Chapter 3: Chapter ThreeNotes:This chapter includes Veritaserum and some flashbacks/memories/references to past abuse. Just a warning!
Chapter TextChapter ThreeDraco frowned at the chalkboard in his study, his hands on his hips.
He'd added 'crazed fan?' to the notes under the Who? line, because it was possible. Likely, even.
Next to Who? was a new section, Why? because every curse had a purpose, and this arsehole had to have some sort of motive, other than inconveniencing Harry with muteness. It certainly sounded that way, with their prophetic rambling. This section was filled with half-thought-out scribbles, like remove HP as political figure, belittlement, qualms about hero status, and other little notes that just weren't adding up.
Draco still had no clue, after puzzling over it for days. He thought about everything the attacker had said, about how Harry played the part of a hero to appease the masses, and no one really knew anything about him. But so what? So he was a private man, but fulfilled what he probably felt he was obligated to do as a war hero people looked up to. How was that a problem for anyone else? Did they want the spotlight, instead? Did they have some sort of political agenda? Were they just bored of watching Harry play his role?
"I have seen it, and you will be known." Okay, so they had a dream or a vision or visited the future and saw someone getting to know the real Harry. Did they want that privilege for themselves? Or someone else? And most of all, how does hiding Harry's voice help someone get to know him?!
Unless… Draco frowned harder. Hiding Harry's voice did limit his healing options quite a bit. It was really something only a Healer Legilimens should handle, and Legilimency was indeed a very fast and intense way to get to know someone. But Legilimency shouldn't be used to just get to know somebody, it was horribly invasive, not to mention dangerous if done incorrectly. Draco certainly wouldn't trust a Legilimens who cast on him just to get to know him. He'd rage and rant that the prat should have just asked him to go for a pint, instead, like a normal person. He wouldn't want anything to do with someone like that.
But it was possible that if the attacker had foreseen someone getting to know Harry, they might have foreseen him seeing a Healer Legilimens, too, and done something to him to warrant such an interaction. Seeing as Draco was the only Healer Legilimens in England, it was even possible the attacker had intentionally pushed Harry towards Draco. He thought about the attacker's final words, their vague excitement and anticipation: "I am sorry to make you misplace this memory, as well, but do not worry. He will find it."
He thought about how easy it was to find that missing memory, how it had dragged him in against his will and gotten him hooked on the puzzle, on the mysteries he wanted to solve. He felt something like lead fill his stomach—this curse could involve Draco as much as it involved Harry. Wasn't that just his luck?
He knew, in his bones, that Harry would be livid if he found out he and Draco were pushed together against his will by someone who claimed they knew best. His childhood was thrown away by a prophecy, it was completely unfair that another should follow him into adulthood. He'd been a pawn for most of his life, and probably valued his free will and independence greatly, now that he had it.
Worst of all, he hadn't wanted to interact with Draco in the first place. If Harry thought someone knew he'd have to go to Draco, he would jump straight into suspicion that Draco himself had made it that way.
"But do not worry. He will find it." "He" sounded like a friend, or someone this person knew. If Harry believed his attacker knew Draco personally, Draco probably had a one-way ticket to Azkaban in the near future. Bloody Seers.
And if someone did push Harry to Draco, they certainly didn't do it out of the goodness of their hearts, or with Draco's interests in mind. This would be a terrible plan to give Draco business, which he honestly didn't need, he did well enough for himself. No, if someone wanted Draco involved with a curse on Harry Potter, it was more likely that Draco was supposed to take the fall for it. He was certain no one would fight that accusation, especially coming from the Saviour. No one would question it. Draco began to sag with dread—this had been a terrible idea.
But it was Thursday, it was almost nine o clock, and this room, this sanctuary, was made for honesty. Draco would have to share his suspicions, even if they might cause Harry to attack, or flee.
Would Harry even believe him?
Draco sighed in resignation, trying to collect himself into the professional he was, and looked down into his half-empty mug of coffee. There was one way he could make Harry believe he was telling the truth, but he hated the idea.
He walked to the window, drawing open the curtains to reveal a grey, misty day. As he felt the wards wobble with Harry's arrival, he smoothed out wrinkles in his dark blue shirt. Nothing was ever simple with Harry Potter involved, he shouldn't be surprised that it could turn on his head at any moment.
Harry entered the room, closing the door quietly behind him and nodding at Draco. He swept the room quickly with his eyes, but not as thoroughly as the first time. Harry was a little more comfortable here, now, which made Draco's gut clench, knowing what he had to share with him.
"Harry."
Harry was catching on to Draco's nervous body language, eyes darting from Draco's tense face to the white knuckles gripping his coffee mug. It was making Harry nervous in turn. Harry's right hand was twitching, wanting to draw his wand out of the pocket of his jeans. Not a hopeful start.
"I've been thinking, and I've come up with a possible theory about your attacker, one that honestly frightens me, and that I'm pretty sure you're not going to like." Draco hoped his fear didn't show too much on his face. "But I told you I would be honest with you, in here, and I will be." He walked behind his desk, setting down the coffee, and opened another locked drawer, which held a number of assorted potions. He picked out the small glass vial of clear liquid, tightly sealed, and held it up.
Harry's eyes widened as he recognized the Veritaserum, but Draco held his hand up to stop any protests, silent though they would be.
"Let me explain my theory to you, first, and when I'm finished, I'll take the Veritaserum and answer any questions you have. I told you I'll always give you full honesty, and you should trust that, but in this case, I thought you might appreciate the extra failsafe."
Draco grabbed his notebook and walked towards the chairs by the fire, motioning for Harry to join him. Draco took the chair with his back to the door, again. He waited for Harry to sit across from him. Harry sat, cautiously, his eyes darting back and forth between Draco and the tiny bottle on the side table. Draco took a deep breath.
