Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Every time the holly wand touched his Mark, Draco bristled. All he could smell was rain, thick and musky as it seeped out of the ground to embrace them. In the forest, they couldn’t see the castle’s lights. It was easy, nestled among the trees, to forget where they were at all. They sat together on the grass, and although it was still damp, they were comfortable enough: Potter had conjured a thick crimson blanket. Potter had taken care of it. Potter took care of everything. Draco stretched out, holding his sleeve up from his Mark even though every last nerve in his body urged him not to. Never mind that it was dark out, that they both had to squint to make out the Mark’s inky black form. Revealing it felt like a particularly brutal form of masochism. He had considered, more than once, cutting off his arm, but it wouldn’t have mattered. The Mark was in him, in his blood, pumping through his body every time his heart beat.

“Alright?” Potter’s voice came from next to him. He was on his knees, gently tracing his wand over Draco’s arm. Draco sat cross-legged next to him, looking away stubbornly.

“Malfoy,” Potter said, more insistent now. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he snapped.

“Did it feel any different today?”

“No.”

“Mmm.” Glancing over, Draco saw Potter’s brows furrow. He looked as though he was considering a particularly vexing exam question. “It could be a while. The whole year, even.”

“Right.”

“We’ll have to go a lot deeper, I think.” Potter gazed up at him—feeling caught, vulnerable, exposed, Draco looked away. “Is that alright?”

“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.” Every time he lashed out like that, he shrunk in shame. But it was as though he couldn’t help it. He felt very little these days other than anger, and it took almost nothing to provoke him.

“Okay.” If Potter was annoyed with him, he didn’t show it. And that was something else that set him off, as well. Potter was so complacent, so unbothered. As usual, Draco felt bested by him: he had been brave enough to face the Dark Lord, had sacrificed himself, had come back to save them all, and now he was unfazed by Draco’s snide remarks. Maladaptive and self-sabotaging as always, Draco wanted desperately to find some way of throwing him off course. But nothing he said seemed to make a difference.

“I’m going in now, alright? Three…two…one…”

Draco braced himself as best he could, but it never seemed to matter. Potter’s forays into his memory were an onslaught. His Mark burned, and he tried to wrench his arm away, but Potter held him tightly. He peeled through the layers of memories so quickly that Draco felt dizzy. He suspected that Potter found the entire thing just as unpleasant, and that he wanted to get it over with as quickly as he could. The previous two times, Potter had limited himself to rather benign memories: Draco watching as the Dark Lord settled into the Manor, establishing his childhood home as his new headquarters; Draco using his mother’s wand, reluctant to take it from her and yet needing to protect himself. Now, however, he dug deeper, unfolding various memories before he stumbled upon a scene at the Manor.

It was springtime. His parents were indoors, preparing the dining hall for another meeting. Draco, foolishly, had decided to meander outdoors, if only for a bit of fresh air. And that was when he came across Travers and Macnair. They were whispering angrily to each other; Draco couldn’t hear them. But that didn’t matter, anyway, because suddenly Travers had pointed his wand at Macnair and shouted, “Crucio!” Instantly, Macnair was on the ground, shrieking, writhing in pain, and the faint sounds of conversation coming from the dining hall ended abruptly…and Draco, horrified, tripped backwards, heart pounding, incapable of peeling his eyes off Macnair’s face as he wheezed in agony…

“You’re lucky you have pure blood, Macnair,” Travers spat, towering over him. Draco tripped on the paving and Travers turned; as he caught sight of Draco, he frowned, and raised his wand…

Suddenly, mercifully, he heard Potter muttering to himself…and then the scene before them crumbled into a hundred little pieces, tearing at the seams, Travers’ face disintegrating…

Draco gulped in the thick, humid air as he was yanked forward. He nearly retched. As best he could, he tried to focus on anything else but the nausea rolling through him: Potter’s hand on his back, the musky petrichor permeating the air, the quiet, soothing sounds Potter was making. Better. Better. As his heart settled, he fumbled around for something he could touch, and came upon the thick blanket beneath him. He was in the forest. He was in the forest with Potter. He was not…he was not…where had he been before this?

“I can’t remember,” he said hoarsely. “Whatever we just saw. I can’t remember. I mean, I can sort of…” Draco squeezed his eyes tightly. “If I really think, I can see the outlines. And I think I can hear someone…but not really. Was it…was it about…?”

“Travers,” Potter said. “And Macnair.”

“What were they doing?”

“I dunno…you sort of crept up on them,” Potter said, shifting nervously. “And Travers was torturing Macnair, and he said something about…about being pure-blood, I dunno…”

That word. Pure-blood. Every time he heard it, Draco felt faint. That silly little word contained within it everything that had set his parents off on the course to ruin their family. He couldn’t hear it without recoiling, his stomach tying itself up in knots. Aware that Potter was staring at him, a peculiar look on his face, Draco forced himself to croak out, “I can’t remember anymore.”

“That’s good,” Potter said. “That’s really good. Does it look different at all?”

Draco peeked down at his Mark. As far as he could tell in the dark, there was no change. He shook his head and yanked down his sleeve.

“We’ve got loads more to do,” Potter was saying. “It’ll work.”

