’s gaze was as sharp and penetrating as ever, despite the heavy circles under his eyes. Harry felt an answering stab of tiredness throb through his aching limbs. “Two…” A shiver went down Harry’s spine as the sweet soreness of his body reawakened the memories of last night. Malfoy under him. Malfoy over him. Malfoy surrounding him. “Three…”

Fuck.

“Wait, stop!”

Malfoy lowered his wand. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Harry said, too quickly, too panicked.

Malfoy wasn’t fooled. “What is it? What can you see? Are you in pain?”

Harry shook his head rapidly. “No, no, nothing like that.” He fought to appear casual. “I just – I meant to ask – Can I use the Pensieve?”

Malfoy blinked. “What?” he said. “Why?” Harry’s heart stuttered, but Malfoy waved the question away before Harry could think of an excuse. “Sorry, don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. Please, by all means. It’s in the cupboard.”

Harry mumbled his thanks and skulked to the row of cupboards along the left wall. He couldn’t remember ever using a Pensieve – ever even seeing one – but he knew exactly what to do. He heaved the empty stone basin out of the cupboard and set it on the sideboard. He touched the tip of his wand to his temple.

“You know, putting resentful thoughts or doubts into a Pensive doesn’t remove the feelings behind them,” Malfoy said from the desk. “If you don’t trust me, you can’t put that aside. The Legilimency therapy won’t work.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.” Harry concentrated on the image of Malfoy on the bed under him, his head thrown back and his long fingers wrapped around his pink, straining cock. He pulled it from his mind and let it float into the basin.

“You also can’t unlearn facts by extracting the memories of when you learned them. You’ll remember the fact even if you don’t remember how you know it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Malfoy on his knees, looking at him with those blasted eyes, his mouth full. Malfoy kneeling above him, filth falling from his mouth, his fingers stretching Harry open. Malfoy’s hand in Harry’s hair, his hips thrusting mindlessly while Harry teased him with his tongue. Into the Pensieve.

By the time Harry was done, he was half-hard and flushed, but could no longer recall the specifics of his fantasies. He leant over the sideboard and called upon every trick Malfoy had taught him about controlling his thoughts to stop himself immediately filling the gaps with new suggestions. He visualised his mental space and made sure all his lingering feelings were shoved behind those four firmly locked doors. He breathed slowly for a long moment.

The quiet was soothing. Once his mind and body had settled, he turned around.

Malfoy frowned, but said nothing.

Harry sat back in the wingback chair. He hadn’t felt this nervous having Malfoy’s wand pointed at him since his very first session. His heart beat rapidly in his chest. Malfoy’s eyes met his. “Are you ready now?”

“One sec.” Harry closed his eyes and checked that his mental doors were still locked tight. They didn’t budge. “Okay,” he said, meeting Malfoy’s gaze. “I’m ready.”

“Three … two … one … Legilimens.”

By some glorious miracle, the doors remained closed, and Harry made it through two hours without a single errant thought slipping through. It took all his concentration, more than he’d ever had to use before. When Malfoy lifted his wand and waved Harry back towards the Pensieve to collect his memories, his feet dragged on the carpet, his movements clumsy.

Siphoning the memories back into his mind was another ordeal. By the time he was done, Harry was sweating, weak-kneed and desperately, desperately turned on.

“Are you all right?”

Harry fumbled the empty Pensieve back into the cupboard and didn’t look at Malfoy. “Yeah, ’course.” He closed the cupboard doors with too much force, winced and straightened. “I best be off,” he said, not turning around. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, sounding wrong-footed. “Tomorrow. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yep!” Harry said with forced cheerfulness. “Okay then! Bye!”

He stumbled out of the door and slammed it behind him before Malfoy had a chance to reply.

Since then, Harry’s Legilimency sessions abruptly stopped being enjoyable. Instead, they were tense and frustrating for both of them, and Harry often staggered out of Malfoy’s office grumpy, drained and achingly, achingly aroused.

It continued for a week, then two. Harry sent apologetic owls to Ron and Hermione, and they tentatively reconciled. Harry saw them every few days, sharing the occasional cuppa in their cottage, but he never stayed for long. He was still unsure whether he resented them for keeping things from him – and he still thought that Ron had been unreasonable, even if he had been telling the truth. Ron had waved away Harry’s apology, but thereafter firmly avoided any mention of Malfoy, loudly changing the subject if Hermione brought it up. As the Legilimency sessions were about the only thing Harry did, this meant there wasn’t much for them to talk about, anyway.

Untethered from his routine, Harry had taken to drifting alone around Muggle London. It was good to be out and about – and it was good to make lots of shiny new memories to distract Malfoy with during their sessions. So far, he hadn’t asked Harry to open any of his four mental doors. Harry intended to keep it that way.

But despite Harry’s attempts to get lost in the concrete maze of the city streets, his feet invariably took him to Charing Cross Road and the Muggle entrance to the Leaky Cauldron. The barman always welcomed him with a smile and ushered him to the booth Harry used to share with Ron and Hermione. Harry always ordered a drink and nursed it until closing time, practising his mental exercises for lack of anything better to do.

One such night found Harry staring into space, breathing deeply, working on strengthening his recollection of small details. He was thinking about Malfoy’s hands, trying to summon up the image of the emblem carved into the ring Malfoy wore on his thumb, when that exact hand – wearing that exact ring – waved in front of his face.

Harry yelped, sure for one wild moment that he’d magically manifested the subject of his musings.

“Where the fuck did you come from?” he demanded, glaring. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I said your name three times,” Malfoy said, amused. He gestured to the seat across from Harry. “Mind if I join you?”

Part of Harry wanted nothing more than an excuse to spend more time with Malfoy. The other, larger part of Harry knew it was a very bad idea.

“Sure,” he said.

Malfoy settled himself onto the bench. “I’m glad I bumped into you, actually,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you in a more casual setting, you know? Outside of the office.”

Harry quashed the butterflies that fluttered to life in his chest. “Oh?”

“Yes.” Malfoy leaned forwards. “It may be that it’s none of my business, so do feel free to tell me to fuck off. But you’ve been awfully distracted recently. Are you sure everything is okay?”

Harry flushed. “What do you mean?” he said quickly. “Everything is fine.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “I notice you’re sitting here alone, rather than accompanied by the unfortunate-haired power couple.”

“What? Oh, you mean Ron and Hermione?” It was a reasonable enough excuse. Harry tried to school his expression to one of regret. “No, I, er – I don’t see much of them any more.”

Malfoy frowned. “That’s not good.”

“Why not? You don’t like them.”

“What does that have to do with anything? They’re your friends. Why don’t you see them?”

Harry shrugged. “Not much to say to them, really. None of us want to get in any more fights, so we just sit there in silence whenever I go over. It’s better than arguing, I suppose.”

“Nonsense,” Malfoy sniffed. “Your new homework is to sort things out with them. First thing tomorrow.”

Harry laughed. “You can’t give me homework in a pub at six o’clock in the evening.”

“Absolutely I can,” Malfoy said loftily. “Especially when you didn’t tell me before now that you abandoned your support network at a key stage in your recovery.”

That caught Harry’s attention. “You think I’m at a key stage?”

Malfoy waved a hand. “The entire last two months has been a key stage,” he said. “Anything after the first week was a key stage. There’s no good time to heroically go it alone.”

“Especially now I only have a few weeks until it’s been six months.” Harry had been trying not to think about it. It had helped that thoughts of Malfoy had been occupying most of his brainpower. But there was no denying it: time was running out.

Malfoy splayed his hand on the table. Harry stared at it. “Listen,” Malfoy said. “Do not preoccupy yourself with the time limit.”

“How can I not be preoccupied with it? Nobody has ever recovered their memory after six months, Brisley said.”

“No,” Malfoy allowed, “but there’s still more than enough time. If you place too much weight on it, it will hold you back. Do you hear me?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, dragging his eyes up to Malfoy’s solemn face. “Sure, yeah, of course.”

“There would be other signs if you were approaching any sort of deadline,” Malfoy continued. “Changes in your thought patterns, your physiology. So don’t worry about it.”

Harry remembered the sudden appearance of his first erection in months. He opened his mouth, then remembered exactly what thoughts had prompted said erection. He closed his mouth again.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked abruptly.

Malfoy hesitated, then nodded. Harry drained the last of his ale and got in another round.

The next few hours were … really nice. The buzz of the alcohol and the novelty of being around Malfoy and not being desperately afraid he would see anything untoward in Harry’s head lifted Harry’s spirits. He found himself smiling and laughing in a way he hadn’t done for weeks. Malfoy’s leg was touching Harry’s under the table and he looked pink and pleased every time Harry laughed at one of his jokes, and eventually Harry had unwound enough to take a deep breath and say, “So, erm. I wanted to ask you something.”

Malfoy lowered his glass. “Oh?”

“It’s a memory thing,” Harry clarified, gesturing at his head. “Sorry. I get it if you don’t want to talk about work.”

“No, it’s fine,” Malfoy said. He moved his leg away from Harry’s. Harry mourned the loss of it immediately. “What is it?”

“Okay. Erm.” Harry took another fortifying drink. “The reason I started using the Pensieve isn’t because I’m trying to hide resentful feelings towards you or anything,” he said in a rush. “It’s because before two weeks ago I didn’t have any kind of sex drive and all of a sudden it came back and I didn’t want you to see what I was – what I was, er. How I was dealing with that.”

Malfoy knocked over his glass. Nettle wine splashed over the table, soaking the paper menus and spilling onto their laps. Malfoy yelped and fumbled for his wand to vanish the mess. Harry laughed, dizzyingly grateful for the distraction.

“Sorry,” Malfoy said, his face bright pink. “Well. I see. That’s … You said you had a question?”

“Yeah.” It was easier now he’d got the worst out of the way. “You said earlier that if I were approaching the time limit, I’d see some changes. Is that the sort of thing you meant? Is it a bad sign?”

Malfoy had clawed back some of his professional veneer, but his edges were blurred by alcohol, by embarrassment. “Not necessarily,” he hedged. His gaze darted back and forth between Harry’s eyes, to his mouth, back up again. “Potentially, it could mean that the barrier holding back your memories is weakening. That some aspect of your old self is leaking through. That would be a good thing, of course.”

“‘Potentially’?” Harry repeated.

Malfoy winced. “Yes.” Hair fell into his eyes. He didn’t brush it away. “It could also mean that your mind is settling into its new state,” he said softly. “It may have stopped fighting to regain your memories and is beginning to look forwards rather than back.”

“Ah. That wouldn’t be great, would it?”

“Not ideal, no.” Malfoy hesitated. “But, honestly, it might mean nothing so significant. It could just be that you’ve recently been – so inspired, as it were.”

“Huh?”

Malfoy’s face flickered. “That something happened to make you feel such a way. If you’ve met someone you find attractive, for example. Or if you have found yourself in an intimate situation for the first time.”

Harry was absolutely going to revisit the memory of the phrase “intimate situation” rolling out of Malfoy’s mouth. He swallowed.

“And there’s no way of knowing which it is?”

“Not for certain.”

Under normal circumstances, Harry was sure he’d be preoccupied with his mind potentially settling without his memories. Malfoy had told him not to think about it, but it was hard to avoid: the six-month deadline was less than three weeks away; it wasn’t unlikely that Harry had reached the point of no return. Under normal circumstances, he was sure the thought of having to live without his memory forever would be gut-wrenching.

But, a couple of drinks in, Malfoy across the table from him looking soft and smudged and flustered, it didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

Harry hummed and changed the subject, but Malfoy’s face remained clouded. Harry was distracted himself; his eyes caught on the way Malfoy’s hair kept falling out of place, the way his long fingers wrapped around the stem of his empty wine glass, the way his teeth absently chewed at his lower lip. Malfoy’s leg bumped against Harry’s again and Harry completely forgot the ending to the story he’d been telling. He trailed off and laughed awkwardly. Malfoy smiled.

The end of the night drew closer, and eventually the pub started clearing significantly enough that it was obvious it was time to leave. Harry didn’t want the night to end, and took his time straightening the still-damp menus and brushing imaginary crumbs from the table once they had stood to go.

Malfoy waited while Harry dawdled, a steady presence by Harry’s side, not touching but close enough that Harry could have reached out if he wanted. If he dared.

Malfoy stayed close as they left the pub and lingered outside the door. It was the moment where one of them should have announced that they were heading home, that they’d see each other tomorrow, but Harry certainly wasn’t going to be the one to initiate their parting.

He was reminded of the last time they’d left the pub together. Leaning against the wall, hot anger chased away by Malfoy’s lazy smile, the sharp curve of it painted peach by the sunset. Harry had asked if Malfoy had wanted to come home with him that night. They had been interrupted before Malfoy had had a chance to reply. If Harry asked now, what would Malfoy say? Now Harry knew what he’d really been asking, what it was he’d really wanted, could he do it again?

He didn’t get a chance to find out.

“Excuse me, sorry,” came a young voice. “You’re Harry Potter, right?”

Harry scowled, and opened his mouth to refuse, but Malfoy answered for him.

“Yes, he is.” His voice was perfectly polite, his back suddenly ramrod straight. Harry hated it. “I should get going.”

“No,” Harry snarled. Scuttleby had chased Malfoy off last time. Harry wasn’t going to let it happen again.

He looked accusingly at whoever had spoken, ready to tell them he was busy, and was disconcerted to find himself glaring at a teenage girl. She couldn’t be more than seventeen – her large eyes were set in a round face dotted with freckles.