"Right. I've been going over what the attacker has said, and done, and there's a possibility that I'm involved in whatever little prophecy made them attack you in the first place." Harry jerked back. That was expected, but Draco carried on.
Draco explained everything he thought he knew, the possible reasons they would have for attacking Harry in this way, forcing him to see a Healer Legilimens, to see Draco Malfoy. The odd, prophetic things they said to Harry. "You will be known." "He will find it."
Harry listened intently, his face caught somewhere between rage and determination. Draco recognized that look from school, and knew he wanted to fight someone, right now. Draco hoped it wasn't him, that Harry would give him the chance to take the potion and tell the whole truth. But he'd understand if he didn't. The trust between them was still so new, and so fragile, and it was already being tested.
Draco finished explaining his theory, watching Harry's face carefully, and picked up the potion vial on the side table. Harry watched its path warily.
"Now, if I'm right, and I know what that theory sounds like, you're probably thinking I had something to do with whoever cursed you, that I made them do it, or something, to make you come to me. I know I told you on Monday that I'd always wanted an opportunity for us to get to know each other properly, but never thought I would actually get it. I know it probably wouldn't even surprise you if I did have something to do with it. It's what you'd expect from me, it's what the world expects from a Malfoy, and if you were to accuse me, no one would question it." Harry furrowed his brows, as if he had no idea the kind of power he held, the idiot.
"I want to make sure you know I'm telling you the truth." He handed the bottle to Harry. "Check it," he ordered. "It's Auror-grade Veritaserum, straight from the Ministry."
Harry eyed him suspiciously, but pulled out his wand and performed the diagnostic charms on the bottle, identifying it as Veritaserum. He wondered if Harry even recognized the bottle. It was definitely the same ones Aurors used, he knew. He'd nicked it from them himself.
Apparently satisfied with his checks, he handed the bottle back to Draco, who quickly went ahead and broke the wax seal, uncorked it, and dumped the entirety of its contents down his throat. It felt like viscous, lukewarm water in his mouth, and Draco could feel it taking effect immediately. He squeezed his eyes shut, hopelessly trying to stop it, but he felt high, now, and it only made him feel more sick, and more panicked. Merlin, he had never planned on using that potion on himself, he'd only thought it would be helpful for a cursed patient someday. He was astonished at himself, at the lengths he would go to for this particularpatient. Draco had never wanted to feel like this ever again, after his time in the Ministry.
He looked up at Harry, who was just staring at him, eyes wide, jaw clenched tight. His hands were held tensely out in front of him, as if he had wanted to grab Draco, but decided against it halfway through.
"Well, start writing," Draco snapped.
Harry's pen dropped obediently to the paper, writing furiously. He turned the notebook around.
Only 3 drops needed!! Why did you take whole thing?
As soon as he finished reading, words were coming out of Draco's mouth, beyond his control. "Because I don't want to take any chances that you won't believe me," Draco heard, and yes, that was true, but the potion demanded more, so he finished with, "and because that's how much they normally used on me, so I assumed you would want me to use that much, too."
Harry was writing again, shaking his head vehemently.
Who used it on you before?
"The Ministry of Magic."
Who in the Ministry?
"Aurors. Licensers. Wizengamot. Harry, this isn't—" —important, he wanted to say, but apparently that wasn't true, and he couldn't force the word from his lips. Harry continued writing, and at this point, the notebook was always faced where Draco could read it, as Harry wrote, sitting awkwardly crooked on his chair.
Did you tell someone to hide my voice or curse me?
"No," Draco said fiercely, because it was the truth, and the potion knew it, too.
Do you know who did this to me?
"No."
Do you know any prophecies about me?
"N—" The potion stopped him again, apparently he did know a prophecy about Harry. "Yes," he tried. "I know there was a prophecy that named you as the one who could kill Voldemort, but I don't know exactly what it said. I don't know of any others."
Do you know any Seers?
"N—eurgh, Trelawney. But she doesn't c—" He couldn't finish that one, either.
Why did you agree to help me?
"Because I wanted to," the words flooded out of Draco's mouth. "Because I knew I should, as a Healer, because I owe you a life debt, because I was curious, because I wanted the challenge, because I wanted the opportunity to really get to know you, after I mucked up so many chances, and for you to see me as the man I've become." Draco gasped. The potion hadn't let him take a breath through that word vomit. He hoped Harry's other questions required shorter answers.
Harry eyed him for a moment, giving him a minute to breathe. Draco was grateful for the brief respite. He told himself that if this is what it took to gain Harry's trust, then it was worth it. It didn't make it any more comfortable to endure. Harry returned pen to paper.
Where are we?
"In my study, in my home, in Devon."
Are you married? "No." Dating? "No." Honestly, why would he be…?
Do you own any Dark Artifacts?
"N—" he tried. "Not in my home," the potion corrected. "Apparently there are some waiting for me in an inheritance that I do not yet have access to. I don't want them."
Where were you born?
"In Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire."
Where did we first meet?
"On the Hog—" nope. "Madam Malkin's, though I didn't know it was you at the time."
Harry's eyes were smiling, but a corner of his mouth was turned down in concern, or concentration. He seemed to light up a little as he wrote the next question.
What is your Patronus?
"A common nightingale."
What memory do you use to conjure it?
Damn it. Draco tried to hold his lips together, but it was no use. This was so embarrassing. "Not a memory," Draco panted as the truth burst through. "A dream. A fantasy."
He shook his head frantically, hoping the potion would accept that, but he could feel the words bubbling up his throat. "I dreamed I was in my bed, naked, with a man curled behind me. It was morning, we were waking up, he was stroking my sides, intertwining our fingers, pulling me closer to him. I could feel the warmth of his chest against my back and his erection against my arse—" Draco groaned, now, because he was reciting a fantasy to a patient, which was apparently quite unethical, according to the harsh, painful yank in his stomach. He gasped and doubled over, clutching his abdomen and panting, but the potion forced him to continue through the pain. "—but we weren't fucking. We were just laying together, and his nose was in my hair and he was whispering something against my ear, and I don't know who he was, but I knew that I loved him, and that he loved me. It's not real. But the happiness I felt was, and it was enough to conjure a corporeal Patronus."