“Yeah.” Although he was still dizzy, Draco couldn’t stand the thought of Potter comforting him for a moment longer. He rose unsteadily to his feet, pushing Potter’s hand away as he reached out for him. “I’m fine. Gonna go…go to the castle.”

“Right.” Potter was at his side at once, Vanishing the blanket. “Go get some sleep. I’m free this time next week.”

“No. Tuesday.”

“What?” Potter looked up at him sharply. “That’s too soon. You need time in-between, to rest.”

“I said I’m fine,” Draco snapped, hating himself for it. He had the self-control of a child these days. “Tuesday. Alright?”

Unmoved as ever, Potter shrugged. “Fine. I’ll see you then.”

Once again, Draco found himself off-kilter as Potter refused to engage him. This was maddening. Still dizzy from having his memory picked through and then erased, Draco struggled with the anger and the irritation boiling just beneath his skin. He wanted to argue with Potter, to fight, to hit him or shove him around a bit, anything to work through the rage. But Potter simply stood there, blinking at him. Incensed, Draco stormed off back to the castle, not checking to see if Potter followed.

***

Pansy huddled close to Draco as she sipped her cup of tea. They sat together on a stone bench by Greenhouse One, watching as a group of Gryffindors trickled by. Draco was supposed to be reading through the third chapter of The Standard Book of Spells Year Seven.

“They’re so little,” Pansy mused as one of the boys tripped on his cloak. “They make me feel old.”

Draco scoffed. “You’re hardly geriatric.”

“Still. How are we eighteen already? You don’t feel like the time just flew by?”

“Not really.” He flipped through a few pages and sighed. “Have you finished this paper?”

“Which? For Flitwick?” Pansy frowned at him. “Of course I have. It’s revision.”

Draco shrugged. “I’ve read this chapter twice now, and I still can’t remember anything.”

“Well, maybe you need a break. And anyway, you’re supposed to be telling me all the gossip.”

“The gossip?” He snorted. “What is there to tell? Everyone’s as boring this year as they are every year.”

She made a face at him. “Very funny.” They were quiet for a moment as two Ravenclaw girls passed by. They were loudly discussing a friend of theirs who had set his parchment on fire in Charms. “Alright, then,” Pansy said, turning to him. She spoke in that businesslike tone Draco had come to fear. “I’ve got a bit of gossip we can discuss. Where are you disappearing to at night?”

These were the moments when Draco was grateful for the training he had received under his father’s tutelage. He kept his face carefully disinterested, following the two girls as they wound up the path. In a bored tone, he asked, “What do you mean?”

“For three nights now, Blaise hasn’t been able to find you.”

“He can’t find me?” Playing stupid, Draco glanced over at her, confused. “What does he need me for?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t need you for anything. It’s just…he wakes up, and you’re not in bed.”

“I’ve probably just gone to the loo.”

“But he waits ages for you to get back. And you never do.”

Draco shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe he’s dreaming?”

“Maybe,” Pansy said doubtfully. “You’re sure you’re not going anywhere?”

“You never know.” Draco turned back to his textbook. “Maybe I’m sneaking off every night to get buggered around the castle.”

He smirked as Pansy choked on her tea. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she gasped, beating her chest as she coughed. “God, Draco.”

 “Oh, really? What else could you have meant?”

“I don’t know!” Clearing her throat one last time, she said, “I just thought…it would be nice, you know. If you did find someone.”

“Pansy,” he said drily, “nobody here is lining up to have a turn with a former Death Eater.”

“Not just former,” she said at once, as she always did. “Defected. You saw what the Prophet wrote about you and your mother.” She hesitated, and then asked in a quiet voice, “How is she, by the way? Your mother?”

“I don’t know.” Draco avoided her eyes, wishing they could go back to their previous discussion of what he got up to at night. “Fine, I guess. I think my parents’ marriage is in shambles, though.”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” Pansy muttered.

“Meaning what?”

“I don’t know,” she sighed. “It’s just odd, now that everything’s over. A lot of people, a lot of families, are falling apart, now that they’ve…”

“Lost?” Draco supplied.

“I guess so.” She looked down at her half-finished cup of tea. “We were never involved, not really. But after what I said last year…I don’t know, it’s…I still feel like everyone…”

“You’re fine.” Draco reached out and held her wrist. “You spoke to Potter, right?”

“I did. And he said it’s alright. But that’s just him, isn’t it? That’s the way he is.” Pansy gave a loud sniff. “Actually, he didn’t really seem to want to talk about it at all.”

“Right.” Uncomfortable, Draco pretended to suddenly become interested in his book again.

“And what about you? Did you ever talk to him, after your trial?”

“Who? Potter? Ah…yeah. I guess.” Avoiding her eyes, Draco looked out at the grounds. Already, the trees were changing: the giant oaks had turned the most brilliant shades of orange, red, and yellow, the pines had begun their gradual shift to a darker green, and the birches were ornamented with strips of peeling bark. In his mind, autumn always meant the start of a new school year. It would be very odd, next year, not boarding the Hogwarts Express come September.

Aware that Pansy was staring at him, he gave a short cough. “It was fine. I think you’re right. I think he just wants to forget all of it. Can you blame him?”