It was the freckles that made Harry hesitate. That and her expression.

“You probably don’t remember me,” she said. Harry wanted to laugh. “We met last year. In Hogsmeade? I was the one who was, er … Well, I was hiding round the back of the Hog’s Head. Crying.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” she said, and grimaced. “Anyway, I know I thanked you then, but I just wanted to say … talking to you really changed my life, you know? The stuff you said about how you grew up, your family and all of that, it really helped me to get out of the situation I was in. I know you probably get this a lot, but I’ll never forget what you did. Really. Thank you so much.”

Harry couldn’t speak. When he hadn’t been gazing at Malfoy, distracted by thoughts of hot mouths and pale skin, he had spent the evening convincing himself that he didn’t mind if his memories never returned. He’d have to come clean to the press, and it would be a bit of a pain relearning everything he used to know, but it wouldn’t be so bad. He’d make it work. It might even be nice, starting afresh.

But now, faced with this girl, he felt uneasy. She said she didn’t expect him to remember, but Harry was sure that if he still had his memory, he’d know exactly who she was. He was sure he’d be able to talk to her, to ask specifics about her situation, to say something meaningful – to say anything at all.

Harry glanced at Malfoy, but Malfoy was silent, his face shuttered. This wasn’t something he could help with. This was something that only Harry’s lost memories could help with. He looked back to the girl helplessly.

“Well,” she said, shuffling her feet, “that was all, really. I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

“No.” The word slipped out involuntarily and now Harry had to say something. “I … Thank you for telling me,” he said sincerely. “Really. It means a lot. I’m so glad things are better for you now.”

She smiled. “They really are, you know. It’s crazy how much can change in such a short space of time.”

“Yeah.” Harry knew only too well.

“Anyway, thanks again, Mr Potter. I’ll let you get on.” She gave a little wave and dashed off to join her friends, who had been waiting for her. One of them put their arm around her waist. She looked back at Harry and grinned.

“Well. That must have been nice to hear.”

Harry shook himself. “Not really,” he said, still staring at the backs of the retreating group. “She was right, I don’t remember a thing about her.”

Malfoy said something else, his voice slipping neatly back into the soft, distant, understanding tones of Mind Healer Malfoy, but Harry wasn’t listening.

"I think I’m gonna head home,” Harry said. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

He smiled vaguely at Malfoy, not really seeing him, and Disapparated.

Chapter Text

The fresh torture of the Legilimency sessions continued. The Aurors had a new lead on Harry’s case, which turned out to be another dead end. Harry’s dreams about Malfoy intensified with every passing night. There were exactly two weeks left until the six-month anniversary of Harry’s memory loss. After Harry’s chat with the girl outside the Leaky Cauldron, his desire to regain his memories had doubled.

“Stop thinking about it,” Malfoy insisted, his disapproval rolling over Harry in cinnamon-spiced waves.

A throb of panic pulsed through Harry before he realised that Malfoy was referring to the looming deadline.

“I’m not thinking about it,” he lied. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

Malfoy tutted. “Concentrate on something else. Picture your mental space. I think you’re ready to revisit your memories of your trip to Hogwarts.”

Since their conversation in the pub and Harry’s distracted exit afterwards, Malfoy avoided Harry’s eyes in the morning until Harry had finished siphoning his memories into the Pensieve. It was much worse than before, having Malfoy know why Harry had to lean heavily on the sideboard for a few minutes to recover. Harry’s face always flamed as he turned around. Malfoy always had a matching flush lingering above his collar.

At least Malfoy still hadn’t figured out the rest of it: that he was the reason for Harry’s – how had Malfoy put it? – changes in physiology. Or rather, he hadn’t yet. Even as Harry settled into his new routine – pour his thoughts into the Pensieve, lock the lingering feelings away in his head, sit in the wingback chair, check the four doors were still firmly closed, finally make eye contact – it was getting more and more difficult to keep his feelings a secret.

The first time Malfoy had asked to revisit Harry’s mental space, Harry had panicked and shoved Malfoy out of his head. Malfoy had blinked at him, shocked, and Harry had blurted something about needing the bathroom and had dashed from the room. He’d sat in the stairwell, heels of his palms pressed against his eyes, and had fought to stuff his desperate longing for Malfoy behind just one of the doors in his mind, rather than split between all four of them. The door had been reluctant to close, annoyingly disobedient for something that was literally a figment of Harry’s imagination, but Harry had managed it. He’d returned to Malfoy’s office feeling sick, his fingernails digging half-moon grooves into his palms. The door had shuddered when Malfoy’s consciousness flowed into the circular stone room of Harry’s mental space, but it had held.

Harry may have been able to – barely – keep his thoughts locked away, but found he had somewhat less control over his actions. He couldn’t stop his eyes from lingering, couldn’t stop the shiver of pleasure that crept over him when Malfoy slid into his head, couldn’t stop himself from making unthinkingly flirtatious remarks when Malfoy said something that Harry’s overworked brain interpreted as vaguely suggestive. Sometimes on those occasions, Malfoy would retort, smirking, his eyes dark and hot and full of promise. But then he’d remember himself, would clear his throat and lace his fingers together like a cage to keep Harry out, and continue with the session as if nothing had happened.

The evenings he spent at the Leaky Cauldron added to his torture. Malfoy had taken to joining him, smoothly filling the vacant seat that Ron and Hermione had left. There was a strange feeling of reluctance, of compulsion, from both of them, like they knew that spending time together outside of the office was a bad idea, but neither of them were able to resist.

Harry certainly tried. After Wednesday’s session, he strode determinedly northwards from St Mungo’s, dodging through Muggle tourists in Camden Market and climbing to the top of Primrose Hill, an hour’s walk from the Leaky Cauldron. He sat on the grass, the smells of Muggle summer picnics – tins of Pimm’s, M&S sandwiches and messily-rolled joints – drifting from the laughing people scattered around him. He ignored them and gazed over London, his eyes trying to pick out the grey-brick roof of the hospital, the familiar landmarks that surrounded the pub. He stayed there until the rumble of rush hour traffic built, then died. By the time a distant church bell rang eight o’clock, Harry was sure he’d managed to stay away. He was proud of himself.

He should probably check that Malfoy wasn’t there waiting for him, though. It would be rude not to drop in, just to give his apologies. Harry owed him that much.

Suddenly overcome with urgency, Harry barely made it off the hill and to a quiet street before he Apparated into the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron, only to stumble straight into Malfoy, who was peering through the grimy window into the pub. He straightened guiltily.

“Harry! I didn’t – So sorry I didn’t stop by earlier – I was just checking to see if you were here so I could apologise.”

“I was doing the exact same thing,” Harry said quickly. “I didn’t come here to stay, I just wanted to make sure you weren’t – I mean, I didn’t want you to think…”

“No, not at all,” Malfoy said.

“No,” Harry agreed.

A breath. Then two. Then – “So, since we’re here,” Harry said, the words spilling from him without his permission. “Fancy a drink?”

After that, Harry stopped trying to resist. He’d rather be in a pub, warm and welcome, than digging his fingers into the dirt of Primrose Hill to keep himself away from the Leaky Cauldron, from Malfoy.

Saturday saw him at his usual table from lunchtime, the weekend crowds of Muggle shoppers too much for his weary brain to handle. Malfoy joined him mid-afternoon – much earlier than normal – yanking Harry guiltily from his idle contemplation of exactly what noises Malfoy would make if Harry were to slowly kiss his way down the clean lines of Malfoy’s neck.

“I finish early on Saturdays,” Malfoy explained at Harry’s panicked look. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Harry said automatically.

“Good.” Malfoy smiled at Harry in a warm, affectionate way that made Harry’s insides feel like they had turned entirely to liquid.

Malfoy lost his professional formality quicker each time they met outside of the office. This time, it was barely ten minutes before he was laughing, his limbs long and loose, practically lounging in his seat. His leg pressed against Harry’s under the table. Harry could barely stand it.

The dinner crowd came and went and the pub settled into mellow evening chatter. Harry had held up surprisingly well, he thought, but for the last hour, he had spent much more time staring than talking. Every now and then, Malfoy would meet his eyes and abruptly fall silent. Each time, warmth would pool in Harry’s stomach – then Malfoy would look away and continue as if nothing had happened, delivering wry observations in a voice slightly huskier than usual.

Harry found himself wildly wishing that Malfoy would use Legilimency on him, right there in the pub, so Malfoy could see exactly what Harry was thinking. It took all of Harry’s energy to keep the door in his head locked and it was getting more and more difficult; he’d only be able to hold it together for so much longer. It was a miracle that Malfoy hadn’t figured it out already.

Unless…

Unless Malfoy already knew, and was too polite to say anything.

That would be just like him, wouldn’t it? Always hiding his thoughts behind that impassive mask, keeping a careful distance.

And if he knew already – which, Harry realised with a sudden cold certainty, he must do; Harry’s mental control had always been awful and Malfoy was a genius – why was Harry putting all this effort into hiding it? Keeping his thoughts locked away while Malfoy was in his head was exhausting. Siphoning an ever-growing collection of fantasies into the Pensieve every morning was exhausting. And pouring them back into his head at the end of the sessions never failed to give him a hard-on so immediate and aching that he had to limp to the St Mungo’s Apparition Point to get home again.

And if Harry’s time limit was approaching, if his mind was beginning to settle without his memories, surely he shouldn’t be throwing up barriers and concealing things from his Mind Healer. Surely he should be able to focus his full attention on strengthening his control and seeking out what he had lost.

Yes, Harry decided, gazing at Malfoy’s bottom lip and desperately wanting to bite it. Malfoy definitely already knew. Harry just needed to put all his cards on the table, then they could both stop pretending and Harry could relax.

And maybe, Harry thought wildly – maybe if he said something, Malfoy might want him too.

“There’s part of me that finds this arrangement thrilling,” he had said.

“I like that you wanted to invite me over,” he had said.

“I cannot remain professional with you,” he had said.

Harry cast a quick Muffliato around their table.

“Draco.”

Malfoy had already stopped talking. He was watching Harry watch him. “Mm?”

“Remember when I said that my sex drive came back?”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. He put his drink down slowly. “I remember.”

“I meant, specifically, that I want…” It was much harder to say than he’d thought it would be. Malfoy definitely already knew, Harry reminded himself. Malfoy already knew, and he was already looking at Harry like that. He had already been looking at him like that – albeit hastily hidden every time – for weeks. “I want…”

Malfoy exhaled shakily. “You want … what?”

Harry dragged his gaze up to look Malfoy dead in the eye. “I want you,” he said.

Malfoy’s face went blank – not in the usual careful way where he withdrew behind a veneer of polite professionalism. No, he looked as if all his emotions had been shocked out of him.

“I still have some of that Odgen’s left at home.” Harry’s heart was thumping madly. “Do you want to come back to mine?”

“I…” Another shaky breath. “Merlin, I…” His eyes darted over Harry’s face. “Harry. Merlin. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

That wasn’t a “no”.

Harry tried to keep his voice casual. “Because of our history? Because we didn’t like each other when we were twelve?”

“You know it was rather more complex than that.”

“Who cares?”

Malfoy made a strangled sound that might have been a laugh.

“Really, though,” Harry continued, “who cares? I don’t care.” Malfoy was silent for long enough that Harry felt the need to ask, “Unless … you don’t want to?”

Malfoy’s blank face twisted. “That’s irrelevant.”

“I think it’s relevant,” Harry said.

God, the way Malfoy was looking at him. Harry had always felt pinned by his gaze, right from the beginning, but this was something else entirely. How could something that was usually cool and piercing send such scorching flames licking over him? Harry could barely breathe.

“Draco,” Harry growled.

Malfoy made a noise in the back of his throat. He didn’t look away. “I – I’m your Healer. It would be taking advantage.”

“You’re not a Healer, you said.”

“Even so.”

“How would it be taking advantage? We’re both adults. I’m not vulnerable. I just forgot a few things.”

“People would say I planted the idea in your head.”

Harry frowned. “Is that possible?”

“No. But people would say it anyway.”

Harry couldn’t tell whether Malfoy had known or not. Was he just surprised Harry had been bold enough to say something? Harry found he didn’t care. Either way, he was glad Malfoy knew now. He was glad he’d brought it up.

And Malfoy wasn’t saying no.

And the way he was looking at Harry was hot, raw.

But Harry wanted it too much to trust his own judgement.

“Do you want me to back off?”

Malfoy opened his mouth. Closed it again. “Resisting temptation is not a skill of mine,” he said eventually.

Harry turned the words over in his head. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I … If I were a better person, I would leave.”

Neither of them moved. The air was thick.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Harry said. “But I can change the subject.”

“I don’t want you to change the subject.”

Harry’s breath caught. It still wasn’t the admission he wanted.

“I just…” Malfoy shook his head, his eyes still fixed on Harry’s. “We’ve been drinking. It would be easy to say something we’d regret.”

“You think I’ve been going to the pub five times a week since February and two drinks all afternoon could have knocked me senseless?” Harry nodded to Malfoy’s wine glass. “And you’ve barely touched yours. You never do.”

“I…” Malfoy looked helplessly at his mostly-full glass. His expression was hard to read, but he didn’t look happy.

Harry’s heart clenched. “Forget I said anything,” he said abruptly. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t’ve … What, er – What do you think about the Magpies’ chances against the Tornados on Saturday?”

Malfoy made a helpless noise. “You can’t just say something like that and then change the subject! Merlin, your impulse control is shocking, I can’t believe…” He narrowed his eyes and pointed accusingly at Harry. “How long do you wait between having a thought and immediately blurting it out?” he demanded. “Five seconds? Ten?”