Draco's hands were shaking violently, and he could feel his hair sticking to his forehead and neck with sweat. The pain continued in his gut, as if someone had reached in, grabbed his organs in a fist and twisted them around. His hands clutched at his sides, his arms curled over his abdomen in defense, in defeat.
When Draco looked up at him, swaying, Harry's eyes were wide and frantic, one hand held out in front of him as if to touch Draco—for what reason, Draco didn't know. He looked almost… regretful? Afraid? Draco had worn the same expression a few times when his goddaughter was an infant, and he'd made a face at her to try to make her smile, but had only ended up making her cry.
But Harry took his hand back, shaking himself out of whatever had come over him, hunching his shoulders in. He glanced apologetically at Draco, once, and started writing again, and Draco tried to hold back a sob, because the fear was real, now. What if Harry was just like the other Aurors, who had laughed and watched as he suffered through Veritaserum overdoses as a teenager, who had asked him the most incriminating and embarrassing things they could think of, purely for their own entertainment?
But Harry's notebook read, who has used Veritaserum on you before?
"Aurors, Licensers and Wizengamot of the Ministry of Magic." Draco's voice was small, hoping to be able to dissociate himself from this moment and ride it out. At least the pain in his gut was subsiding.
Where did you get this Veritaserum?
"Nicked it," came the automatic reply, "it fell out of an Auror's pocket as he bent over my cot to spit on me. They always brought so much with them. I was convulsing, my body covered it."
What were the names of the Aurors?
"I don't know. They never wore badges around me."
He chanced a look up at Harry, and saw his mouth pressed in a thin, grim line. A muscle was twitching in his jaw. His green eyes looked fiery with anger, but ultimately concerned, and it struck Draco that Harry was possibly angry for him, angry at the Aurors that had abused him. That probably ruffled his unwavering sense of justice—this might be his hero complex at work. But Harry was still an Auror, and Draco had taken too much Veritaserum, and this was not a dynamic he had ever wanted to revisit. He tried to keep his bottom lip from trembling, hoping Harry would run out of questions soon.
Before Sunday, did you ever expect to speak to me again?
"No."
Who do you speak to on a regular basis?
"Timsy, Pansy, and my mother, though not as often as I should. Minister Shacklebolt, occasionally. The staff of the Curse Damage ward at St. Mungo's, when we collaborate." He paused, but apparently the potion thought this was important. "There's a muggle bakery called Sweet Nothings, in London, I'm friendly with the folks there. I buy their baklava regularly, because Timsy loves it."
How did you learn to use muggle money?
"I learned how to buy the baklava, after watching another muggle do it, with two of the blue paper money they use. I went to Gringotts and told them to convert a sum into the blue muggle papers, with the '5' on them, so now I have a stash of them. The first time, I handed over the requisite two blue papers, and the muggle at the counter tried to hand me change, but I don't know what to do with the other colours or the different coins, so I told him to keep it, and he liked that. Now we have a routine, where I go in, and they know I want the baklava, and I give them the two blue papers, and I always tell them to keep the change, and they smile at me." What an odd thing for the potion to insist on explaining, Draco thought as he gasped for air, again.
Are you in contact with your father?
Draco's lip curled. "No."
When was the last time you spoke to him?
"In the moments after you killed Voldemort, sitting in the Great Hall, before the Aurors came for us."
Harry raised his eyebrows, his pen moving quickly across the page.
You don't write to him, or him to you?
"No. I haven't wanted to speak to him since he offered me up to the Dark Lord, as collateral, in an effort to remedy his failings." Harry raised his eyebrows again, probably at Draco's switch to "the Dark Lord."
Harry was writing again. He'd used up several pages by now.
What do you want to do right now? Harry looked up at him as he finished writing. What an odd question. Draco let the potion answer it without his input.
"I want to stop this interrogation, because it feels like the Aurors, again. I want to sleep off the Veritaserum. I want to drink Timsy's hot chocolate." Shite.
Timsy immediately popped into the room, with two steaming mugs of hot chocolate topped with homemade marshmallows, Draco would never get over his speed and efficiency. But his big, round eyes landed on Draco, recognizing a(nother) Veritaserum overdose, and he turned quite a menacing glare on Auror Potter.
But Harry only put down his notebook, and held his hands up, then held out one finger, pointed up, to Timsy. Harry Potter was telling Draco's house elf, give me a minute. Unbelievable.
Draco expected more questions. He expected magical handcuffs for no reason other than Harry could. He even hoped Harry would just let him go sleep it off. He didn't expect Harry to lean over and gently pull Draco's hands away from his waist, curling his palms over the inside of Draco's wrists, his index fingers pointing up his forearms, inside his shirt cuffs. Draco could feel Harry's fingers grazing the bottom of the Mark on his left arm, and he was too shocked to do anything but stare. His body was sweating and twitching through the effects of the potion—he knew the convulsions would start soon, he'd probably be incapacitated for the rest of the day.
He wondered what sort of trick Harry had planned now. If this was how the Aurors were arresting people, these days, maybe it wasn't so bad. Harry's hands were rough, but so gentle, and so warm.
And getting warmer. Or was that just his arms? No, it was both. Draco felt warmth building in the veins of his wrists, and following his bloodstream up his arms. He looked up at Harry's face, which was pinched in concentration, his eyes firmly shut. When he looked back down at his arms, he thought he could see a soft, pinkish glow, like a horizon just before dawn, where Harry's fingers met his skin.