“Of course not,” she said promptly. Since the Battle, Pansy had been very careful about toeing the line when it came to Potter. “I just thought he might have said something, you know, about what your mother did, or what happened at the Manor.”

“Nobody wants to rehash that old rubbish,” he said. Before Pansy could press the issue, Draco snapped his book shut. “Let’s get inside. It’s cold out here.”

She looked as though she wanted to argue, but Draco turned away. Pansy was absolutely relentless in insisting that the events of the last two years had not played out as he remembered them. But she was wrong. In some places his memory was already crumbling, but even through the rubble he could piece together truly awful remnants. Pansy’s unwavering trust in him was the bedrock of their friendship, and to splinter that trust would leave them…where? He didn’t know. So he forced a smile onto his face and pretended that everything was fine.

***

If the dense darkness of the forest was disconcerting, Draco drew comfort from the familiar sound of dried leaves skittering together as the wind whipped through the branches. To his mind, the leaves sounded like hundreds of ghosts whispering together, discussing the scene unfolding on the forest floor: he and Potter, sat as closely together as they dared, Potter examining his arm while he stubbornly looked away. He wondered what the forest thought of their intrusions.

“Does that hurt?” Potter asked him, rubbing his thumb along Draco’s Mark.

It did hurt, of course—the pain was like an icy jolt, ripping through his skin. But Draco grit his teeth and shook his head.

“I’ll wait a bit, give you time to adjust.”

“Get on with it, would you?” Lashing out at Potter should have made it better, but instead he felt worse. He looked away as Potter pressed his wand against his Mark, twisting the tip so that it dug into his flesh. Draco nearly gasped from the fresh stab of pain.

“Right. Here we go.” Potter took a deep breath, and then, “Three…two…one…”

Draco was shrouded in darkness. He could hardly see his hands as he slid them down the door, reaching for the knob. Slowly, very slowly, he opened the door just a crack. Just enough to hear the conversation downstairs. Several people were shouting—he heard his father bark at someone to sit down. Heart racing, Draco strained to hear, but there was no need, because the Dark Lord’s voice cut through the din.

“We have a guest.”

Jeering, laughing, taunting. They had a Muggleborn in the dining hall. Draco abruptly pulled back and made to shut the door, but it was too late—even though he had been expecting it, he jumped at the sound of the shriek cutting through the Manor. Whoever it was, they were begging…begging to be allowed to live, and then begging to be killed quickly, painlessly…

Draco felt Potter’s hand on his back as he retched onto the grass. Nothing came up. The scream still echoed in his ears, but it was already fainter, as though slowly siphoning down into a funnel. Draco pressed his palms into his eyes and tried to recall what he had just seen. After a moment, he let out a deep breath.

“I-I don’t remember. Not really. It’s…it’s just about gone.”

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

He nodded. Potter pushed up his sleeve, examining his arm. Draco flinched as he felt warm fingertips brush against his skin.

“It’s paler, I think,” Potter said quietly. “But I can’t be sure. What do you think?”

Draco pulled his hands away from his face and glanced at the Mark. His heart stopped. It was a bit fuzzier than it had been—the outline was blurred, as though someone had rubbed at the inky lines. As calmly as he could, Draco said, “Yeah. It looks…better.”

“Lumos.”

Draco winced as Potter’s wand suddenly came alight. “Fuck off, Potter,” he growled, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Sorry…sorry…” But Potter was hardly paying attention to him. Instead, his eyes were roving over the Mark. “It’s definitely less solid. Definitely.”

“Yeah.” Uncomfortable, Draco pried his arm away. As he pulled down his sleeve, Potter seemed to come to his senses. Abashed, he extinguished his wand, casting them again into darkness. Draco didn’t know what to do. He was still too lightheaded to stand up and head back to the castle, but he had no interest in sitting with Potter longer than necessary.

“How do you feel?”

Draco rubbed at his forearm. “Alright.”

“Your Mark hurts?”

“A bit.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Another flash of anger shot through him. He couldn’t stand Potter’s sympathy. He just couldn’t. Still dizzy, Draco forced himself up. His knees nearly buckled, sending him wobbling dangerously in Potter’s direction, but he managed to right himself.

Potter fumbled to steady him in the dark. “Malfoy, careful!” he warned. “You need to sit down.”

Draco couldn’t even bring himself to reply. If he opened his mouth, he might be sick. He pulled his cloak tightly around himself and strode back to the castle. As he walked, he tried to recall the memory that had just been stripped away from his consciousness. A scream was still ringing in his ears; perhaps he would never be rid of it. Maybe it had permanently marked him. He no longer remembered who it belonged to—perhaps he had never known—but it was etched into his soul, preserved there among the other marks he couldn’t seem to shake.

***

He never had much to say during Transfiguration. Pansy and Blaise kept up a constant stream of conversation, nattering on about their relatives in far-flung places. For his part, Draco listened absently, watching as the mouse he had transfigured from a toad sat atop his textbook and groomed itself. He leaned forward, resting his chin on his crossed arms, as the little gray mouse wiped its face. Carefully, Draco held out his hand; despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch as the mouse sniffed along his palm.