Harry laughed. It came out strained. “Longer than ten seconds,” he assured Malfoy. “I’ve barely thought about anything else all afternoon.”

“You managed a few hours then?” Malfoy’s tone was derisive, but he seemed mildly mollified. “I’m impressed.”

Harry’s eyes lingered on the flush that had worked itself up Malfoy’s neck. That precise shade of delicate pink was rapidly becoming Harry’s favourite colour. “Did you really not know?”

The flush deepened. “Well, I noticed you were staring a bit, this last hour,” Malfoy admitted. “I thought you were just dozy from the drink.”

Harry waved a hand. “Not tonight. Before.”

“What do you mean, before?”

“God, Draco,” Harry said. He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I’ve wanted you for weeks. Longer, maybe.” He remembered the time he’d invited Malfoy back to Grimmauld Place, the way he’d wanted to spend more time with him but hadn’t quite understood why. He remembered the way the dark-eyed stranger had intrigued Harry, until he’d noticed Malfoy and everything else had fallen away. He remembered the pull towards Malfoy, the desperate urge to be closer, when he was lit up and breathless after their duel. Harry might not have realised at the time, but he had wanted Malfoy from the beginning.

“You’re lying,” Malfoy said, staring.

“I’m not,” Harry said. “What do you think I’m scraping into the Pensieve every morning?”

“But even with the Pensieve, I would have seen something. The mental control that would take…”

Harry smirked. “Well, I had an incredible teacher.”

Malfoy’s pupils visibly dilated at the praise. Pleasure tingled through to the end of Harry’s fingertips.

“So?”

Malfoy still looked dazed. “You can’t possibly have hidden something like this,” he insisted. “That’s advanced Occlumency. This isn’t – This really isn’t the sort of conversation we should be having on a whim.”

Harry gaped. Did Malfoy still believe this was a passing fancy fuelled by moonshine? Did he think Harry didn’t really mean it?

“Use Legilimency on me,” he blurted.

Malfoy’s dark eyes widened. “What?”

“Right now.” Harry straightened, convinced his idea was brilliant. “Look at what I’m thinking right now and tell me I haven’t wanted you for weeks.”

Malfoy grabbed his wand almost instinctively. He made no move to cast. “I shouldn’t.” He swallowed. “The environment, it’s not ideal, we don’t know how your mind might react–”

“We’re in a quiet room having a private conversation; this is exactly the same as usual,” Harry said. “You want to know if I mean it? Take a look.” He sat back and spread his arms, watching Malfoy through his lashes.

Malfoy’s eyes roved over him. “It would be a – violation.”

“Not if I ask for it.”

Malfoy swore softly.

Harry waited, his heart thumping. “Do you want to?”

Malfoy didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“God.” Harry was so warm. “Do it. I want you to see.”

Slowly, Malfoy pointed his wand at Harry. Despite his flushed cheeks and his shallow breathing, his hand was steady. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“God,” Harry said. He locked eyes with Malfoy. “Yes.”

“I can’t believe I’m doing this. Are you ready? Legilimens.”

The touch of Malfoy’s mind on his was a familiar cool caress. Harry’s breath caught at the intimacy of it. He’d been wrong; it wasn’t the same as usual. Doing this, opening himself up to Malfoy in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron, the barman wiping down tables not ten feet away – it was almost exhibitionist. He shivered. Malfoy made a small noise of dismay.

“What? What did you see?”

Malfoy shook his head, those eyes pinning Harry to his chair. “Just – flashes of thought. Nothing visual.”

“What was the thought?” He wanted to hear Malfoy say it.

Malfoy cleared his throat. “It’s not uncommon to consider a repeated Legilimency connection to be an intimate experience,” he said, visibly struggling to summon his usual professional manner.

“So I’m nothing special?”

Malfoy’s expression softened. “I didn’t say that. Harry–”

Harry concentrated, and the Leaky Cauldron vanished, replaced by his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. Harry was stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

“This was after I stormed out,” he said. He could almost hear the echo of the pounding headache he’d had. “I tried to write to you all afternoon, but I couldn’t figure out what to say.” Malfoy’s presence shifted inside his head. A waft of Earl Grey. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

As they watched, the Harry in front of them lifted his head and looked down in surprise. His right hand reached down and tentatively squeezed his cock through his pants.

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Harry–”

“Shh.” Harry’s heart was pounding. “Watch.”

The Harry in front of them slid his hand inside his underwear and pulled out his hardening dick. Malfoy made a quiet noise that could have been described as a whimper. The Harry on the bed bit his lip and dropped his head back to the pillow. His eyes closed.

“Want to know what I was thinking?”

“Fuck,” Malfoy murmured. Harry took that as a yes.

“Focus on the feeling of me,” came Malfoy’s voice. The visuals followed: Harry still lying on the bed, his dick hard and pink and straining. An imaginary Malfoy knelt over him, his mouth inches from Harry’s erection, his fingers pushing into Harry’s hole, stretching him, getting him ready. Harry’s hips twitched, seeking Malfoy’s mouth. Malfoy smirked and licked a stripe up Harry’s cock, root to tip. With Legilimency, the image was so vivid – so much more vivid than normal – that Harry almost felt it.

“Mother of Merlin,” the real Malfoy breathed.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“God. No.”

He showed Malfoy the next fantasy, and the next, and the next. He showed Malfoy how Harry had touched himself all night, unable to stop, unable to get Malfoy out of his head. He showed Malfoy how Harry painstakingly scraped his mind into the Pensieve at the beginning of every session, how he strained to keep his mental doors closed, how putting his fantasies back into his head was like reliving them all over again, how he Apparated home every day and immediately got himself off. How he’d been sure that Malfoy must have known. How Harry wanted – how he wanted–

Malfoy ended the spell.

“Fuck.” He was looking at Harry in an entirely new way, his eyes fixed on Harry’s mouth. Harry was finding it hard to breathe.

“Yes,” Harry said. “If you want to.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, and a thrill went through Harry, head to toe.

Malfoy took a shaky breath. “Merlin, I can’t believe – your mental control really has improved tremendously. You didn’t – deviate from the theme once. That’s – That’s good.” The dichotomy of the formal words spilling from his mouth while he looked at Harry with such dark, hot intensity made Harry, impossibly, even harder.

“Turns out I just needed a passion for the subject.”

“Is that so.” Malfoy’s voice was low, velvety. Harry licked his lips. Malfoy’s tongue slid out to mimic him.

They gazed at each other for a long, tense moment.

“Draco,” Harry said. “Do you want to get out of here?”

A flash of need – Harry was sure it was need – passed over Malfoy’s face, but he shook his head, not taking his eyes off Harry. “We can’t.”

“Because you don’t want to?”

“Because it wouldn’t be right.“

Harry raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t understand,” he said, his voice strained. “Do you want this, or don’t you?”

Malfoy gazed at him helplessly.

“Have you thought about it?” Harry demanded. “Me and you?”

“Harry…”

“Have you?”

Malfoy swallowed. Licked his lips again. Nodded.

Harry’s breath hissed out of him. “Show me.” It wasn’t a question.

“Is now really the time? I’m hard as a fucking rock. I’m not going to be able to stand up as it is.”

“Fuck.” Fuck. “You can’t just say things like – Show me. I want to see.” Harry reached a hand across the table. It was the second time he had demanded to see Malfoy’s thoughts. He had been refused last time. “Please. Draco. Please.”

“Merlin,” Malfoy said. He didn’t take Harry’s outstretched hand. “Fuck. Yes. Okay. I’ll show you. But no matter what I – Nothing can happen. I stand by that. We can’t – act on anything. Okay?” He waited for Harry to nod before raising his wand. “Cast your Shield.”

Harry’s heart raced. His every muscle was tense. But when he fell forwards into Malfoy’s mind, he found himself in the empty high-ceilinged room that was Malfoy’s private mental space. The rows of white doors that lined the walls were all closed. It was quiet, serene. A spring morning in a stately home.

Malfoy stood next to him. His eyes were dark and fixed on Harry, even inside his own head.

“I don’t understand.” Shame began to creep up Harry’s spine. Was Malfoy mocking him?

Malfoy didn’t say anything. Slowly, he raised his hand. Harry watched, confused. Malfoy clicked his fingers.

Every single door slammed open. A dark, swirling vortex burst out of each one like the sea gushing into a sinking ship. The room filled quickly, the white walls vanishing beneath the maelstrom of noise and colour. Harry drew his wand instinctively, defensive spells already on his lips, but he and Malfoy were untouched by the deluge. Malfoy was still looking at him.

“Take your pick,” he said softly, gesturing around them.

Harry straightened slowly and looked around. Were these Malfoy’s memories? His thoughts? A flicker of candlelight on his left caught his attention; as he looked closer, he was yanked sideways into the memory.

He and Malfoy were in the Leaky Cauldron. They were, in fact, at the very table they were actually sitting at, the barman still scrubbing away ten feet to their right. Neither Harry nor Malfoy were doing anything – they just stared at each other. Again, Harry was confused. Was he living the present moment through Malfoy’s perception?

Then Harry saw himself lean over and grab the back of Malfoy’s neck, dragging him over the table into a bruising kiss. Malfoy clutched at Harry’s jaw, tilting his head, and Harry whimpered into Malfoy’s mouth. The table between them was too big, and Harry watched as he rose and climbed over it – his tankard falling to the floor – to straddle Malfoy’s lap. There were sputters of protest from the other patrons, but neither Harry nor Malfoy cared; they devoured each other, hands clinging and nails scraping and bodies rolling against one another.

The scene shifted. Harry’s eyes caught Malfoy immediately – how could they not – but it took him a moment to identify himself. He was dressed in Auror robes, and was shoving a smirking Malfoy against the wall of a bedroom he didn’t recognise. Malfoy lifted his chin imperiously and Harry growled and tore open Malfoy’s trousers. Malfoy jerked his hips and Harry dove his hand inside Malfoy’s underwear. Another growl, and Harry surged forwards, dipping his head to kiss and bite and suck at Malfoy’s neck. Malfoy moaned and tipped his head to the side. He dug his fingers into Harry’s hair, holding him in place.

A throbbing beat later, they were in Malfoy’s office. Malfoy was sprawled in his chair, his quill in his hand. Harry was on his knees under the desk. Malfoy’s cock – Malfoy’s cock, fuck – was slowly disappearing between Harry’s lips. Harry’s eyes – they didn’t look like that in real life, surely – were fixed on Malfoy’s. Malfoy swore and thrust upwards, pushing himself deeper into Harry’s mouth. Harry took all of him, all the way down. Malfoy threw his head back, the lines of his throat making Harry’s mouth water, and groaned.

A distortion of colour, and Malfoy’s chair was empty, but Harry’s was not; Harry was sitting in it, as he sat every morning from ten o’clock. But Malfoy was on top of him, chest to chest with Harry, his robes half-undone, hanging off him. He was moving. He was – the real Harry whimpered – he was fucking himself on Harry’s cock. Imaginary Harry grabbed Malfoy’s hips and yanked him downwards. Malfoy gasped and started to wank himself off, riding Harry wildly, crying out with pleasure.

A blink, and Malfoy was bent over the desk, his pale hands splayed over the dark wood, and Harry was fucking him. A blink, and Malfoy was hoisted up against the office door, his legs wrapped around Harry’s waist, and Harry was fucking him. A blink, and Malfoy was pressed against the window, the meandering Muggles of Oxford Street down below, and Harry was fucking him, and fucking him, and fucking him.

Malfoy ended the spell.

Harry’s dick was so hard he was sure he was one touch away from the edge. Malfoy’s eyes were dark molten silver, his lips full, pink and parted.

There was a long, hot moment of pure want. The only sound was the thud-thud-thud-thud of Harry’s pounding heart.

Harry lunged across the table to drag Malfoy into the searing kiss that hung between them, but Malfoy slid out of the booth and through his fingers like smoke. The Muffliato spell ended with a pop and Harry’s hand closed on thin air. He growled in frustration.

“I shouldn’t have done that.” Malfoy was flushed, wild-eyed. Harry burned with how much he wanted him.

“God, please–”

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy said, cutting him off, his voice shaky. “I really shouldn’t have … I’m going to go.” He turned and began to walk stiffly away before Harry could say anything, before Harry could tell him how desperately he wanted everything that Malfoy had just shown him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?” Harry called, half-standing with some difficulty.

Malfoy looked backwards and shook his head. “No,” he said. “Take tomorrow to rest. We’ve been working too hard. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Draco, please, I want–”

“Monday, Potter.” Malfoy strode to the door and disappeared into the hazy night. Harry dropped back into his chair and groaned, long and loud and heartfelt. He may only have five months of memories, but he could say with certainty that he’d never been so frustrated in his life.

Chapter Text

It was another sleepless night for Harry. He was consumed by Malfoy. He was overwhelmed by him, by his fantasies, by the thought that Malfoy wanted him too. It was hours before Harry could calm down enough to think straight. He was beginning to wonder whether there wasn’t something wrong with him, aside from the obvious. Surely this unquenchable libido wasn’t normal in a twenty-seven-year-old. He was so, so thankful for Anti-Chafing Charms.

Malfoy had told him to rest on Sunday, but despite the lack of sleep, Harry had never felt more restless. He showered, dressed and had breakfast as normal, and was outside Malfoy’s office door at quarter to ten.

It had occurred to him that Malfoy might not be there, that Harry would have to slope back to Grimmauld Place and stew in his own lust until tomorrow.