Draco wondered and wondered, shocked and awed and a little afraid as the heat continued washing through him, reaching his heart and pumping down throughout his torso, down his legs, up his neck and into his brain. His mind wasn't bothering to comprehend it, and his own hands were subconsciously wrapping themselves around Harry's wrists. It was a heady feeling, and he could feel himself starting to sweat and sway, again, but he realized his vision wasn't swimming, like it was supposed to. His head felt clearer. He could feel his warmed blood rushing through him like wind, like a tropical storm in his veins.
And then it really hit him that this was Harry'sdoing, Harry was doing something to his blood, and if his head felt clear right now, if he was able to think of untrue things, then Harry was wandlessly burning the Veritaserum out of his blood with his magic.
Draco hadn't even known such a thing was possible. But he was grateful for the result, so he didn't question it. The warmth flowed and filled him so completely, and Draco could unfortunately feel a stir in his groin, but that couldn't be helped, with Harry warming and pushing his blood around his body, and with Harry's thoughtless display of magical power. His bonds agreed, apparently, because there was no pain, no tweak of warning, thank Merlin.
After a couple of minutes the heat was beginning to diminish, but Draco hadn't taken his eyes off of Harry's face. He just watched him, watched Harry frown in concentration, watched Harry use his outrageously powerful magic to make Draco feel better. He watched the curls of his hair above his forehead, he watched the breath coming in and out of Harry's straight nose. He watched Harry's shoulders tense, barely, with the effort of moving his magic like this, he breathed the smell of rain and ozone in the air around them, until finally, Harry released his wrists, and opened his eyes.
Draco didn't know how long they sat there, watching each other, assessing each other, until Draco finally remembered himself enough to say, "Thank you," and his voice came out hoarser than he'd liked, but he wasn't going to repeat himself. Harry gave a quick nod and grabbed his notebook again, and Draco took the time he was writing to take inventory of himself. Thighs, hair, scar, Mark, Harry's handprints, thighs, hair, scar, fingers, Mark, Draco, Harry's magic, Draco.
When he opened his eyes again, he saw Harry's notebook, facing him once more.
Lie to me
Draco allowed himself a small smile. "I won't," he replied. "Not in here." He let himself meet Harry's eyes. Harry's lips were turned up in another tiny smile. "You were successful, however or whatever you did," Draco added. "I feel much better."
Harry's smile grew then, and he reached over to the side table for something. His hand returned holding two hot chocolates, and he handed one to Draco. Only then did Draco realize Timsy had left.
"Where did he go?" Draco asked, and Harry just shrugged.
"Then he trusts you," Draco noted, impressed. "He wouldn't have left if he thought I wasn't safe."
Draco debated with himself for a moment, then toed off his shoes with a mental ah, fuck it. He tucked his feet up under him on the chair, and allowed himself to relax for the first time that day, sipping his luxurious hot chocolate, until Harry turned the notebook on him again.
You are safe, here
Draco grinned at Harry, who'd apparently taken Draco's words to heart that first session and returned them to him, when he needed it most.
***
The weather wouldn't have made for a good flight, and Draco was still feeling drained from the Veritaserum, so they spent their midday break inside. Draco hadn't even tried Legilimency after that ordeal. They'd spent the morning in their chairs, discussing the theory, brainstorming who might have such bizarre motives, and coming up blank.
But Harry had at least believed him, and trusted him. And Draco trusted Harry, too, after being taken care of like that, and having Harry prove that he was safe, in their agreed sanctuary, even when he was terrified. Draco felt the trust almost as a physical thing, between them, an imaginary rope being braided with more strands of experience every time they interacted, growing stronger with each addition.
Draco had shown Harry to the sitting room, to the shelves of easy reading he could pick from, if he wanted. He even pointed out the record player Pansy had bought him, years ago, that played both muggle and magical albums. Draco sat on the sofa, legs extended along its length, now that he'd committed to being without shoes for the day. Harry had removed his boots, as well, revealing a pair of hideously bright, hand knit polka dot socks that made Draco laugh.
Harry sat cross-legged on the floor next to the record player, assorted records scattered around him. Pansy bought him several new ones for every Christmas, sometimes just because they looked interesting, and his mother had dutifully provided Celestina Warbeck's entire discography. Now he had a bit of a collection. Harry was currently playing Oasis' (What's the Story) Morning Glory?,his bowl of chicken soup nearly forgotten on the floor next to him. Occasionally he would hold up a record to show Draco, his face full of silent questions, which Draco dutifully answered.
The chords of "Champagne Supernova" filled the room, and Draco sighed, relaxing deeper into the couch, his legs crossed at the ankle. His soup was long finished. Harry held up an album of Doris Day's Greatest Hits, another question in his eyes.
"Witch," Draco answered. "American. Muggles love her, too. That's Timsy's favourite album, he listens to it when he's roasting."
Harry furrowed his brows in further confusion.
"Coffee," Draco added. "He roasts his own coffee beans. I bought him a little roaster a couple years ago, when I got fed up with his complaining about the quality of the coffee in Wizarding Britain. It's quite a process, but he picked it up quickly, he sources the beans himself, and he loves doing it. Now, I have the best coffee in England, every morning." Draco smirked.
"And, he listens to that album there, while he roasts," he finished. Harry was grinning widely now. It was a fun image to picture, Timsy humming to "Dream a Little Dream of Me" while carefully watching and smelling his beans in the little roaster with his long, curved nose. Draco grinned back.
Harry continued his journey through Draco's albums, and Draco closed his eyes and dropped his head back on the arm of the sofa, just for a moment. His hands were folded over his stomach, his wand left on the coffee table. He'd never have believed he could be so relaxed with Harry Potter in his house, especially after the events of the morning. He felt warm and languid, and he could easily have dozed right there and left Harry to his own devices. He didn't, because after a couple of minutes, Harry snapped his fingers to get his attention.
"Sorry," Draco mumbled, lifting his head and peering at him. Harry only looked amused. He was holding up The Fugees album, The Score this time. He pointed at it and mouthed, hip hop?