“Draco, you’ll be coming with us this summer, won’t you?” Pansy’s voice startled him. He glanced up at her, annoyed, and then looked back at the mouse, hoping they would ignore him if he didn’t respond. No such luck. “We’ll all be staying by the Elbe.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt.

“Last time we holidayed in Germany, we couldn’t have been older than seven or eight,” he heard Blaise say. “My mother was dating that awful man. God, I hated him. What was his name? The one with the beard.”

“He was awful,” Pansy agreed. “So rude. I don’t know why your mother kept him around.”

“He had loads of money. Worked abroad, some sort of shady business with broomsticks…I can’t remember his name, though, it’s on the tip of my tongue…”

Draco rolled his eyes. The mouse was scurrying down the side of his textbook and onto the desk. Pulling back his elbow, Draco granted it access to the parchment on which he had been writing his notes. It started to nibble the corner. “Are you hungry?” he murmured, reaching out to stroke it. Its short, bristly hairs were rough against his fingers.

“We’ll be going to the theatre,” Pansy went on. “My father’s gotten us all tickets.” Draco grimaced. Pansy, catching sight of him, said quickly, “Don’t worry. He’s sure your mother will be able to leave the country by then. Everyone says so.”

“Yeah.”

“There we are!” Blaise sat back happily, watching as the white mouse he had just transfigured darted across his desk.

“Careful,” Draco grumbled, picking up his own mouse and placing it on his other arm, away from Blaise’s.

“But I don’t think we’ll spend the whole summer in Germany,” Pansy said. Her toad sat before her, croaking softly. “Do you, Blaise?”

“I doubt it. I know my mother wants to see some family in Malta…I hope we don’t go in August…it’s always so hot that time of year…”

Draco didn’t hear Pansy’s response as a wave of laughter erupted at the other end of the classroom. Looking up, Draco saw Potter surrounded by his usual entourage. Finnigan had managed to turn his toad into what looked like a beaver. The enormous rodent launched itself onto the floor, darting through people’s legs as it made for the door. Potter, Weasley, and Thomas howled as Granger hastily transfigured it back into a toad.

“What have you done that for?” Finnigan was shouting. “That’s close enough to a mouse, isn’t it!”

Draco snorted. At once, Potter turned towards him. Their eyes met briefly before Potter smiled and looked away. Draco blinked at him, startled, when McGonagall called for their attention.

“That’s enough for today,” she said. “I expect a full two feet of parchment on trans-species Transfiguration.” As they groaned, she spoke over them: “For those of you who have been successful, please transfigure your mouse back into a toad and bring it up to the front here.”

As the others brought their toads to the box on McGonagall’s desk, Draco hastily slipped his mouse into his cloak pocket. He looked over at Blaise and Pansy—they were still discussing their plans for the summer holidays. Before they could notice him, Draco grabbed his satchel and hurried out into the corridor. He made his way to the entrance hall, taking the little mouse out of his pocket as he stepped outside.

“You’d better find somewhere to sleep,” he warned, looking up at the sky. “It’ll be dark soon, and there’s bound to be owls around, hunting.”

He squatted down and set the mouse onto the grass. Looking down at it dubiously, he wondered whether it would survive the night. But the mouse seemed happy enough, scurrying off into the grass until it disappeared. Straightening up, Draco turned back to the castle when he caught sight of Potter, standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

“Potter,” he grunted, shouldering his satchel.

“What did you do that for?” he asked, a neutral look on his face.

Irate, Draco snapped, “What? Have I committed a crime? Go on and tell McGonagall, then.”

Potter’s expression remained unchanged. “I just asked why you did it.”

“And it’s none of your business.” The truth was, he didn’t have an answer. It just seemed cruel, somehow, to turn the mouse back into a toad. But he couldn’t explain himself. He pushed past Potter, making sure to bump their shoulders together as he stormed into the castle. Potter, of course, said nothing, did nothing, simply watching him as he stalked away.

***

“Here. Use this.” Draco didn’t know how to react when he felt something plush being shoved into his hands. He looked down: even in the dark, he could see that it was a pillow.

“I’m fine,” he said without thinking. That response had become automatic to him, as natural as breathing. When Potter said nothing, he reiterated, “I’m fine.”

“Lay down. It’ll be easier.”

“What? No.”

In the glint of moonlight, Draco could just make out Potter’s stern face. “At the end, you always wobble. You pull your arm away. If you’d just lay down, you could hold still long enough for me to erase everything.”

Draco did not want to lay down. Absolutely not. It felt incredibly foolish to put himself in such a vulnerable position in the forest, where anything could creep up on them at any time. But he was with Potter, he told himself. Surely, if anyone could keep him safe, it was the Chosen One. Grumbling, Draco stretched out onto the blanket Potter had conjured, shoving the pillow under his head.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

Draco glared as he offered his arm. Sitting cross-legged next to him, Potter seemed not to notice his irritation. Instead, he gently took Draco’s arm and set it across his knee. Pushing up his sleeve, he said, “How does it feel? Any different?”

“It sort of…stings. Since last time.”

“Yeah. That’s normal, I think.” Potter was pushing his thumb into Draco’s skin. He winced as a sharp throb of pain spread from his Mark into his wrist. Before Potter could see his face, Draco turned away, studying the enormous oak towering above them. The breeze was cool enough that he had worn his winter cloak. As Potter examined him, he tried to quiet the overwhelming urge to push him away. Finally, he placed the tip of his wand on Draco’s forearm.