It hadn’t occurred to him that Malfoy would be there with somebody else.

“What the fuck?” Harry said intelligently, standing in the doorway to Malfoy’s office, his mouth hanging open.

Malfoy stood. “Harry,” he said, alarmed. “Our next appointment isn’t until tomorrow.”

“Oh, hello, Harry,” said the woman sitting in Harry’s chair.

Harry surveyed her coldly. He wanted to demand who she thought she was, and was stopped only by the casual way she greeted him. Someone else from his past, he guessed. He didn’t care.

He turned back to Malfoy. “You scheduled someone else in my spot?” he demanded. “When did you even get a chance to do that?”

“Contrary to what I’m sure you believe, when you’re not here, I don’t sit around, bored, waiting for you to show up,” Malfoy snapped. “I’m so sorry, Parvati,” he said to the woman.

The woman – Parvati – shrugged. “I remember what he’s like,” she said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Harry snapped. Parvati rolled her eyes and opened her mouth to respond, but Malfoy held up a hand.

“As you can see,” he said to Harry calmly, “I am not currently available for a drop-in session. Please remove yourself from my office and come back at our scheduled time.”

“But I–” Harry glanced at Parvati, who looked supremely unsurprised at the intrusion. “I wanted to talk. Our meeting yesterday evening was – really illuminative.”

Malfoy’s face betrayed no emotion. “Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Have you spoken to Weasley and Granger yet?”

“No,” Harry said mulishly.

“Then go and do that right now.” Harry shivered at the authority in his tone. Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “Now, Potter!”

“God.” Harry glared at Malfoy and tried to project his filthy thoughts as loudly as possible in his direction. “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You will,” Malfoy said. It sounded like a threat. It sounded like a promise.

Harry was so fucked.

“Bye, Harry,” Parvati sniffed from Harry’s wingback chair.

“Yeah. Bye.” Harry didn’t even look at her. He held Malfoy’s gaze as he backed out of the room. Malfoy slashed his wand and the door slammed in Harry’s face.

Despite Malfoy’s steeliness – or perhaps, a traitorous voice in Harry’s head suggested, because of it – Harry felt compelled to obey him. He Apparated to Ron and Hermione’s and knocked sheepishly. A harried Hermione answered, a quill behind her ear and an ink smudge on her cheek. She seemed surprised but pleased to see Harry, and ushered him inside.

“Are you busy? I can come back.”

“What?” Hermione asked. Harry looked pointedly at the quill. “Oh, no, not especially,” she said, picking it from behind her ear and using it to gesture while she talked. “I’ve had to take on a little more responsibility for the Confederation since – well. It’s no bother.” She smiled. “It’s quite enjoyable, actually. Tea?”

“Tea would be great, thank you.” Harry followed her into the kitchen, his eyes lingering as they always did on the photographs that lined the mantelpiece.

“We have Earl Grey, if you want it?” Hermione offered, standing on her tiptoes to reach the tea shelf. “I noticed you started drinking it.”

At just the thought of the scent of Earl Grey, Harry felt his face heat with the memory of last night. He was grateful that Hermione was still nose-deep in the cupboard. “Erm, no thanks. Just normal tea is fine.” He sat somewhat awkwardly at the kitchen table.

“You know, you never used to like Earl Grey,” Hermione said conversationally while she arranged teapots, mugs and strainers. “So interesting – I wonder if it’s related to the memory loss? Or perhaps something to do with a lack of awareness of your own habits leading you to try things you’d ordinarily avoid? I’d love to know more about it. Do you suppose there’s research on that sort of thing?”

“Dunno. You’d have to ask Malfoy.”

“Ask Malfoy what?” Ron stomped in from the garden, his boots trailing mud over the worn wooden floor. Harry couldn’t tell whether his ears were red from anger or from too much sun.

Hermione glanced at him and tutted. She waved her wand vaguely in his direction and the mud disappeared. “Tea?”

“Cheers,” Ron said. He plonked himself at the table across from Harry. “Ask Malfoy what?” he repeated.

Hermione started to hum to herself while she sorted the drinks, clearly not intending to respond. Harry braced himself. “Just a research thing,” he said. “Hermione wanted to know more Mind Magic theory.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “You’re telling me. Five months ago, I didn’t even know St Mungo’s had a library. Now I’ve had bits from every book it stocks read out to me before bed. I’m practically a Mind Healer myself at this point.”

“Please, Ron, you barely understand a word.” Hermione bustled over and arranged the tea and a plate of fresh scones on the table. “Molly’s,” she said at Harry’s interested look. “Help yourself. Weren’t you saying only yesterday that Malfoy must be a genius to have passed the Mind Healing exam?”

“I did not!” Ron said hotly, brandishing his scone like a sword. “I said that someone would have to be a genius to pass the exam. I didn’t mention Malfoy at all.”

Hermione shrugged. “Malfoy passed it, didn’t he?”

“He says he did. Fat lot of good it’s doing Harry.”

Harry’s stomach sank at the onset of the old argument. He tried to think of a believable excuse to leave.

“Ah – sorry, Harry,” Ron said awkwardly before Harry strained himself further. “Force of habit.”

Harry made a non-committal noise. He poured his tea. It wasn’t properly brewed yet, but he didn’t want to linger.

“Seriously though,” Ron said.

Harry looked up. This close, Ron was very obviously sunburnt. He looked ridiculous.

“I wanted – I want to say sorry, mate. Properly, this time,” Ron continued gravely. “I was stupid. I thought” – he looked at Hermione, who avoided his gaze – “I thought I was being a good friend by looking out for you, but it’s been, er, pointed out to me that I was making things worse. I was out of line.”

The apology had obviously taken some effort. Harry looked at his friend’s stupid remorseful red face and something untangled deep inside him.

“Thanks,” Harry said. “I appreciate it. But I reckon it’s Malfoy you need to apologise to. He had to hear it all as well.” He tapped his temple.

“I–” Ron glanced at Hermione, who continued to stare at her tea like it was silently imparting great wisdom. “Okay,” he said. “Yeah, you’re right. I will do.”

Harry’s surprise must have shown on his face, because Ron snorted. “Shut up,” he said, and grinned. “I’ve missed you, you plonker.”

Harry hadn’t realised that his shoulders were tense, but the relief was sweet when they loosened. “Missed you too,” he said ruefully. He meant it.

“I must say, it has been rather nice, seeing so much of you these last few months,” Hermione chipped in, suddenly able to hear again. Ron exchanged an amused look with Harry. “You used to be so busy, Harry, we were lucky if we could squeeze in an evening every three months.” She beamed and clapped her hands together. “Anyway! Now that’s sorted, I don’t fancy cooking lunch today – shall we eat out somewhere? Leaky Cauldron?”

“No!” Harry yelped. The fantasy of pulling Malfoy across the table into a deep kiss replayed in his mind. Ron and Hermione raised their eyebrows. Harry cleared his throat, his face heating. “I mean, er – nah,” he said with forced casualness. “I don’t really fancy pub food. How about Indian?”

Harry spent the rest of the day with Ron and Hermione. By the time he went back to Grimmauld Place, he was warm, happy and extremely well-fed. He had forgotten, over the last few weeks, just how grateful he was for them. How much he appreciated that they still cared for him despite that, without his memories, he wasn’t really the friend they’d had since childhood.

For the first night in a while, Harry had no trouble sleeping. His dreams were slow, sensual. Malfoy featured heavily, of course, and Harry woke sticky, but he felt rested in a bone-deep way he hadn’t for weeks.

He whistled to himself as he got ready (Kreacher flatly told him that he sounded like a broken Sneakoscope) and arrived at Malfoy’s door just before ten. He raised a hand to the knob and paused. He remembered that Malfoy had scheduled a meeting with someone else during his slot yesterday, a move that surely couldn’t be anything other than a personal dig. Harry lowered his hand and kicked the door open instead. He was almost disappointed that Malfoy was alone.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said innocently. “Is this the right office? I’m supposed to meet a…” He squinted at his palm as if reading something written there. “Healer Maffloy?”

Malfoy looked up, shocked. “What?”

“I used to have a regular meeting with a Mind Healer here, you see, but recently he’s been scheduling other people in my spot.”

“You – He’s been–” Malfoy’s open mouth twisted into a scowl as Harry’s jibe hit. “Oh.”

“Is that you, then? Healer Maffloy? Do I have the right time? I wouldn’t want to disturb you if you’re with another patient.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and waved his wand. The door slammed closed behind Harry. “Not that it’s remotely any of your business,” he sniffed, “but Parvati sent me an owl early yesterday morning asking to rearrange. I had been hoping for a day off, but then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of hearing her complain at length about how obnoxious you were as a teenager.” He smirked. “You took her to the Yule Ball, you know. You were an awful date.”

“Well, I’m glad you and Parvati had such a lovely time.”

Malfoy’s eyes glinted. “Why, Potter. I had no idea you were so possessive.”

Something in his gaze, his tone, instantly evaporated Harry’s resentment and sent his blood rushing southwards. “Oh?” He dropped his voice. “Do you like it?”

Malfoy’s lips parted. A loaded silence fell. Harry was about to start forwards, to pick up where they had left off on Saturday night, when Malfoy cleared his throat.

“Speaking of owls,” he said, picking a sheet of parchment off his desk and brandishing it, “I received this bizarre missive last night. Something to do with you?”

Harry was still preoccupied with thoughts of Malfoy, of possession, of Malfoy liking it. “I didn’t send you anything last night.”

“No, idiot. It’s from Weasley.”

“Oh.” Harry, Ron and Hermione had talked about Malfoy at length over curry yesterday. Ron had shared his worries about Malfoy being in charge of Harry’s wellbeing. When he wasn’t being angry or insulting, Harry found his concerns much more reasonable, and had felt another throb of guilt at how dismissive he’d been. In turn, Harry had told Ron of his positive experiences with Malfoy (not all of his experiences, of course) – how he was clever and professional and patient, how Harry’s mental control had strengthened so much that he’d apparently been doing advanced Occlumency for weeks without even realising. Ron had nodded and gazed solemnly into his tikka masala. Hermione had called them both idiots and helped herself to Harry’s naan.

Curious, Harry crossed the room and sat in the wingback chair. “What does it say?”

“What, you’re telling me you didn’t hover over him and feed him the lines?”

“Nope,” Harry said. “I mean, he apologised to me yesterday and I suggested he do the same to you, but I didn’t think he actually would. I’d forgotten all about it, to be honest.”

“Hm.” Malfoy looked at the parchment thoughtfully.

“So, what does it say?”

“It says a lot of things.” He folded the parchment and put it in his desk drawer.

“Good things?”

For a moment, Malfoy looked lost. “Confusing things,” he admitted. “I’m so used to being the one to apologise. I don’t really know what to … Anyway, it doesn’t matter. If you see Weasley, tell him I’ll reply after work. Let’s get started.”

“Actually, I can relate to being confused,” Harry said. “Can we talk about the other night?”

Malfoy winced. “I’d rather we didn’t.”

Harry had allowed Malfoy to change the subject once already. He wasn’t going to allow it again. “I can’t believe you left me like that. I genuinely thought I was going to come right there at the table. I’d’ve definitely been in the press, then.”

Malfoy swore softly and shook his head. “It was a mistake,” he said firmly. “All of it. I’m really very sorry. Truly.”

“I’m not.” Harry leaned forwards. “I’m so fucking into you, Draco.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened. “I … We really should get back to Legilimency. Do you need to use the Pensieve?”

“No. I don’t have anything to hide. Have dinner with me.”

“Harry,” Malfoy said in a strained voice that sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “I can’t.”

“You had drinks with me all last week.”

“Yes, and look what happened!”

Harry studied Malfoy’s face. “Do you not want to?”

“That’s not – I can’t,” he repeated. “Not with a patient.”

“But if I stopped being your patient?”

“I–” Malfoy scraped a hand through his hair. Harry’s eyes followed the movement. “I don’t like to mention the six-month deadline,” Malfoy said, “but switching Mind Healers at this late stage would be inadvisable.”

“Fine,” Harry agreed. “I don’t want another Healer. But what if I got my memory back?”

Malfoy’s face flickered. “Then I would be very happy for you.”

“You would? Even though you don’t like who I am with my memories?”

“Of course I like you,” Malfoy said, frowning.

Harry laughed. “Don’t forget, I’ve been inside your head. I’ve seen how the interactions between us used to go.”

It was something Harry had considered often during his lonely afternoons in Muggle London. He was fairly convinced that Malfoy liked him well enough now – he was slightly more convinced, after Saturday night. But the only interactions Harry had seen between Malfoy and the old Harry involved an awful lot of scowling and glaring. And, given what Ron and Hermione had told him, the memories that Malfoy had shown him were probably the best of a bad bunch. What would happen if Harry got his memory back? Would Malfoy go back to hating him? Would Harry go back to hating Malfoy?

Harry’s thoughts must have shown on his face, because Malfoy’s eyebrows drew together, and he said, carefully, “You may have noticed that you were wearing Auror robes in some of the – the thoughts I shared with you on Saturday.”

Harry frowned. “So?”

“So.” Something like pain tugged at Malfoy’s thin mouth. “I haven’t seen you in Auror robes since I became your Healer, have I?”

There was a heavy silence as Harry tried to make sense of the words.

“Draco,” he said, his heart clenching. “Are you saying–?”

“I’m not saying anything.”

Harry huffed. “You know, I’m getting very mixed messages from you. Sometimes it feels like we’re flirting, like this is going somewhere, but other times it feels like I’m – harassing you, or something. I’m not, am I?”