"Hip hop," Draco repeated, and Harry nodded. "I honestly have no idea what you're talking about, but Lauryn Hill has a voice like a Veela. She's an American muggle—as far as I know. She might be a Veela, who knows? Have you heard this?" Harry shook his head, still smiling.
"Well, then depriving you of it now would be a crime. Put it on, go on then, track eight." He flapped his hand at Harry with faux impatience. They had time for one more song, before they had to get back to work. "Then sit back and relax. Appreciate the experience, Harry." Draco folded his hands behind his head and stared at his ceiling, ready to be entranced, as was proper when listening to this particular song.
"Strumming my pain with his fingers
Singing my life with his words
Killing me softly with his song
Killing me softly…"
Draco sighed as the beat kicked in, Hill's angelic voice reverberating around the room and his head. Such a voice, it had to be magic. He'd heard this song playing in a muggle coffee shop Pansy took him to, and hadn't wanted to leave. He'd made Pansy get the name of the artist from the muggle barista—because he was a coward—and hinted heavily that she should be included in his Christmas record haul that year.
As her echoing vocals faded out, Draco sighed again in satisfaction. He turned his head to the side to look at Harry, who was still sat on the floor, jean-clad legs out in front of him, ridiculous socked-feet crossed at the ankles. His hands were folded in his lap, his back against the shelves, his head tipped back and his eyes closed. He looked peaceful. He looked like how Draco felt.
Harry opened his eyes as the song ended, meeting Draco's gaze, and mouthed Wow.
Draco made a haughty, gracious motion with his hand, like a benevolent king. "You're welcome. Now, back to work."
Draco swung his feet back to the floor and picked up his wand, making a wide sweeping arc in front of him. The records gracefully picked themselves up off the floor and floated back to their cabinet, in perfect alphabetical order (because he was clueless about genre). He was so glad he'd learned that charm early on.
Back in the study, Draco asked Timsy for tea. Mostly because he felt like he should be holding something warm in his hands. He didn't want to lose that comforting feeling just yet.
"I think we should actively start our search today, do you agree?" Draco asked. Harry nodded, putting three sugars and plenty of milk in his own tea. Draco refrained from wrinkling his nose at how that might taste.
"Then we start where we should, at the beginning. You can steer us to your earliest memories—" Harry grimaced, "—but I'll take the reins if we need to see something closer, or if you have trouble recalling something important. Alright?"
Harry's peaceful mood seemed to have evaporated. He set down his teacup, breathing harshly through his nose, his fingers flexing against the armrest of the chair. His eyes were darting from Draco to the door.
"Harry," Draco tried, lowering his voice and moving his head a little to the side to meet his eyes. "Are you nervous about the memories themselves—" he held up his index finger, "—or my control of how we view them?" He held up his middle finger next to the first.
Harry searched Draco's face, hands still gripping the armrests, before holding up his index finger in answer.
Draco nodded. That wasn't unusual for his patients.
"You know you're safe here," he reminded Harry. "I won't pass judgement on you, and nothing in there can hurt you now. If it gets to be too much, if I feel your body responding in panic or shock or anything else dangerous, I pull us out. If you need me out before then, snap your fingers. I'll hear it."
Harry still looked nervous, but he nodded and relaxed his grip on the armrests.
"Good. Meditation first, a bit more than we did last time, yeah?" Draco suggested, and Harry took a deep breath, positioning himself as he had on Monday. Draco wondered if he'd been practicing at all in the days between their sessions, if he was finding it as helpful or enjoyable as Draco did.
Their meditation lasted at least ten minutes, and Harry looked much more calm by the end of it. Deciding not to allow Harry any time to get nervous again, Draco slowly lifted his wand, waited for Harry's nod and eye contact, and cast. His mind fell forward into Harry's, and the flashes began, but slower this time.
Harry stands in a grim, dark, stuffy looking room with his hands on his hips. He can smell old Dark Magic, and he hates it.
Weasley and Granger at a dinner table. "I'm glad it's going alright, Harry. He seems to really know what he's doing."
"Good," Draco praised, and he could feel Harry's appreciation of it. "You're getting better, this is calmer, more controlled. I hope it feels easier for you, too."
"No, Harry, you can't come back to work. I told you, you can help investigate who attacked you, but we'd need you at full capacity in the field, which you know you're not at right now," Weasley says, apologetically. Harry is frustrated.
A twenty-three-year old Harry is watching the reunion of an abducted child with his mother. He was too late to save the other children, but the horrific man will be in Azkaban for the rest of his life. The mother looks at Harry with fear and relief and gratitude. Harry feels numb.
"Now, you can steer us around. Take us to your earliest memories."
Harry's mind stopped for a moment, then everything flew past Draco's presence in a whoosh. When it slowed, it was a jumble, a bit hazy, which was expected of early memories like this. He took a moment to look around, not stopping on anything for long enough to interpret, looking for anything that stood out.
Soon he saw a faint silvery glow, just out of sight. It reminded him of the glow around the Obliviation on Sunday. He watched it move around his peripherals for a while. "I see something," he warned Harry. "I'm going to follow it." He concentrated his magic, funneled a small amount more through his wand, and latched onto the glow as soon as it came back into view, demanding it to focus, but it was too murky, a haze of shadow and colour. A baby's memory. The sound rang through Harry's head, much more clear than a baby's memory should be.
A child's bedroom, yellow walls. The bars of a crib.
"No! Not Harry, please!" a woman screams.
"Stand aside, girl." A high, cold voice.
"No! Not Harry!"
A flash of green light, a cruel laugh.
…
The rumble of a motorcycle, the cold night air, the feeling of flying.
The memory ended, and Draco allowed the early memories to flow around each other again. "Alright, Harry, we've found the first breadcrumb." He gently pulled himself out of Harry's head.