“I’m going to try to go deeper, if I can. It might hurt.”

“Fine.”

Potter rearranged himself, and then took a deep breath. “Three…two…one…”

They were in his parents’ bedroom. His mother was huddled into an armchair, her face unimaginably pale, her eyes red-rimmed. His father was pacing, stopping every so often to touch her shoulder.

“He wants him dead, Lucius,” his mother said, squeezing her eyes shut. “Dead.”

“We need to stay calm,” his father said. And yet his movements were erratic, agitated, fear written all over his face. And at the sight of his parents panicking, Draco, too, was frightened.

“I want to join,” he said to his mother, not believing himself at all.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” his mother hissed. “You’re a boy. You have no idea what it will do to you, joining him.”

“You can’t say these things, Narcissa. Not while he’s in the house.”

“You think I care, anymore, what he thinks?” Her face was as cold as Draco had ever seen it. “My son is going to die. You think I care what he does with me?”

“He’s not going to die,” his father snapped. “Draco is valuable to him, important…he needs eyes and ears in Hogwarts…”

“I have no choice,” Draco said, coming forward to sit on the edge of his chair. “You know I have no choice, Mother.”

“Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?” she asked, her voice breaking. “I asked you to, begged you to. You’re too young. You could have gone abroad, before he came back...”

“What’s done is done,” his father said wearily.

“None of the others have had their children Marked!” Suddenly, his mother was on her feet, face red and twisted in anger. “So why ours? Why my son? Why my only son?”

“He can use Draco. We’ll be rewarded.”

Draco had never felt so defeated, so tired, as he did when his mother gazed down at him with a look of betrayal on her face. “I’m surrounded,” she whispered, “by foolish, stubborn men.”

He gasped as the edges of his mother’s face blurred together. The bedroom slipped away, fading into a murky fog until suddenly Draco was hit by the crisp autumn air. He willed himself to take several deep breaths. Potter was next to him, muttering something he couldn’t hear. As the memory seeped away, he was overcome by a grief so strong that he thought he might cry. Bringing his hands up to cover his face, he turned away from Potter until he got a hold of himself.

Desperate to break the silence between them, Draco managed to ask, “How does it look?”

“What?” Potter hesitated, and then, “Oh. Right.” Draco winced as warm fingers brushed against his Mark. “I think…I think it’s better. It’s working. But are you…is everything…?”

Draco grunted and took his arm away. He was too vulnerable, laying on his back with his Mark exposed. Ignoring Potter’s protests, he pushed himself up. The vague shapes of the trees around them spun.

“Give yourself a minute,” Potter said, clasping his shoulder.

“M’fine.” Draco rubbed at his eyes, urging his vision to sort itself out. He was grateful that they met outdoors—the night air suppressed the ripples quaking through his stomach, threatening to expel what little he had eaten for dinner.

“That was good,” Potter muttered. “Really good. I got everything, that time.”

“Yeah.” Draco strained to recall the memory that had just been wiped. If he really concentrated, he could just make out his mother’s angry, beautiful, tormented face, asking him why—

He felt Potter’s hand on his back as he leaned over the blanket to retch. Dry heaves racked him, accompanied by a dull, aching pain in his Mark.

“Easy, Malfoy.”

He was exhausted. In that moment, he felt as though he might not even be able to make it back to the castle. How easy it would be to just lay down and melt into the dark forest. To fall asleep and wait until some creature found him. Or perhaps the forest would claim him as its own. Maybe the ground would swallow him up and allow him to finally forget. These thoughts—nebulous, unformed, loose tendrils floating through one another—circled his mind as he forced himself to breathe.

“You should rest.”

“No.” To prove his point, Draco pushed himself to his feet.

“Put your arm around my shoulder, here,” Potter said, coming to support him.

“Don’t.” If he had been stronger, he would have reached for his wand. Instead, feeling rather pathetic, Draco could do little else than scowl at Potter before staggering towards the castle, gripping his Mark.

***

His mother always wrote on Thursdays. Draco skipped breakfast and went directly to Potions, but it made little difference: her eagle owl found him on his way to Herbology later that afternoon.

“Smart bird, isn’t he?” Pansy said, shading her eyes to watch as the enormous owl fluttered up to the West Tower.

Draco grunted in agreement.

“What are you doing?” Pansy asked, watching as he crumpled the parchment in his fist and shoved it into his pocket.

“I’ll read it later.”

Pansy looked skeptical. “Really? She probably misses you, you know.”

“Let him be,” Blaise drawled. “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

They continued down the path, his mother’s letter burning a hole in Draco’s pocket. Every time he thought of her, a great surge of guilt crashed through him. The problem was, he already had so much to be remorseful for. Soon, he feared, he would grow numb to the guilt.