“No.” Malfoy grimaced. “Merlin. Okay. This is the last I’ll say about it, since there’s no point keeping it from you after – well.” He took a deep breath. “The other night was … beyond anything I had ever imagined. You’re not harassing me. I like that you told me. I like what we did. I like that you keep telling me.”

Harry licked his lips. “You do?” His voice came out low.

Malfoy noticed. For a moment, he looked like he had in the Leaky Cauldron: wild, wanting. “Merlin. Yes. I can’t begin to tell you what I–” He shook his head. “But it’s not – I shouldn’t like it. You don’t remember who I am–”

“I’ve been in and out of your head for months, I know exactly–”

“And I’m your Mind Healer, there’s so much baggage that comes with that–”

“I told you, I’m an adult, there’s nothing wrong with–”

“And it would be distracting. It could affect your recovery. To do anything further, to keep even entertaining the option – it would be the height of selfishness.”

That one stumped him; Harry couldn’t deny that Malfoy was distracting. Even then, while Malfoy was listing reasons why he didn’t want anything to do with Harry, Harry couldn’t stop staring at him.

“But I already…” Harry started, then faltered. “I mean, how long would we have to … I just really … God.” He wanted to argue the point, but nothing that came out of his mouth was making sense. “I don’t know how to deal with this. You’re the only person I…” He exhaled and took off his glasses. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “God. There’s nothing I could say that would make you change your mind?”

“Truthfully,” Malfoy said after a pause, “it wouldn’t take much to make me give in. That’s why you need to stop asking. Like I said, I’m not known for my strength of willpower when I’m being offered something I want.”

Harry groaned into his hands. Malfoy wanted him. He’d finally said it, properly, explicitly.

“But you don’t want to want it?”

“It’s not something I’ve ever had a choice in,” Malfoy said quietly. “But right now is … It’s not the time.”

“But what if I get my memory back and – I dunno, what if I’m like Ron was? What if I’m a dick and I can’t get over the – the Death Eater thing? What if now is our only chance?”

“Harry. That’s exactly why it isn’t a good idea.”

Harry lifted his head at Malfoy’s tone. Malfoy looked small and unhappy. “You think I won’t want you if I get my memories back?”

Malfoy shrugged and looked away. “I think there’s no way of knowing until it happens.”

Flecks of dust sparkled in the summer sun that poured through the office window. Harry clenched his fists. It was frustrating, having to consider the needs of a person he didn’t remember – especially when that person was himself. And if he did get his memory back, if he did regret doing anything with Malfoy – Harry knew that it wouldn’t be him, Harry, who would take the blame. It would be Malfoy. Harry would have to be the most selfish person in the world to push the issue and leave Malfoy to deal with the fallout – if it came to that.

But Harry couldn’t stop thinking about him. Hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him for weeks. Months. And now Malfoy had admitted to wanting Harry back – it seemed like the worst kind of punishment to not be able to have this, to not feel Malfoy pressed against him, to not have Malfoy’s long, graceful fingers twine with his own. There had to be a way of having that that didn’t put either of them at risk.

“One kiss.”

Malfoy looked at him sharply. “What?”

Harry nodded and pushed his glasses back onto his face. “If I get my memory back and I’m an arsehole, I won’t be able to get that mad about one kiss. I’ll still remember how much I wanted more.”

Malfoy had that shocked, blank look on his face again.

“And afterwards,” Harry continued, “I promise I’ll back off. I won’t ask anything else of you, I won’t even mention it again. Not until I get my memory back. Or until we’re sure I’m stuck like this for good.” The memory of the freckled girl thanking him for something he didn’t remember doing resurfaced with a pang. He brushed it away. Malfoy was still staring at him.

Harry’s conviction waned. “Or … I can back off right now.”

The dust continued to dance in the beam of light that separated them. Abruptly, Malfoy stood.

“Get up,” he barked.

Harry scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t tell from Malfoy’s tone whether he was about to be kissed or kicked out. Then Malfoy hurled three Auror-grade locking spells at the door and stalked around the desk towards Harry. Harry’s breath caught.

“Oh, fuck, are we actually–”

“Shut up.”

Harry fell silent immediately. Malfoy’s mask of professionalism had shattered; he looked dark, dangerous. His eyes were silver knives. He prowled towards Harry. Shoved him. The backs of Harry’s thighs hit the desk.

Harry pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t inside one of his own fantasies – but there was a twist to Malfoy’s expression that Harry had never been able to capture in his imagination. It was suddenly very hard to breathe. This was real. This was happening.

Malfoy stepped closer. He curled his long fingers into the front of Harry’s robes. He was taller than Harry. Harry hadn’t realised.

“Potter. I need you to know that I would never, ever do this with any other patient. Never.” Harry could almost feel the scrape of Malfoy’s eyes as they roamed over Harry’s face, drinking him in.

“Yeah?” Harry meant it to sound alluring, but it came out more of a breathless rasp. “What makes me different?”

“You’ve always been different,” Malfoy said. And then Malfoy kissed him.

After weeks of dreaming about it, Harry had thought he was prepared. He wasn’t.

The first hard press of Malfoy’s lips set every nerve in Harry’s body alight. Malfoy groaned – high, desperate – and pressed closer, jerking Harry forwards by the neck of his robes. Harry’s fingers clutched at Malfoy’s shoulders, holding on for dear life.

Malfoy tasted – Harry suppressed a wild laugh – he tasted like tea, like Earl Grey, but he wasn’t cool like his mental presence; the smooth skin of his neck was hot beneath Harry’s hands, and Harry wanted to take him apart.

Harry growled and deepened the kiss. Malfoy made a low sound in the back of his throat; Harry felt it on his tongue. He struggled to keep his head – he wanted to remember every detail, every noise, every movement – but the feeling of Malfoy pressed against him overwhelmed Harry’s mind in a way that Legilimency never had done. He couldn’t focus. He could only scrape his fingers through Malfoy’s hair, moan into his mouth, and kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him.

Malfoy shifted and Harry’s hands dropped to Malfoy’s hips. He yanked Malfoy forwards – instinctively, automatically – and the hard line of Malfoy’s dick ground into him. Harry swore into Malfoy’s mouth and pulled him closer so that Malfoy could feel him too, could feel exactly what he was doing to Harry, what he had done to him for weeks–

“Fuck.” Harry gasped as their cocks rubbed against each other. “Fuck, Draco, please–”

“Yes,” Malfoy breathed, brushing his nose against Harry’s. “Anything you want. I’ll do anything you want.” He grabbed Harry’s jaw and kissed him again, devouring him, rolling his hips all the while, sending waves of pleasure shuddering through Harry. Harry had to grip the desk to keep himself upright.

“God,” Harry said between kisses that sent sparks straight to his dick. “God, you feel so – mmh – We have to – We have to stop.”

“Yeah.” Malfoy kissed him again. “But I don’t want to.”

“I don’t either.” Malfoy’s tongue was so soft, the press of his dick so, so hard. “God, I don’t – But I said – You didn’t want – Oh god–”

Malfoy had grown impatient with stealing kisses between words. He dropped his mouth to the underside of Harry’s jaw and began biting a trail down his neck.

“Oh fuck.” Harry’s head fell to the side. “Fuck, that feels so good.” His glasses were smudged. The office was indistinct, the sunlight smeared over the familiar dark furniture like a streak of paint. Malfoy’s thigh pressed between Harry’s and Harry mindlessly thrust against it – once, twice, three times. Heat coiled in his stomach.

“Fuck, if you don’t stop within the next five seconds,” Harry ground out, “I’m Apparating us straight to my bedroom.”

“Can’t Apparate from in here.” Malfoy’s murmur sent sweet vibrations over Harry’s neck.

“Watch me,” Harry said dangerously. He wrapped his arms around Malfoy and braced himself.

Malfoy made a small, desperate noise. “Fuck – don’t–” A bite on Harry’s earlobe. “Merlin, I bet you could tear right through – You’re so – Fuck–” He angled his thigh so Harry’s cock pressed against him again.

“Malfoy,” Harry growled.

Malfoy whimpered and dragged himself upright to smash his mouth against Harry’s, his hand clenched tight in Harry’s hair. But the intensity faded slowly, passion dissolving into sweetness like sugar in tea. Malfoy’s hand moved from Harry’s hair to cup his jaw. Harry leaned into the unexpected tenderness of it.

The kiss had lasted much longer than Harry had expected it to. It was still over too quickly.

Malfoy rested his forehead against Harry’s. “Merlin,” he breathed. “I really hope you never regret that.”

Harry’s eyes were still closed. Awareness returned gradually. “I won’t,” he said. His heart pounded a dull, rapid rhythm in his ears. “I couldn’t. Fuck, Draco.”

Malfoy laughed. The feeling of it played over Harry’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Fuck.”

He rubbed his nose against Harry’s – slow, affectionate – and stepped back. Harry felt the loss immediately, cold air rushing to fill the place Malfoy had been. He reluctantly opened his eyes and squinted through his foggy glasses. Malfoy ran a hand through his hair and smiled ruefully with red, swollen lips. Harry grabbed the desk again to keep from yanking him back.

“I can’t believe we just did that.” Malfoy’s voice was awed.

“I know,” Harry agreed fervently. “I never thought you would actually – It feels like I’ve been wanting it forever.”

At that, Malfoy let out a snort of laughter. “It’s been a few weeks, you said?”

“But I can only remember five and a half months,” Harry countered. “So, percentage-wise, that’s a good chunk.”

“Even percentage-wise, it’s still no contest.” Malfoy’s eyes glittered. “Finally, I’ve beaten you at something.”

“Draco,” Harry said. He couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence.

“Come on,” Malfoy said eventually. “Let’s get back to it.”

Harry could still hear his own heartbeat as they settled into their chairs. It pounded in his ears, pulsing at the back of his skull. His dick pressed painfully against his trousers, but he ignored it. He’d said he’d let it go after one kiss. It was much more difficult now he’d done it, now he knew what it was like, how Malfoy came alive, the noises he made, what Malfoy’s tongue felt like against his. But Harry had said he’d let it go.

Happily, Malfoy seemed similarly affected; he shifted in his chair and almost dropped his wand when he fumbled it out of his pocket. The fact that Harry had reduced Malfoy’s customary grace to clumsiness sent another wave of pleasure swooping through him. He clenched his fists. He’d said he’d let it go. For now, he’d said he’d let it go.

Harry sat in tight-jawed silence while Malfoy righted himself. He straightened the pile of parchment on his desk. Lined up his quill against his notebook. Cleared his throat. Laced his fingers together.

“So,” he said. “Legilimency.”

Harry laughed. Some of the tension fell from his shoulders. “Legilimency,” he agreed.

“Are you ready to get started?”

Harry couldn’t resist a glance at the clock. It was quarter past eleven. “Sure,” he said with a grin.

Their eyes locked. Thud-thud-thud-thud went Harry’s heart.

“All right,” Malfoy said. His voice was hoarse. Harry pretended not to notice. “We’ll start in your mental space. Ready?”

Harry had to fight to keep his eyes from fluttering closed as Malfoy poured himself into Harry’s mind. He let the cool bergamot fog roll through him, made all that much sweeter now he had nothing to hide. Sunlight streamed through the window of the circular stone room and his four mental doors hung open; he didn’t even have to steer his thoughts away from Ron, from Ron’s insults or complaints. They had talked it over. Ron knew he’d been a dick. He had written to Malfoy to apologise.

And now Malfoy knew how Harry felt about him and hadn’t been offended. Had, astonishingly, wanted Harry too. Harry didn’t even have to worry what was next for them – not yet. The memory of Malfoy’s forehead resting against Harry’s fluttered through one of the open doors. Harry let it come, and let it drift away again. The last of the tension dropped from his body. For the first time in a long time, Harry felt completely at ease.

Except for one thing.

“What’s that sound?”

The thud-thud-thud-thud of Harry’s heart sounded different inside his own head. It was now, undeniably, distinct from his actual heartbeat, which had begun to calm immediately after their minds had connected.

Malfoy inhaled sharply. “What sound? Describe it to me.”

Harry concentrated. It was, in a way, similar to the intangible Earl Grey scent of Malfoy – more like he was sensing it rather than hearing it. A dull repetitive pounding, coming from somewhere in the back of his mind.

“And this is the first time you’ve heard it?”

“Yes. Maybe? It’s hard to say.” Had he been hearing it all along? It felt almost dreamlike, thumping away on the very edge of his senses, dancing with the sound of his heartbeat but unquestionably a separate noise.

“Don’t worry.” Malfoy’s presence in Harry’s mind shifted. A cool, soothing wave washed over him. “Keep the sound in your mind for me. Concentrate on it, but don’t hold it too tightly.”

Harry nodded.

“Good. That’s very good, Harry.”

The praise flowed over him and Harry shivered – then shivered again when he realised that Malfoy could see what his words did to him. He held the pounding rhythm steady in his mind.

“You’ve improved so much since we started,” Malfoy said, and the strained edge to Malfoy’s voice made Harry shiver again. “Keep focusing on the noise for me. Then describe what you can see in your mind’s space.”

“What?” The thumping noise stuttered. “Again?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, soothing, so soothing. “I know it’s a pain, but it will ground you. What can you see?”

“We’re in the circular room,” Harry said dutifully. “There’s a big window facing me. There are doors along the walls.”

“How many doors?”

Harry knew – he always knew – how many doors there were, but he looked around and counted again anyway.