Harry immediately sagged, landing his face in his hands. Draco called Timsy for chocolate. He pointed his wand at the chalkboard, drew a dot towards the left side, and labeled it "31/10/81". He hated writing out morbid memories on display. He knew the date, which would be reference enough.
Once the important work was done, Draco looked back at Harry, who had his hands gripped tight in his hair, his face still hidden from Draco, sniffing occasionally. Draco allowed himself a moment to feel, to relieve his Occlumency and react to what he'd seen.
It was one thing to know Harry's parents died trying to save him, and quite another to witness it. Draco's fingers itched to reach out and touch Harry, to comfort him, but he couldn't. He rubbed his left forearm instead, reminding himself of who he was. His hands were shaking.
"It's alright," he murmured. "Take your time. That was a lot to remember." His voice was low and quiet, only loud enough for Harry to hear. A bar of chocolate appeared on the side table, and Draco internally thanked Timsy for recognizing a moment where apparition wouldn't be welcome.
Harry rubbed his face with his hands, gathering himself, before finally looking back up at Draco. Draco could see the helpless dread in his eyes. He must have been thinking that every breadcrumb would be something painful like that. Draco didn't know—he hoped not, but it was possible. Likely. Harry had a lot of pain in his past, he knew.
Draco opened the chocolate bar and broke off a small piece. Harry was writing in his notebook, and turning it towards Draco.
Dementors made me remember it
Draco shivered. "They affected you much more than anyone else, didn't they?" Harry gave a short nod, and Draco looked away, remembering his own taunts in third year. Harry had been perfecting a Patronus charm in his spare time, at thirteen, while Draco only came up with new ways to make fun of him for his weakness.
Harry had that thoughtful look on his face again, and continued writing.
You remind me of Remus, sometimes
Draco's breath caught in his throat, and he cleared it awkwardly, feeling his cheeks heat. He knew Harry had adored Professor Lupin. This was quite a compliment.
"I didn't know him," he admitted. "Not like you did."
Harry's thoughtful look gave way to a snort, which Draco heard as of course you didn't, he was a Gryffindor, and a werewolf, and your father got him fired. Draco handed over the piece of chocolate. "Go on," he urged. "It helps. It really helps."
And now Harry looked amused again, and Draco was confused again. "What?"
But Harry shook his head, smirking, and raised his hand to his face. He tapped his forehead twice, crooking his finger with an invitation. Draco hoped he wasn't blushing again.
"Such a Gryffindor," he chastised, flustered. "We won't go barging back in just like that. Finish your chocolate, we'll do some more breathing first, then you can show me whatever you want to show me."
Harry obeyed, and didn't make Draco sweat any more, which he was grateful for. The idiot had no idea how attractive he was, and it was so bloody annoying. Or maybe he did, and he enjoyed watching Draco squirm like this. Draco wouldn't put it past him. He kept his face carefully neutral, and breathed until the heat left his cheeks, and felt in control of himself again. Crooking a finger in invitation, honestly.
When they were both ready, Draco raised his wand, and went back in.
Remus hands him a large piece of chocolate. Harry feels cold and hopeless—symptoms of a dementor attack. "Eat," Remus says. "You'll feel better." His eyes are warm and tired.
Remus helps Harry sit from where he's fainted on the stone floor. The boggart is locked back in its trunk. He hands Harry another piece of chocolate. "It helps," he says, "It really helps."
"Alright, I see what you mean," Draco muttered, reluctantly amused. It was still a huge compliment for Harry to compare him to this man, even if it was for just a couple of words he'd said. "Ready to get back to work?"
Draco felt a soft yes feeling in response. "I'll take us back, this time." He pushed with his magic, farther back in Harry's memories, until he saw the tiny, dark room under the stairs he'd seen on Monday. Harry was small, too small. Draco spotted a little toy soldier on a shelf, and wondered if this was some sort of play hideout. "I'm going to take another look around," he warned Harry.
He let the memories come, keeping an eye out for that silvery glow.
A woman is trying to wrestle a hideous jumper over his head. The jumper is shrinking and shrinking, until it's small enough for a rat. She's furious, she's screaming at him. "I'm telling Vernon what you've done!" she yells shrilly. "You had to be a freak, didn't you?"
A tiny, dark room under the stairs. He hears a lock latch on the other side of the door. "And that's where you'll stay," a man growls from outside, "until you learn to behave."
A tiny, dark room under the stairs. Harry is hungry.
A tiny, dark room under the stairs. A spider descends from the ceiling.
A tiny, dark room under the stairs. Someone is jumping on the stairs above and laughing, causing dust and bits of plaster to fall into Harry's waking face.
Draco could feel his rage about to burst from behind his careful Occlumency barrier, so he paused for a moment to breathe and tuck it away again. Not now, he reminded himself, he definitely couldn't allow his own anger into Harry's head, not now.
A small Harry stands at the stove, assembling a casserole. He accidentally burns his hand as he puts it in the oven, and yelps. The shrill woman enters the kitchen, furious at him for making noise while she has guests. He hides his wound. He knows he won't get to eat, now.
A small Harry sneaks several spoonfuls of sugar into a cup of tepid leftover tea, and fills the rest of the cup with milk. The sugar helps keep the hunger at bay.
More memories flashed past him as he waited—Harry running from a gang of boys, Harry yanked around by a large man with a purpling face, Harry's teachers telling him he's a compulsive liar, according to his aunt, so why should they believe him, and won't he just admit he fell down the stairs? Thankfully, he spotted a silvery glow soon enough. "I see another," he told Harry, and latched on.
Harry is watching a large snake in its enclosure. The snake picks up its head, and watches him back. Harry starts hissing quietly at it. The snake hisses back, leaning towards the glass for a closer look. A large boy—Harry's cousin, Draco gathered—runs up and shoves him to the ground, and presses his own face to the glass. Harry is angry—the glass disappears, and the boy falls in. The snake slithers out, and gives Harry a nod as he passes. They both hiss at each other quietly as the snake makes his escape.