They met Sprout and the other students by the Quidditch Pitch. Instead of teaching the eighth years inside the greenhouses, Sprout had them identifying native plants, herbs, and trees growing across the grounds. Potter, Draco noted, was speaking quietly with Granger and Weasley, turned away from the rest of the group. It was increasingly odd, seeing Potter in class. He wondered whether Potter’s friends knew that he was helping Draco erase his Mark—if they cared, if they told him not to bother. Granger hardly looked his way anymore, though Weasley could still be counted on to glare whenever they passed each other. For some reason, the thought of Potter’s friends knowing about their meetups irritated him. It was private. They shouldn’t know. But then, what did it matter? Annoyed with himself, Draco tried to focus on what Sprout was saying.

“Check your lists carefully,” Sprout said as they took out their sketchbooks. “Some of these plants will go dormant in the winter. You’ll want to be organized so that you don’t miss any of them.”

“We still need to do thistle,” Blaise said, flipping through his book. “It’s done flowering soon.”

Draco nodded in the direction of the Forbidden Forest. “There’s loads over this way. Come on.”

They traipsed down the sloping lawn. Along the edge of the forest there grew an assortment of plants. Mixed among the brush, thistle was easy enough to spot: the winged stems fluttered above most of the weeds. Their feet crunched through the fallen leaves as they edged closer. Avoiding the prickliest shrubs, they picked their way through until they found a particularly long stem topped with a magenta bloom.

“Here, I’ll clear some of this,” Blaise said, reaching for his wand.

“Don’t,” Draco warned him. “Sprout will have your head.”

“They’re just weeds,” Blaise moaned, although he relented. They sat together on the grass, Pansy shrieking as a large beetle flew at her face.

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” Draco scoffed, waving the insect away. “Are you a witch or not?”

“Why can’t we just be in the greenhouses like normal?” Pansy snapped, pushing her hair out of her face. “This is so stupid.”

Although he hummed in agreement, privately, Draco didn’t mind—it was nice being outdoors. Sketching required just enough concentration that his mind didn’t wander. The breeze soothed him as it grazed across his cheeks, lifting the edges of his collar, flitting through his hair. Once, Pansy jerked her leg up violently, convinced that another bug had attacked her. But otherwise, they were undisturbed. Draco’s drawing came together quickly enough—he labeled the rounded rosette, the flowering stem, and the taproot that he imagined burrowing deep into the ground.

“Draco,” Pansy said suddenly. He jumped at the sound of her voice. “Can I ask you something?”

“Alright.”

She bent forward to examine her sketch. “You’re going to get angry. I already know.”

“Then don’t ask,” Draco said. Blaise snorted.

Ignoring them, Pansy said, “What happened at the Manor? With…with Potter. And his friends.”

Something bitter curled up in his stomach. “Check the Prophet. It’s all in there.”

“Not really. It says Potter and his friends were brought to the Manor, and you spared them. But how?”

Draco looked up to see Blaise and Pansy staring at him. Irritated now, he rolled his eyes. “What difference does it make?”

“I just want to know,” she said.

“I did nothing. Absolutely nothing.” Draco’s hand was shaking—his quill snapped as he tried to draw a tiny, spined leaf.

“You must have,” Pansy insisted. “Why else would they have let you off?”

“Potter testified for him,” Blaise said quietly. “At his trial.”

“I know that. But what did Potter say?”

Before he could stop himself, Draco flung his broken quill onto his sketchbook and snarled, “It’s none of your fucking business.”

They gaped at him in disbelief. Instantly, he was ashamed of himself. But the shame mixed with indignation—why couldn’t they leave him alone? Why did they care what had happened at the Manor? What did it matter to them? And why were they constantly nagging him?

Blaise recovered before Pansy did. “What’s your problem?” he growled.

But Draco could hardly hear him. There was an awful roaring sound in his ears as the scene flashed before him—Granger screeching as his aunt ripped back her hair…Potter blinking up at him, face swollen and almost unrecognizable…his parents’ wild eyes, urging him to do the right thing, incapable of telling him what the right thing was…

The cool autumn air hit his face like a slap. Draco looked down and saw that he had ripped off the corner of his sketch. Pansy was saying something in a worried voice, but he ignored her, his vision swimming as he barely managed to stuff his sketchbook into his bag before pushing off the ground. He felt Pansy’s fingers touch his, but he yanked his hand away from hers, terrified. He needed to get back to the castle. He stumbled forward, nearly tripping in the brush. He needed to forget. All of it. He couldn’t bear to remember. He couldn’t bear to relive it. It had been awful enough the first time. He would go mad, he thought, if he couldn’t forget.

***

Draco was still shaky by the time he met Potter at the edge of the forest, but he categorically refused to skip their meeting. He thought perhaps Potter could see the trepidation on his face—as they wove through the trees, he looked as though he wanted to say something. Silently, Draco urged him not to. He was still stewing in shame from having shouted at Pansy; he didn’t think he could bear the guilt of yelling at Potter, too. Mercifully, he stayed quiet as they reached their little clearing, conjuring a crimson blanket and pillow as Draco set down his bag. They took up their usual positions.

“I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Fine.”

Where was this Potter, he wondered, outside of the forest? During the day, he was as infuriating as ever, talking loudly with Weasley and regularly showing off in Defence. Diggle, their new teacher, was maddeningly breathless around Potter, squeaking in excitement whenever he so much as showed up for class. But now, as he examined Draco’s Mark, Potter’s face was thoughtful. When he turned Draco’s arm, he did so gently, tracing his fingers across the Mark so softly that it almost tickled. Potter must have felt Draco’s eyes on him—he looked up before Draco could turn away. Embarrassed, Draco frowned at him. He couldn’t think of what to say.