“Four,” he said.

“Four doors,” Malfoy repeated. “Are you sure?”

Harry frowned. Of course he was sure. He’d spent hours in this stupid imaginary room. The thumping noise grew louder, then quieter, like a wireless being tuned. Harry tugged on Malfoy’s presence in his mind to make sure he was paying attention, then exaggeratedly focused on each of the doors in turn. He hoped Malfoy could tell that he was rolling his mind’s eye.

“You’re such a brat,” Malfoy said. “Try to keep the noise in the forefront of your mind. I’m going to end the spell now, okay?”

Harry made a noise of assent and felt Malfoy withdraw from his head. Harry wanted to reach out and pull him back. He flexed his fingers.

“Can you still hear it now the spell is gone?” Malfoy asked. His eyes were bright.

Harry closed his eyes. Concentrated. Nodded.

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

Malfoy didn’t reply. He looked at Harry consideringly, his head cocked, one long finger tracing his still-swollen mouth. Harry liked that look, and was contemplating whether it would be breaking his own rules to say so, when Malfoy said, “Let’s duel.”

“Huh?” Harry blinked. “Is that – a euphemism?”

Malfoy smirked and stood. “Come on, get up. You’re up for a duel, yes?”

“Well – I suppose so, yeah.”

Malfoy banished the furniture as soon as Harry was on his feet. Harry drew his wand uncertainly. “Is this to do with the kiss, or the pounding noise?”

“Both, maybe,” Malfoy said. “I want to test a theory. You’re such a physical person, I think that might be what we’ve been missing.”

They moved into position, facing each other, sleeves rolled up, wands raised.

“If the noise changes, especially if it gets too loud, stop immediately, okay?” Malfoy said. “You remember the safeword.”

“Can’t wait to use it with you properly,” Harry said without thinking.

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “You might need it, but there’s not much I wouldn’t let you do to me.”

Harry was so thrown by Malfoy’s comment and the wicked look on his face that he almost let Malfoy’s first spell hit him; he threw up a Shield Charm at the very last second. Malfoy pouted at Harry’s save – and then they were duelling.

Adrenaline surged through Harry in the rush of spell-casting. He hadn’t duelled since his very first meeting with Malfoy, and it was just as good as he remembered. If anything, it was better – this time, he knew Malfoy. He knew the cool lick of his magic, the sharp movements of his wand, the tantalising stretch and twist of his body. The pounding in Harry’s head increased in tempo along with his heartbeat, until Harry could feel both rhythms on his skin, his spells timed with it, the whole world in sync with the pulsing beat.

The fight was hard and fast. Harry lost track of time – he couldn’t say how long they’d been duelling, only that by the time that Malfoy yelled “Stop!”, his breath was coming in harsh pants and his entire being was alight.

“Fuck,” he gasped, staring at Malfoy. He remembered this from last time, too – Malfoy pink, panting, euphoric.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Are you all right?” Malfoy asked, eyes raking over Harry. Harry felt it like a physical touch.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes. Fuck, Draco–”

“Shh.” Malfoy waved his wand and the furniture reappeared. Malfoy sat and gestured impatiently for Harry to do the same. “Quickly.”

Harry sat. He was still hot and gasping. “What–?”

“I’m going to cast Legilimency,” Malfoy said. God, the weight of his eyes sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “I want you to immediately focus on your mental space, exactly where we were just before the duel. Can you do that?”

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Harry doubted it; all he could think about was how much Malfoy looked like he’d just been fucked and how desperately Harry wanted to have been the one who had done it. “I think so.”

“You can,” Malfoy said. “I know you can. Concentrate. Ready?” Malfoy locked eyes with him. “Legilimens.”

“Harry,” Malfoy said, and it echoed through Harry’s mind as “Harry!”, a gasp of pleasure, a cry of ecstasy. “Concentrate. Can you hear the banging noise?”

Harry could barely hear anything else. It echoed around them, the thud of flesh on flesh, of a bedframe on a wall, a pulsing, throbbing, pounding–

“That’s it. Focus. Quickly, don’t think about it. Count the doors for me.”

“Fuck, I know how many bloody doors–!”

“Count them,” Malfoy said urgently. “Focus on the noise and count them.”

Harry growled in frustration. “One,” he said aloud, turning to the first door in his mind. “Two. Three. Four–”

He stopped dead.

The thudding resolved unmistakably into the sound of a fist on wood. Specifically, a wooden door. A great wooden door that stood, thick and looming, in the back of Harry’s mind, quaking with each pounding knock.

“Five,” Harry breathed.

Chapter Text

“What the fuck is that.”

The fifth door towered over him. It was at least three times the size of the other four.

“What? Describe it to me.” Malfoy’s voice was strained.

“Can’t you see it?!” It was bloody massive, and it had appeared out of nowhere in Harry’s personal mental space that he’d spent hours painstakingly constructing so his clever, mysterious new Mind Healer would be proud of him.

“Describe it,” Malfoy repeated in that same strained voice.

“It’s a giant fuck-off door! Did you put it there?”

“Mother of Merlin,” Malfoy breathed.

“What?” The first stirrings of panic bubbled in Harry’s stomach. “What is it?”

“No, no, it’s a good thing,” Malfoy said hurriedly. “Keep looking at it. Memorise what it looks like and where it sits in the space so you can find it again.”

“You can see it, right?” The wood of the door was visibly shaking with every thud. It really was like someone was behind it, banging to be let out.

“I’ve always been able to see it.”

Harry’s mental space nearly melted away with his shock – he managed to cling to the image just in time, fifth door and all. “What?”

“The noise too,” Malfoy said apologetically. “They’ve always been there.”

“What are you talking about? There were four doors. What’s behind there?” The pounding was harsh, insistent. Not a sound that Harry would call friendly.

“I think…” Malfoy hesitated. Harry could feel his apprehension, but wouldn’t have needed to have him in his head to know that this was something big. “I think it’s your memory.”

Harry went cold.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Do you remember when we first met? When I said I thought your memories weren’t lost? Just locked away?”

“You’re saying my whole memory is … behind this door?”

“I think so.”

It didn’t sound real. Then again, they were standing inside an imaginary room inside Harry’s head. Who was Harry to say that there hadn’t been another invisible door there the whole time?

“I could just open this door right now, and I’d be back to normal?” Harry reached out.

“No!” Malfoy’s cool presence solidified and suddenly he was standing in front of Harry, blocking his way. “Don’t,” Malfoy said, gentler now. “Regaining that much memory – it will be a very intense process. It will take a while. You’ll have to be monitored in case anything goes wrong.”

“Oh. But that’s all I’ll have to do? Just – open the door?”

“Again, I think so. And I suspect there will be risks associated with the attempt. But there’s no way of knowing until you try.”

“Fuck.” It was so stupidly simple. Everything he’d ever done, twenty-seven years of his life, right there in front of him. The person he used to be, demanding to be let out.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Why didn’t you tell me it was there?”

“It wouldn’t have done anything. You had to be ready to see it for yourself.”

Harry pulled a face. He didn’t feel ready. How could anyone be ready for something like this?

“What if I just – never open it?”

“The pounding would probably fade eventually. Your old memories would stop trying to come back.”

“But I’d be all right? Other than that?”

“Well – yes. Theoretically. But you’d never be able to get your memories back. They would be gone forever.”

“Hm.”

“Why?” Malfoy asked sharply. “You’re not considering it?”

“I dunno,” Harry said. “I dunno who I’d be with them back.” He could still feel their kiss on his lips, in the echo of Malfoy’s thumbprints on his jaw. It hurt to think that it might be their only one.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Make sure to keep the sound and the image of the door at the forefront of your mind,” Malfoy ordered, then ended the spell. The pounding echoed in Harry’s ears. He closed his eyes to check he could still picture the fifth door. It was still there, as large and imposing as ever.

“I want to share another theory with you.” The beam of sunlight that had filled the office had been swallowed by clouds. The flush from their kiss, from their duel, had faded from Malfoy’s skin. He was very white.

Harry frowned. “What?”

“This is purely conjecture on my part, you have to understand. It’s likely that we may never know the truth, but I’ve done a lot of research – and so did Granger, which was annoyingly helpful – and I think, given what we know, that this is by far the most likely–”

“Draco. What is it?”

Malfoy met his eyes. “I think there’s a reason the Aurors haven’t been able to find a culprit,” he said. “I don’t think anybody did this to you, Harry. I think you did it to yourself.”

The pounding stuttered, the rhythm faltering like a skipped heartbeat. There was an unpleasant lurching in Harry’s chest. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just a theory,” Malfoy said quickly. “But it’s the one I’m leaning towards.”

“Why would I – do that? How would I do that?”

“It’s likely it wasn’t even intentional. Perhaps you were under a lot of pressure, doing too much – Merlin knows not a day went by that you weren’t at some event or other – and your mind couldn’t cope with the stress. Perhaps your magic manifested a latent desire for a ‘normal life’. Perhaps you made a stupid wish on a shooting star. None of it would surprise me.”

“A shooting–?” Harry rubbed at his forehead. It was a gesture he couldn’t remember having done before, but it felt familiar in the muscles of his arm, in the smooth ridge of the lightning-bolt scar against the heel of his hand. From the look on Malfoy’s face, it was something he used to do a lot.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“If that is the case, you need to be prepared for what you’d be going back to. It’s likely you’d have to implement some lifestyle changes to avoid this happening again. If I’m right, your previous self may also resist coming back. There is a chance – and I couldn’t tell you how great a chance it is – that if you do open the door, you might not wake up.”

“You think I shouldn’t open it.” Harry wasn’t worried about not waking up – the rest would be quite nice, honestly – but he understood Malfoy’s hesitation. If their roles were reversed, Harry wouldn’t want Malfoy to turn back into a person who hated him, either.

“No. I think you should.”

Harry blinked. “Why?”

Malfoy smiled, but his eyes were sad. “There are a lot of people who need you more than I do, Harry Potter.”

Over the last six months, Harry had received so many letters, been approached by so many strangers, read so many news articles – all of them talking about this grand hero that didn’t sound anything like Harry at all. How was he supposed to be that person? He knew, deep down, that he wasn’t a Saviour. He wasn’t a Chosen One or a Vanquisher of Darkness. He was just … Harry.

But if he hadn’t had his memories last year, that freckled teenage girl would still be in whatever awful situation she had been in. How many people could he have helped over the last six months? How many lives could he have saved if he’d been on duty as an Auror? How much good could he do in the world, once he could remember his place in it?

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

He exhaled. “Well, I suppose it’s about time, isn’t it?” he said. “What’s the next step?”

Malfoy’s face crumpled. Less than a heartbeat later, Harry was sure he must have imagined it, because Malfoy was as blank-faced and professional as always. Harry realised suddenly that Malfoy hadn’t looked like that for their last few sessions. The thudding rhythm stuttered again.

“Brisley is still technically in charge of your case. I’ll send her a memo and get you set up with a team.” As he was talking, Malfoy pulled out a clean piece of parchment and started to write. “You should get in touch with Weasley and Granger and let them know it’s likely you’ve had a breakthrough. It would be useful to have one of them with you.” He signed the parchment with a flourish and waved his hand. It folded itself into the shape of a nightingale. Malfoy drew his wand and pointed it at the paper bird. He paused. “As soon as I send this, Brisley will be right over. If you’re not absolutely sure you want to press ahead, now would be the time to say so.”

“Wait, what?” Harry straightened, startled. “This is happening now?”

Malfoy’s impassive mask flickered. “If you’re sure, the sooner the better,” he said. “The noise in your head is still very strong. But we don’t know how long that will last. We can’t risk delaying, not at this stage.” His eyes were bright. He was still so pale.

“I…”

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Harry had been working for six months to get his memory back. He’d done so much – so many meetings and tests, so much time spent in the bloody Leaky Cauldron, so many mental exercises and arguments and new experiences and frustrations. It had all been for this. He had to at least try. Even with the risk of losing Malfoy. Even with the risk of losing everything.

“Okay,” he said. The words sounded strange, as if someone else had spoken them. “Send it.”

Malfoy kept his gaze locked on Harry’s as he waved his wand. The nightingale disappeared. Harry exhaled.

Malfoy stood. “Brisley won’t come in here, I don’t know why,” he said, frowning. “You’d be better off waiting outside.”

“Waiting outside?” Harry scrambled to his feet. “But I–” Horrifyingly, his voice cracked. “Aren’t you going to come with me?”

“I can’t,” Malfoy glanced at the clock on the wall. “I have another patient, they’ll be here soon. It’s too late to cancel.” He grimaced. “But I’ll try to rearrange when they arrive. I’ll come and find you as soon as I’m done.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply. A knock on the door interrupted him.

“That’ll be Brisley,” Malfoy said unhappily. “Come in!”

“I’m just here to collect Mr Potter!” came Healer Brisley’s cheerful response. The door remained closed.

“Bizarre,” Malfoy muttered. “Look, go with her, get everything set up. She knows what she’s doing, despite – you know.”

Harry couldn’t imagine going back to Healer Brisley’s chaotic bosom after the quick wit and polished edges of Malfoy. When he’d agreed, he’d thought that Malfoy would be the one to guide him through it. He’d thought Brisley would just be there as a back-up, an extra wand if things took a turn for the worst. He didn’t expect to have to say goodbye so soon.

“Draco, I–”

Malfoy shook his head. “Not now. I’ll see you soon. Okay?”

“But I–”

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“I don’t–”

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Malfoy strode over to Harry, grabbed his face in both hands, and kissed him, hard. He broke away quickly.