The large, angry man, Uncle Vernon, grabs Harry by his shirt and yanks him up. "What have you done, boy?" he growls in Harry's ear. "I told you, no funny business. You'll be sorry this time."
Draco pulled back, just a bit, and focused on his breathing again as the memories flowed past him once more.
"Think we can go for another?" Draco asked. "Snap if you need a break."
Another soft urging in Harry's head. Draco continued his search, but the next crumb appeared soon after the snake memory. It looked like a chunk, actually. The silvery glow seemed to encompass a number of smaller scenes over a short time. "This will be a big one, I think," Draco muttered. He took another deep breath, and latched on.
'Harry Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, 4 Privet Drive, Surrey' the thick envelope reads, before it is snatched out of his small hands.
…
Hundreds of letters fly around the house, from the windows, the chimney, breaking open the bolted-shut mail slot. Uncle Vernon wrestles Harry into the tiny, dark room and locks the door.
…
Harry lays on the floor of a cold shack. It's storming outside. "Happy Birthday to me," he whispers, just before the door is kicked down to reveal what Harry thinks must be a giant.
…
"You're a wizard, Harry," Hagrid says.
"I'm a what?" Harry replies. Hagrid is furious, turning to the aunt and uncle.
"He doesn't know?!" Hagrid yells.
…
Harry is in the Leaky Cauldron. Everyone is clamoring to get to him, to shake his hand. He doesn't know why. He doesn't like it.
…
"I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" an eleven-year-old Draco asks. Harry replies with a grunt; this pale boy makes him feel so stupid.
…
Hagrid is holding up a cage with a beautiful snowy owl. Harry is stammering his thanks. "Don't mention it," Hagrid says gruffly. It's Harry's first ever birthday present, but he doesn't mention it.
…
"It is very curious indeed," Ollivander says, "that you should be destined for this wand, when its brother gave you that scar." Harry swallows.
…
"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry says coldly. Draco drops his small hand, his cheeks are pink.
"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," Draco says. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents."
…
The Sorting Hat covers his eyes. 'Not Slytherin,' Harry thinks.
"Not Slytherin, eh?" the hat replies. "Are you sure? You could be great, you know, it's all here in your head, and Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that—no? Well, if you're sure—better be GRYFFINDOR!" Harry takes off the hat, relieved.
Draco didn't see any more of the silvery glow he was looking for, so he pulled back slowly, all the way out of Harry's head. He pointed his wand at the chalkboard, added another dot labeled "Snake Enclosure," and another dot after that. Draco frowned as he tried to figure out how to label all of that, but eventually decided on "31/7/91 & 1/9/91" and put his wand down.
Draco closed his eyes, finally letting his Occlumency barriers down, feeling the tidal wave of reactions burst through. His thoughts were racing, but he rubbed his thighs, his hands, his hair, his collarbone. He knew who he was. He had just seen who he was. He'd hated it. It certainly wasn't helping him feel any calmer. His hands were shaking again.
He opened his eyes and looked at Harry, who was watching him with a wary face, as if he had just been reminded of who Draco really was, which he had been. Draco continued rubbing his thighs, but the energy wouldn't leave him. He stood up and began pacing back and forth in front of the window, occasionally shaking out his hands. Harry continued to watch.
Draco felt like he was drowning under the deluge of emotions he'd held back, but he knew they wouldn't go away until he'd felt them all. He'd never felt this strongly seeing another person's memories before, and he'd seen a few shitty childhoods. But a cupboard under the stairs? He remembered Lucius once punishing a house elf for making a noise after accidentally burning themselves—he had seen Harry's aunt do the exact same thing. He realized he hadn't even heard anyone say Harry's name until Hagrid came into the picture, and Harry apparently hadn't known he was a wizard until then, either, just assumed all the odd happenings around him were because he was some sort of freak, as they called him. Draco had never felt so angry in his life.
And then Harry met Draco, who took up the mantle of bully from Harry's awful cousin, because he'd had no idea how to interact with kindness, he'd never learned. Draco's whole world was made of leaders and followers, of exploitation and political runaround, even at the tender age of eleven, and Lucius would never have allowed Draco to be anything less than a leader. Lucius and Narcissa never taught Draco how to make friends, they taught him how to make allies, and when someone wasn't an ally, they were an enemy. And for Merlin's sake, they were fucking eleven. Harry wouldn't shake his hand, so Draco had threatened him with murder—he truly was Lucius in miniature. Lucius Lite, the Death Eaters had called him, leering and snickering at him. No wonder Harry had begged the Hat to sort him anywhere but Slytherin.
Not for the first time, Draco wondered if this was a good idea, if it should continue. He knew that Harry's encounters with Draco only got worse from there. Harry would have to relive almost their entire rivalry—how could he have any respect for Draco, after that? Draco had been counting on them putting their history behind them in order to work together; how could he have forgotten that the history was exactly what Draco would be dragging up?
Draco's pacing was growing feverish, and his breath was whistling where it was rushing past his teeth in harsh, shallow gusts. He couldn't hear much over the rush of blood in his ears, the floor felt like it was vibrating under his feet. He didn't even notice Harry had moved until he was right in front of him, grabbing Draco's upper arms, with a determined look on his face. When Draco met his eyes, he realized he was hyperventilating. His hands gripped Harry's elbows like a lifeline. He was suffocating, he was dying, surely, and Harry's fiery green eyes would be the last thing he ever saw.
But Harry only intensified his eye contact, and started to breathe—in through his nose for four, hold for two, out through his mouth for four. Somewhere in Draco's brain, that sounded like a good idea, so he tried to mirror it. His breaths were shaky and hard, and it felt unnatural, but he focused on the feeling of Harry's hands on his arms, and breathed.