“Ready?” Potter asked, taking out his wand. Draco nodded, settling his head onto the pillow and closing his eyes. “Three…two…one…”

Hidden amongst the towering mountains of rubbish, Draco tapped on the cabinet with his wand. Nothing. He consulted the book one more time—it was an ancient, leather-bound tome he had taken from the Restricted Section. He tore out a page and placed it in the cabinet, closing the door carefully. After a few moments, he held his breath and opened the door. The page was still there, unmoved, unchanged. His stomach clenched painfully as he realized that the old reparation spell hadn’t worked. Panicked, he flipped through the book. He was hot, sweaty, fidgety. He had already been in the room too long; he had Transfiguration in less than ten minutes, and he needed to make some effort to attend his classes. But the spell should have worked. Why hadn’t it worked? Suddenly, his Mark burned painfully—Draco gasped and dropped the book, groaning as he clutched his arm. Did the Dark Lord know? Surely not. There was no way. He couldn’t know of Draco’s failure, because that would mean…that would mean…

“Stay still,” Potter murmured, pressing his wand deep into Draco’s skin. His Mark absolutely ached. As best he could, Draco steadied himself, clenching his jaw in a refusal to shout out. Every part of his body was sore, as though his very bones were being pulled taut. Finally, Potter eased off, rubbing the Mark with his thumb as though trying to soothe him.

“Malfoy,” he said quietly. “Look. Look how much it’s gone down.”

Draco didn’t dare believe it. Even in the dark of the forest, it was clear that the skull and snake had turned a dark shade of grey. “It’s lighter,” he breathed. Forgetting the pain, the nausea, he sat up and stared at his arm in awe.

“It’s definitely lighter,” Potter said excitedly. “You can tell clearly, now. It’s working. What does it feel like? The Mark?”

“It’s just…painful. It aches.”

“And it’s ached before, right?”

“I mean…” He gave a shaky sigh. “Sometimes. After he’d call us. Or whenever he was angry.”

“Yeah. My scar…” Draco watched as Potter, apparently out of habit, reached up and touched his fringe. “It hurt, whenever he was mad. I always knew.”

“Yeah.”

“This is…” Potter’s bright green eyes met his, vivid as ever. “This is good, right? This is really, really good. How do you feel?”

“Fine.”

“Can you remember? The memory?”

Draco lay back onto the blanket, drained. He ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to think. “Not really. Something about…sixth year. But I don’t know what.”

They were quiet for a moment, Draco looking up at the canopy above them, Potter still studying the Mark. “Is it weird?” Potter asked. He spoke so quietly that Draco almost didn’t hear him. “Not being able to remember?”

“Er…” He didn’t know how to answer. “Not really.”

“Are there blank spots in your memory, now? What’s it like?”

Draco was uncomfortable. He had no idea why Potter was suddenly so talkative. “It’s just…it’s like when there’s something on the tip of your tongue. And the harder you try to remember, the faster it just…it just sort of…”

“Fades away?”

“I guess so.” Draco looked up at him. “Still don’t want to try it again?”

Potter shook his head.

“Any particular reason?”

Potter shrugged. “Not really. But anyway, you should take a few days off to rest. We’ve done loads. And it’s working—there’s no reason to rush.”

“No. I’m fine.” Draco sat up, alarmed. “I’m fine, Potter. Let’s just get this over with. And then it’s done.”

Potter looked ready to argue, but Draco was already standing up. Wobbly, he took a moment to gather himself. He felt Potter at his side, felt his hand on his back, but he shrugged him off. “See you,” he said, grabbing his satchel and hurrying out of the clearing.

***

“Coming to Hogsmeade tonight, Draco?” Pansy asked him, flipping through the Daily Prophet.

“Probably not.” Draco turned his cup of tea in his hands. The warmth was soothing against his palms. Pansy had pushed a bowl of oatmeal towards him, but it sat untouched, growing cold.

Pansy sighed impatiently. “Theo’s coming. I told him I’d try to get you to go.”

“He doesn’t want to see me.”

“That’s not true at all,” she said. “He wants to know your predictions for Puddlemere.”

“I told him in my last letter.” Draco took another sip of tea and then added, “The Harpies are the ones to look out for this year.”

“Oh, Draco,” Pansy snapped. “He just wants to see you, that’s all. Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

Draco didn’t know how to answer. In truth, he was grateful that Pansy and Blaise had decided to overlook his last outburst, and so he shoved down his irritation and shrugged.

Looking over at him, Pansy took on a softer tone as she said, “It’s just for a few hours. It’ll be nice. Like old times.”

“Yeah.” That was the trouble, he thought to himself—he didn’t want to relive old times. Not at all. The past could stay buried in the past, as far as he was concerned.

“The thing is,” Pansy said, turning back to her paper, “I think he wants to know if you’ll go with him, sometime.”

“Go with him where?”

“You know.” She cleared her throat. “To see your father.”

“Is that what this is?” he demanded, glaring at her. “You’re just trying to corner me?”