“You can do this,” he said quietly, urgently. “I know you can. Go. I’ll be there soon.”

Harry looked into Malfoy’s desperate eyes, felt the echo of Earl Grey curl through his mind, and nodded.

Less than half an hour later, a private room had been cleared for him at St Mungo’s. Ron and Hermione had both Apparated to his side mere minutes after Harry had sent his Patronus. Together they had dragged him home, assembled him an overnight bag, and whirled him back to the hospital.

Harry stumbled behind them, dazed. The distant sound of his footsteps echoed the pounding in his head. The white, sterile walls were the same all over St Mungo’s, but suddenly they felt unfamiliar, even though Harry had been here every day for months. Malfoy was two floors up and three corridors across. Harry could almost feel him, a lingering coolness at the back of his mind. He’d be here soon, Harry reminded himself. He’d said he’d come.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Healer Brisley appeared and ushered them into the room.

“Healer Malfoy thinks Mr Potter is ready to take the final step in his recovery!” she trilled at Ron and Hermione, as if Harry wouldn’t have told them why they were there.

“Yes,” Harry said. “Where is he?”

She waved a hand. “Oh, he’s probably with a patient. He’s very in-demand, you know. He’s quite brilliant, quite brilliant.”

Harry frowned. He knew that. “He said he’d be here.”

“How kind of him!” Healer Brisley beamed. “I’m sure he’ll pop along for a quick visit later. Now, I’ll just give you a mo to get changed into something comfy, then we’ll get you all set up.” She wiggled her fingers and left.

“I’m not starting anything without Malfoy,” Harry warned Ron and Hermione as he shrugged out of his robes. He didn’t miss the loaded glance they exchanged.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Harry,” Hermione said gently. “There might not be time. If he’s working all day–”

“I don’t care.” Harry was not going to budge. Malfoy had said he would come.

An hour later, Harry began to doubt himself. A team of Healers and Mind Healers hovered around him nervously. A web of spells was draped over him, monitoring everything from his heartbeat to his hair growth. Ron and Hermione were perched on two uncomfortable-looking chairs next to the bed where Harry was propped up. Malfoy still wasn’t there.

Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Look, can someone just go to his office and get him? It’s literally five minutes away.”

“Now, really, Mr Potter, I’m not going to barge in on a senior figure’s private session, not even for you!” Healer Brisley gave an uneasy chuckle. “I’m sure he meant that he would visit later on, once you’re in recovery–”

The door slammed open. Malfoy appeared, wild-eyed, panting. “Sorry, sorry! Is he – Harry? Are you–?”

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Harry’s chest squeezed. “It’s still me,” he said. He reached out a hand to Malfoy without thinking. Malfoy strode forwards and almost took it, before he thought better of it. He coughed.

“So sorry for the delay, Healer Brisley, Healer Norwood, Healer Rowland, Healer Fiddleton.” Malfoy nodded to each of them in turn. Healer Brisley and Healer Rowland both giggled and blushed. “Completely my fault. How are you feeling, Harry? Can you still hear the knocking noise?” He pressed his hand to Harry’s forehead as if checking his temperature. Harry was sure it was unnecessary, but he was grateful for the contact. The metal of Malfoy’s ring was cold against Harry’s skin.

“Yeah, it’s still there.” If anything, it had intensified, as if Harry’s past self knew he was close to being released.

“And you have kept the door in your mind?”

Harry had been focusing on the fifth door with single-minded intensity; he’d needed something to distract himself from the mounting awkwardness of delaying everything until Malfoy’s arrival.

“Good.” Malfoy stepped back. “Well, I’m satisfied you’re as ready as you can be. Healer Brisley, if your team is in place…?”

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Wait.” Harry did grab Malfoy’s hand this time. He heard a strangled noise come from Ron’s chair, but he didn’t take his eyes off Malfoy. “Will you stay with me while I do it?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said immediately. “I’ll be right here.”

Harry shook his head. “No. I mean – in my mind. Will you…?”

Malfoy’s thumb absently rubbed the back of Harry’s hand. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“On the contrary, Healer Malfoy,” Brisley chirped. “So sorry to interrupt, but your presence would help to stabilise Mr Potter through the process. Twenty-seven years is a lot of memories to regain; an anchor would be greatly beneficial if Mr Potter wants one.”

“Yes, I know,” Malfoy snapped. “I just mean – Harry. With your memories back – your past self might not want–”

“Fuck him. I want you.” If the tightening of his grip was any indication, Malfoy caught the double meaning.

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

Hermione cleared her throat.

“I can vouch for Harry – the proper Harry, with all his memories,” she said. Harry tried not to wince at her choice of words. “I think he’d be grateful you were willing to help him, Draco.”

Malfoy’s eyes flicked to Ron and Hermione. Harry turned to look, too; Hermione smiled encouragingly. Even Ron nodded.

Harry’s heart warmed. His shoulders dropped. Suddenly, with the approval of his friends, all his doubts vanished. He knew he was doing the right thing. He really was ready.

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Okay,” Malfoy said. They were still holding hands. “Okay, yes.”

There was a brief moment of bustling activity while Healer Brisley set Malfoy up with a chair, Hermione fussed over Harry and Ron stood by Harry’s bed, stony-faced, gripping his shoulder.

“We’ll be here when you wake up,” Hermione said. “I know you can do this, Harry. You’ve worked so hard.”

“I reckon Malfoy will look after you,” Ron said gruffly.

Harry blinked rapidly. “Thank you,” he said. “Both of you. Thank you for looking after me while I’ve been so useless.”

“It was no trouble at all.” Hermione beamed tearfully. “You’d do the same for us.”

“Can’t wait to have you back, mate.” Ron’s blue eyes were also suspiciously bright.

Harry hugged them both tightly. When he let go, Malfoy was in place with his wand raised. “Need a moment?” he asked.

“No.” Harry wiped his eyes and settled himself back on the pillows. “No, I’m ready.”

“All right,” Malfoy said. “For hopefully the last time, then. Three … two … one … Legilimens.”

A cool breeze. A hint of spiced Earl Grey. A moment of privacy.

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Draco,” Harry said in his mind. “This is all because of you. Thank you.”

Malfoy smiled softly. When he spoke, his lips didn’t move. “Not at all. It was all you. You’re brilliant, Harry Potter.”

“If this works,” Harry said, “don’t let me be an arse.” He allowed the depth of his feelings to roll through them in waves.

“Nobody could ever stop you doing that.” A flutter of affection belied the words. “Picture your mental space for me.”

It materialised around them almost without effort on Harry’s part. The four doors still hung open. The fifth door loomed.

Thud-thud-thud-thud. Thud-thud-thud-thud.

“Very good. All you have to do is open it. Whenever you’re ready.”

The pounding of Harry’s heartbeat twined with the pounding on the door. Six months. He was really doing this.

He reached out to Malfoy in his mind and started when Malfoy grabbed his hand again in the physical world.

“It’s okay to be scared, Harry.”

“I’m not scared.” It wasn’t a lie. Malfoy was with him, and Harry trusted him completely. Nothing would go wrong. He was certain.

Harry took a deep breath, squeezed Malfoy’s hand, and opened the door.

A tsunami of noise and colour burst forth. It crashed over them, filling the room in an instant. It was much like the time Malfoy had opened his mental doors to show Harry his fantasies, but multiplied a thousandfold – these were all of Harry’s memories, twenty-seven years of them, and they were fighting to have him remember them.

The pounding noise had stopped dead the instant the door had opened, but it had been replaced by a cacophony of voices – familiar, unfamiliar, attached to names he didn’t know how he knew. Each was accompanied by a surge of emotion – anger, joy, frustration, pleasure, grief. Harry felt himself tremble. He held tight to Malfoy’s hand. Malfoy’s grip was blessedly solid.

Harry struggled to make sense of the chaos of images that flashed before him. He caught a glimpse of Ron, as he’d seen him in Malfoy’s head – thinner, ganglier, wearing school robes that showed six inches of freckled ankle. Then Hermione, drenched to the skin, curled up, sobbing loudly. A hawthorn wand wrestled out of a sweaty grip, the owner’s cool, fragrant magic still thrumming through it. A man with long black hair, fear and surprise twisting his gaunt face, falling backwards through a veiled archway. A high, sinister laugh.

Malfoy’s pale, terrified face lit up by a glittering green light, his wand pointed unsteadily at an old man slumped against rooftop ramparts.

Harry whimpered.

“Let them in, Harry.” Harry couldn’t see Malfoy any more, but he could still feel him. “You can do this.”

The flash of a rebounding spell, the graceful arc of a wand blasted from a spider-like hand, the heavy thud of an inhuman body on a stone floor. Flashes and flashes of cameras – thousands of them, over years and years and years. Voices yelling, beseeching, demanding, sneering. A fixed smile. A bedroom floor littered with Dreamless Sleep bottles. Ceremonies, balls, speeches. Himself, screaming into his pillow, clutching at his hair as another request to recount the War came clutched in the talons of a stern-faced owl. The cold, certain thought: I can’t do this anymore.

“Harry, you’re doing so well. You just have to let them in.”

Malfoy. Harry clung to the coolness of him, the sweet, spicy scent of him. His head was bursting, splitting with pain, and his heart was huge and heavy and so desperately, desperately sad. But Malfoy was there, his hand and his mind anchoring Harry to the present. Harry didn’t have to go through this alone. Not again.

“Don’t go.” Harry didn’t know whether he’d said it out loud or in his head. He clung to the feeling of Malfoy as the maelstrom of colour and sound dragged him under. “Please. Please don’t go.”

“I won’t,” Malfoy said, his voice echoing inside Harry’s mind. “I promise. I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Awareness returned slowly. Harry’s mind woke before his body did, the sensations of his physical self distant and muffled. It felt like he was floating. He was calm. Peaceful.

His awareness of his slow breathing and steady heartbeat was first to return. It was restored abruptly, like a lost part that had clicked back into place. He was alive, then. It was good to know.

Second to return was a searing pain that throbbed right over his scar. At this, the rest of his consciousness abruptly flooded back. Panic shot through him. He fumbled under his pillow for his wand. His eyes were gummed shut.

“Harry! You’re awake!” A voice? Hermione. Thank god. They must be in the tent.

“He’s here,” Harry mumbled. Where was his wand? “H’rmione … he’s close.”

“Who is, mate?” Ron. Of course. He’d come back, hadn’t he? The doe. The sword. The locket.

“Voldemort, he – My scar – Where – wand–”

“Shh, it’s okay.” A cool hand rested on his forehead. There was a touch on his shoulder, guiding him onto his back. “You’re in St Mungo’s.”

St Mungo’s. With another throb of his head, the world warped and resettled around him. St Mungo’s. Yes, that made sense. He must have got hurt on a case – which one? The Yaxley murders? Another throb – the Yaxley murders had been years ago, when he was fresh on the job and Ron was still his partner. Maybe it had been the Thistlewood disappearance? The Poesy plot? The images appeared unsteadily one by one in his head, as if balanced precariously on top of one another.

“Ow.”

“I know. It’s okay. You’re okay.” Hermione brushed the hair back from his forehead again.

“My scar hurts. What happened? I can’t think–”

“It’s not your scar.” Ron said quickly, reassuringly. “It’s nothing like that. You lost your memory for a bit. For a few months. Do you remember?”

Lost his memory? That was ridiculous – his problem was that he had too many memories, all jumbled together out of order. It seemed like yesterday that he’d stood in a quiet underground room gazing up at hundreds of flitting keys, while Oliver Wood’s thirtieth birthday drinks – and the subsequent lengthy hangover – felt like decades ago. Ginny speeding across the skies in a Harpies uniform morphed into her smiling shyly from across the Gryffindor common room. Lucius Malfoy’s sneer in the Top Box at the Quidditch World Cup jerkily became Draco striding towards him, throwing locking spells at his office door and pushing him so the backs of his thighs hit the desk–

“Oh, fuck.”

“Are you all right? Should I get a Healer?”

“What? Is he not–?” Harry scrubbed at his eyes; they were crusted over with dried tears. The room was blurry; unfamiliar at first, but the memory of their arrival slotted into place as he took it in. Ron and Hermione were sitting on his left, both with rumpled robes and dark smudges under their eyes. There was no one else in the room.

“Er, no,” Harry said, realising Hermione was still waiting for a response. “It’s fine. My head just feels … messy.”

“They said it might,” Hermione said sympathetically. “They said your memories will settle back into place over the next week.”

“Right.” Harry gingerly lay back on the bed. Now he was getting used to it, the pain wasn’t so bad. It hurt, obviously – a white hot knife cleaving his forehead open – but he’d had worse. The aftermath of Oliver Wood’s aforementioned thirtieth birthday had felt pretty similar.

“He had to go,” Ron said abruptly.

Harry carefully turned his head to raise a questioning eyebrow.

“Malfoy,” Ron clarified. Harry’s head throbbed again. “He’s been here every night, but he left for work a few hours ago. He looked like shit, too. Clearly he’s not used to missing his beauty sleep.” Ron chuckled. Harry looked back at the ceiling.

“Do you want us to send him a message?” Hermione’s anxious face hovered in his peripheral vision. “I’m sure he’d like to know you’re awake. He was obviously worried.”

Memories continued to tumble around Harry’s head like Gobstones in a cauldron.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Malfoy had said quietly in Brisley’s office, his eyes lingering on Harry.

“While I’ve got you here…” he’d sneered, looming above a paralysed Harry in a deserted train carriage and stamping hard on his face.