Harry eventually deemed him not-dying, and released him, making his way back to the chair. Draco followed him, trying to rub feeling back into his face.
"Sorry," Draco muttered. Harry shook his head, breaking off a piece of chocolate and handing it to Draco. He picked up his notebook to write while Draco ate, feeling the warmth of the chocolate spread through him. It didn't escape Draco's notice that this was the second time today Harry had taken care of him. Some Healer you are, Malfoy, Draco thought, dejected.
Why? Harry's notebook read.
"Why did I react like that?" Draco clarified, to Harry's affirmative nod. Draco took another deep breath, and another bite of chocolate to stall.
"I use Occlumency to hold back my emotions and reactions while I'm in someone's head," he began. "When I finish casting, I have to take down the barriers and feel them, process them. But that was a lot to take in, and too much anger to hold back at once."
Harry looked confused. Anger? He wrote.
"Yes, anger, mostly. Fury, a heavy dose of wrath. I don't think I've ever felt angrier. I'm still angry," Draco answered. His hands were starting to shake again. Somewhere, he thought he heard a soft clatter of glass.
Harry still looked perplexed. He pointed to the Why? on the page with his pen.
"Harry," Draco said through clenched teeth. "Those muggles were abhorrent. No child deserves to be treated that way. No one deserves that. They never said your name, they punished you for things beyond your control, they bloody starved you—they treated you the same way Lucius treated the Malfoy house elves, do you know that?"
Harry's eyes were wide. He looked somewhere between afraid and upset. He looked uncomfortable. His eyes were darting around the room, his hand twitching for his wand. Draco's ears were ringing.
"Your letter, Harry," Draco said firmly. Behind him, something heavy hit the floor. Draco didn't notice. "Your letter was addressed to you, in the Cupboard Under the Stairs. In McGonagall's handwriting, in her favourite green ink. They knew, Harry, and they did nothing, and I'm so fucking angry."
The fire shot up in the grate, roaring and sparking and dangerously large. Books were throwing themselves off the shelves. The clattering glass finally shattered, whatever it was. Draco gripped the arms of the chair and breathed again, listening only to the sound of air moving in and out of his nose.
The fire slowly died back down, the noise subsided, and Draco peeled his hands off the armrests, flexing his fingers. He chanced another look at Harry, who was simply watching him, with an unreadable look on his face. Draco watched him back, amazed that a man could still be so bloody good, having grown up like that.
Had to live there, Harry wrote, turning a fresh page in his notebook. Blood wards.
Draco shook his head, closing his eyes again. "There are so many other ways to protect someone," he muttered. He knew he would only get angry again, if he had to argue about this with Harry, and it wasn't really his business, anyway. He changed the subject.
"Next time, we'll go for one crumb at a time. I shouldn't hold back that much with Occlumency—I have to feel it all at once, when I let it out." Draco sighed. "I'm sorry, I thought I could handle it."
Harry shrugged it off.
"Do you have questions for me?" Draco asked, because he needed to.
Harry bit his lip, and started writing.
What do the breadcrumbs look like?
An easy one to start, Draco noted, relieved. "It's an odd, silvery glow around certain memories," he explained. "It looks very similar to what the hole in your memory looked like, when I first saw it. It's a kind of magical signature. I let the memories pass until I see that glow, and then I sort of… grab it."
Harry nodded, intrigued. He wrote some more.
Would you change any of it?
"Are you referring to eleven-year-old me? If I could go back?" Draco asked, and Harry gave a quick nod, chewing his lip again. Draco looked at him for a moment, formulating his honest reply, however scary it was.
"I want to say yes," Draco sighed, "but I don't think I would. There's things I wish I'd done differently, but it's so much. I wish I'd shown you kindness, but I also wish I had known how. I wish I hadn't answered your slight with a death threat, but I also wish I wasn't created in Lucius' image. I have a lot of regrets, Harry, but none of them do me any good, when my mistakes have made me who I am."
Harry looked thoughtful, and sat back in his chair, putting his notebook down on the table.
"Alright, three breadcrumbs in one day is not bad, not bad at all," Draco rallied. "And that last one was a big one, apparently two days worth. Start coming back to yourself and we'll be done for the day." He pulled his reading glasses out of his pocket and picked up his own notebook, beginning the process of making copious notes on all he'd seen, careful to not enrage himself again.
Every few moments, he'd look up and watch Harry idly rub the scars on his hand, or the stubble on his jaw, and smile at a happy memory. Harry's face eventually landed on a frown of concentration, where Draco hoped he was trying to think of things he liked about himself, before smoothing out into neat, deep breaths. Harry opened his eyes and gave Draco one of his tiny smiles, and the little sun in Draco's chest woke up. Pathetic, Draco berated himself.
"Very good," Draco declared with an approving nod, and Harry blushed at the praise.
Draco stood up and started the walk towards the door, Harry close behind. "If you have questions over the weekend, you may owl me," Draco told him. "I might not answer until our next session, depending, but I'll take them," he added, and Harry nodded, his lips still turned up in that little smile.
As Harry shrugged on his old leather jacket, Draco decided to try his luck on something.
"The snake," he said, and Harry raised his eyebrows. "What were you talking about, with the snake?"
The corner of Harry's lips twitched; his eyes were amused. Draco wondered if he'd been expecting that question, after all. Harry turned towards the wall, raised one finger to it, and began drawing out letters.
B R A Z I L
"Brazil," Draco repeated flatly. "You're joking." Harry huffed a laugh, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and with a final smile at Draco, walked out of the house.
Draco didn't even wait after closing the door this time; he simply locked the front door with a flick of his wand, turned around, and walked straight to his bed, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He got his trousers off just in time to fall into his nest of pillows, pulling the fluffy duvet up to his eyes. He brought his hands up close to his face, his nose next to his wrists, and fell asleep instantly, breathing in the faint scent of treacle and warm grass after rain.