“Merlin. I really hope you never regret that,” he’d breathed against Harry’s mouth, their foreheads resting together.

“Cruci–!” he had cried, his tear-streaked face contorted with rage, before he had collapsed onto the bathroom floor, blood spurting from his chest, his face.

Harry pressed a hand to his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t – Nothing makes sense–”

“That’s okay, don’t worry. We’ll get Healer Brisley. She’ll be able to help.”

Healer Brisley – it took Harry a moment to recognise her – scurried in with a beaming smile. She cooed over him, asked him a list of questions, and had a stream of other Healers (but not him) come in and cast an endless series of spells on every part of Harry’s body.

His diagnostics were all perfect, apparently; Harry was, yet again, a medical miracle. The only thing he needed to do now was rest. It was recommended that he stay in St Mungo’s for the next few days, and have Healer Malfoy do another final check-up, just to be sure.

Harry declined the check-up. Hermione and Ron took him back to Grimmauld Place in a Muggle taxi. Ron tried to pay the driver with a Tesco Clubcard. Harry went to bed.

Harry’s second day of recovery

The bedroom was too confusing. Jumbled memories clamoured for his attention. Harry knew that some of them were fantasies – they had to be, surely – but it was impossible to tell what was real and what wasn’t. Hanging over the lot of them was a haze of – was that … tea? His pounding head throbbed, and at two in the morning, Harry dragged his duvet and pillow to the spare room on the second floor, where he’d stayed with Ron during fifth year. The room was clean, tidy and clearly unused. It was a comfort. Harry was asleep within minutes.

He woke to Hermione thundering through the house, shouting his name. He groaned out a weak protest, his head still delicate. He was rewarded with the door slamming open and a furious lecture about disappearing without telling someone where he was going. Attempts to point out that he was allowed to go into other rooms in his own house were met with hostility.

Hermione Side-Alonged him to St Mungo’s for the first of his daily check-ups with Healer Brisley. Harry automatically led them to the fourth floor. They were almost at Malfoy’s door when Hermione pointed out they were in completely the wrong part of the hospital. Harry’s face heated and he whirled back towards the stairwell without a word. He couldn’t think about it yet. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Brisley was satisfied with his progress and sent him away with a smile and a reaffirmed instruction to put his feet up for the next few days. As Harry and Hermione stood to leave, the cuckoo clock burst out to shriek that it had just turned ten o’clock. Harry resisted the urge to hex it straight off the wall.

Harry spent the afternoon at Ron and Hermione’s. They chatted about light things – schooldays, Quidditch, Weasley family drama. Harry recognised every name that Ron and Hermione tentatively mentioned, although his grasp of timelines was still shaky. He stayed for dinner (Ron cooked) and returned to Grimmauld Place after sundown.

He slept in the spare room again.

Harry’s third day of recovery

His test results were still encouraging, and Harry left Brisley’s office with the prediction that he would be completely back to normal within another few days. He’d come alone this time, and stood motionless in the fourth-floor corridor for five long minutes before turning away and heading home.

As he stepped into the kitchen for a fortifying cuppa, Kreacher took one look at him, bowed deeply and croaked, “Welcome back, Master Harry.”

Harry thanked him awkwardly. Kreacher smirked and snapped his fingers. Three huge piles of letters appeared next to him, all of which reached from the floor to the ceiling. Harry stared, horrified. He vaguely remembered owls arriving from people he didn’t know, carrying letters he didn’t understand. He hadn’t known what to do with them, so he’d tossed them aside. He hadn’t realised Kreacher had been salvaging them.

“I don’t want these,” he said. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the towers of parchment.

Kreacher tutted. “Master must reclaim his position in society,” he said reproachfully. “A House’s influence relies on keeping itself in the consciousness of the proletariat. Kreacher’s Mistress taught him that.”

Walburga Black’s shrieking, spitting portrait flashed to the forefront of Harry’s mind. He would have preferred it if that memory had stayed lost.

Sighing, he banished the letters into the drawing room and began to plough through them. He could identify fanmail at a glance and burned each one on sight, but even then, it was early afternoon before he’d opened them all. By the time he was done, only a single stack remained. It was good progress, he thought.

After a quick lunch (that an approving Kreacher tiptoed through the piles of paper and ash to serve him), Harry sat down to write replies to the remaining letters.

Every fifth letter, Harry would write Malfoy’s name at the top of a blank piece of parchment, stare at it, then screw it into a ball and throw it over his shoulder. Every tenth letter, he would stand abruptly, grab his wand and stride to the front door to Disapparate to St Mungo’s, only to come to a halt, swear loudly, and stomp back to the drawing room. By the evening, Harry’s head was pounding again. He balefully surveyed the remaining pile of letters (now the size of a short human – or a tall goblin) and decided that if the senders had already waited for months, another day or two wouldn’t hurt.

The bed in the spare room was cold and uninviting.

Harry’s sixth day of recovery

Somehow, despite Harry’s memory loss not being public to begin with, the news of his recovery had made it back to Head Auror Robards. Harry was pulled in for a lengthy interrogation about whether he still wanted to be an Auror (yes), whether he was ready for active duty (no) and whether his head was fixed yet (mostly). He wore his uniform to the meeting out of habit – it was only once he got home and caught sight of himself in the mirror that he realised the only time he’d seen himself wearing it in the last six months had been inside Malfoy’s mind. Harry pulled the robes off and shoved them in the back of the wardrobe out of sight.

Harry’s eleventh day of recovery

The pile of letters was conquered, Harry’s final check-in at St Mungo’s was over and he was, officially, back to normal. (“Of course, you were hardly normal to begin with, were you, Mr Potter?” Healer Brisley tittered. Harry smiled through gritted teeth, thanked her effusively for her help, and shot a Permanent Silencing Spell at the awful cuckoo clock on his way out.)

He Apparated from St Mungo’s to the Burrow, thrilled that, for the first time in months, he’d be spending longer than twenty-four hours away from the hospital. Mrs Weasley was overjoyed to see him, and Harry spent a wonderful afternoon pottering around the Burrow and chatting, her sympathetic questions startling truthful answers out of him. When he left, she hugged him tightly and made him promise not to leave it so long until his next visit, because she would still love him even if he had no idea who she was.

He arrived at Ron and Hermione’s for dinner with his eyes still prickling and his arms full of food. The hours passed quickly – it was only now that he realised how tense Ron and Hermione had been for the last six months. Seeing Hermione snort with laughter and Ron wave his arms to recount a frenzied tale from the Wheezes shop floor warmed Harry’s insides more than Mrs Weasley’s delicious shepherd’s pie ever could. He went home smiling.

The spare bedroom was especially unfriendly after Harry’s sentimental day. He only hesitated for a half-second before he scooped up his bedding and took it upstairs to his old bedroom.

It was strange how the habits he’d formed over the last six months blended with the habits he’d had for years. When making tea, he would find himself reaching for his old favourite mug – that hadn’t been touched since February – with one hand, and the jar of Earl Grey tea leaves with the other. When he went to Ron and Hermione’s, he’d flop unthinkingly into his old spot on the sofa, but his eyes would still linger on the photographs that lined the mantelpiece. And, while lying on his bed, rubbing the heel of his hand over a headache that threatened along his scar, it was the most natural thing in the world to close his eyes and picture the mental space he’d worked on with Malfoy.

It was the first time he’d been back. He was amused to note that he hadn’t made up the room from scratch, as he’d assumed – it was almost identical to the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory. The five doors – all the same size now – stood along the walls where the five beds had been. All of them were ajar except one.

Harry approached the closed door slowly. He hadn’t been keeping it shut consciously, but he knew what must be behind it. He’d been luxuriating in recalling every detail from his past that he possibly could. There was only one thing he’d avoided thinking about.

He took several deep, calming breaths, and opened the door.

So much for staying away from the hospital for longer than twenty-four hours. Harry checked his watch and increased his pace – it was nearly ten already. He’d overslept; he’d spent hours last night swimming in memories of Malfoy and didn’t get to sleep until the early hours of the morning. But he couldn’t put this off any longer.

It was only once he was outside Malfoy’s door that he realised he should have sent an owl first. Or maybe he should have worn his Auror uniform after all – he’d briefly considered it, just to see how Malfoy would react – then, at least, he’d look like he had the authority to turf out anyone else. Not that Harry was possessive, not like that, that’s not what–

Harry rolled his eyes, frustrated with himself, and knocked.

“Yes?”

Harry opened the door and promptly froze. God, there he was. He’d already been looking at the door – unusual in itself, normally he’d be scribbling away in the notebook – but on seeing Harry, he dropped his quill and half-rose from his chair.

“Potter.” It was the first time Harry had heard his voice since before he’d regained his memory. The sound of it made his skin tingle.

“Malfoy.” He didn’t know what to do with his arms. He leant one casually against the door, then dropped it back to his side. “Erm. Are you busy?”

Malfoy snapped his notebook closed, still half-standing. “Not at all. Please–” He waved a hand at the wingback chair. Harry’s chair.

Harry took a deep breath and closed the door.

“I haven’t heard from Brisley or Granger about your recovery for a few days,” Malfoy said carefully. “Are things still progressing as they should?”

“Oh – yeah. Yes. By the looks of things, I’m pretty much fixed now.” He grimaced as he sat. “Sorry, I should have got in touch.”

Malfoy shook his head. “Not at all. I’m glad to hear it.” He sat too. His long fingers flexed. “What – er. What can I do for you?”

“I – well, I … There’s a few things, actually.”

“Oh?”

Harry’s heart was beating rapidly in his chest. He wondered whether Malfoy’s was too.

“Yeah. First, I – I wanted to say thank you.” This part was the easiest. “Obviously I didn’t realise exactly what – what you were putting behind you when you agreed to work with me. It can’t have been easy, and I wouldn’t have got my memories back without you. So – thank you.”

“Please, don’t mention it.” The words sounded automatic. Malfoy must get patients thanking him all the time. “It was my pleas– I mean, it was no trouble.”

Their eyes met. Harry’s breathing sped up. He cleared his throat.

“I also wanted to let you know that I’ve thought a lot about what you said. About how overburdening myself could be the reason I lost my memory in the first place.”

“It’s just a theory,” Malfoy pointed out. “There are so many variables–”

“I know, but the pile of post that was waiting for me at home makes me think you might be right. Either way, I just wanted to say that thanks to you, I’m a Mind Healing convert. I’m actually looking for someone to help me mentally manage that sort of stuff better.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s wary features flickered, then settled into a polite smile. “Of course. You did show a great deal of progress, but further strengthening would only benefit you.” He flipped to the front of his notebook and ran a finger down the page. “I could start you off on Tuesdays and Thursdays in the ten o’clock slot. I don’t think it would need to be more frequent than that–”

Harry laughed. “No, that’s not – you dick. I’m not asking if you’ll be my Healer. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Oh,” said Malfoy again, bristling. “Well then. I sympathise with the poor sod who ends up dealing with you.” Harry grinned at Malfoy’s knee-jerk waspishness. “Is that all, then?”

“No.” Harry couldn’t wipe the grin off his face. This was so much easier with Malfoy scowling at him. “One more thing.”

“Just one? Lucky me.”

“I wanted to say – I don’t want to see you at ten o’clock on Tuesday–”

“Yes, actually, you were quite clear–”

”– but I’d like to see you at eight o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Malfoy’s face was abruptly carefully, professionally blank.

“What?” he said eventually.

“For dinner,” Harry clarified. “Somewhere that isn’t the bloody Leaky Cauldron. If you’re free.”

“I …” The taught line of Malfoy’s shoulders softened minutely. “I suppose I could move some things around,” he said slowly. “Is this a business meeting?”

“Nope. I’ve heard it’s iffy, ethically, for a Mind Healer to talk business during social hours. I wouldn’t want to put you in that position. Er, again.”

Malfoy’s face was still inscrutable and Harry’s heart was so, so soft. He couldn’t resist adding, “Of course, I’m also fine skipping the dinner and heading straight to mine, if you’d prefer. I’m actually free right now, if…?”

“Potter. I…” Malfoy’s long fingers twisted his thick silver ring. Harry drank in the sight greedily. “There are many guidelines concerning what can be construed as improper conduct for someone in the Mind Healing profession, so I just – I want to be clear on exactly what you’re asking before I respond.”

God, Harry wanted to grab him and kiss those mechanical words right out of him.

“I’m asking you on a date,” Harry said. “Or, I’m asking if you want to sack off work for the rest of the day and come home with me. Last night I recovered some final memories. I’m definitely interested in revisiting them if you are.”

Malfoy swallowed. “What memories did you recover?”

“The last time we were in this office together.” Malfoy’s breath caught. Harry continued, his voice low. “A lot of fantasies from the weeks before. And quite a few from before I lost my memory, actually.”

Malfoy leaned forwards, his eyes wide. “From before you lost your memory? Are you sure?”

“Do you want to see? I can show you.”

Malfoy’s professional mask had lapsed entirely. Harry hoped he would never see it again.

”Yes,” Malfoy said.

“Yes to which bit?”

“All of it. Anything.” Harry was about to stand, grab Malfoy and Apparate them to Grimmauld Place when Malfoy added, “But not now. I can’t – I’ve already cancelled too many sessions this week. Tomorrow?”

Visions of a long, luxurious afternoon spent with Malfoy vanished as quickly as they had appeared. But tomorrow – tomorrow was okay. Tomorrow was more than okay.

Harry would wait as long as he needed to. After all, with any luck, tomorrow would be a day he would remember forever.