“What?” Draco felt a bit guilty when Pansy turned to him, surprised. “Of course not. Since when have you been so paranoid?”

“You’d be paranoid, too, if you’d spent the last three years in a house full of Death Eaters, and…and…” His anger fizzled out and came to be replaced with a dull sense of misery. “You know.”

She reached out and touched his hand. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But nobody’s cornering you.”

“If you say so.”

Pansy opened her mouth to respond, but she was interrupted by Blaise’s sudden arrival. They shifted over to make room for him as he squeezed onto the bench.

“You’re cutting it close,” Pansy said mildly, passing him the kettle.

“Yeah…caught up with, well, anyway…” Blaise smirked to himself and reached for a cup. “What’s the plan for this morning?”

All three of them had a free period, and Draco planned to take full advantage. “I’ve got that stupid Charms essay,” he said. “I’ve barely even started.”

“How can that be?” Pansy asked him, startled. “You’ve been working on it all week.”

“I know. I can’t seem to finish it, though.”

“Copy off mine,” Blaise said, reaching over to snag the Sports section from Pansy’s Prophet. “Have a look at Limus’ column on changes in the Ministry, Pansy, it’s quite good.”

Undeterred, Pansy said, “Draco, you need to finish that essay. And we’ve still got loads to do for Sprout.”

“We’ll work on that this weekend,” Blaise said placidly. “Give him a break, Pansy, the year’s only just started.”

“But it’s important. Draco, if you don’t study—”

Draco already knew what she was going to say; he had listened to this lecture three times already. “Don’t,” he warned her. “Please. I know. It’s just one paper for Charms, Pansy. I’ll get it done.”

But it wasn’t just his Charms essay giving him trouble. After breakfast, he dutifully followed Pansy and Blaise to the library. There, he pretended to focus on his textbook, reading the same line over and over. It wasn’t only that he couldn’t focus—he couldn’t bring himself to care. He knew, rationally, that he needed to do well on his N.E.W.T.s. He couldn’t rely on his family name anymore, nor his father’s connections. But every time he sat down to study, it was as though his limbs were too heavy to lift. He quickly grew tired, irritable, restless. The logical part of his mind, screaming at him about the importance of his N.E.W.T.s, was always replaced by a sluggish voice questioning whether any of this really mattered, and, even if it did, drenching him in a strange sense of languor from which he couldn’t seem to emerge. It was as though he was in a constant battle with himself, and he was losing spectacularly.

As they broke for lunch, Draco caught sight of Potter on the way to the Great Hall. He was flanked by Weasley and Granger; Draco couldn’t think of any way to get his attention other than bumping their shoulders together roughly as he walked by.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Weasley spat.

Potter stared at him, eyes wide in surprise. Not knowing how to ask him for a private word, Draco ignored Weasley and Granger’s angry faces and whispered, “We have to skip tonight. I’m going to Hogsmeade.”

“Yeah, alright,” Potter said, complacent as ever.

Draco wanted to say more, wanted to push Potter into some kind of a reaction, but Blaise and Pansy were now looking back for him. He shot Potter one last frown before pushing past him.

***

By the time they left the castle for Hogsmeade, Draco was in a foul mood. He had made no progress at all on his essay, and although he had read though the chapter again, he hadn’t retained much at all.

“Draco,” Blaise said as they made their way up the path. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

He loathed the way his friends walked on eggshells around him these days. And, in turn, he hated himself, because he knew it was his own fits of anger that caused their apprehension. “Yeah?”

“Why haven’t you tried out for the Quidditch team this year?”

Pansy glanced up at him briefly and then looked away, as though checking to see whether he was going to lash out. Forcing himself to speak in a light, cheerful tone that instantly repulsed him, Draco said, “Oh. I don’t know. Too busy for Quidditch, I guess.”

“It’s a shame,” Blaise said, sighing dramatically. “Slytherin are going to be absolute rubbish without you.”

“Harper’s fine.”

“We don’t stand a chance against Gryffindor,” he went on. “Pansy and I went down to the pitch, to watch their tryouts. They’re going to flatten everyone. Potter, he…” Blaise took a moment to steady himself before admitting, “He can really fly.”

“Potter’s playing this year?” Draco asked, curious in spite of himself.

“Of course he is,” Pansy said, surprised. “He’s their captain, Draco.”

“He is? He never mentioned it.” Too late, Draco realized what he had said.

Pansy and Blaise exchanged a curious look. There was an awkward pause, and then Blaise said, “But why would he? You two never talk.”

“I know,” Draco agreed. “He just…he likes to show off, doesn’t he, Potter?”

Pansy sighed, looping her arm around Draco’s. “Are you planning to act oddly all year, Draco? Or only just this term?”

The Three Broomsticks was busy, but they spotted Theo right away. He stood as Pansy rushed towards him, flinging her arms around his neck. Something about the pub made Draco instantly uncomfortable—perhaps the hot, stuffy air, or the noise, or the press of bodies against his as he waded towards Theo’s table near the bar.

“Alright, Blaise? Draco?” Theo reached out and clasped their hands. The sight of him was startling: the last time they had seen each other was over the summer, as Draco attended his own hearings and Theo accompanied his father to his. He had been thin and gaunt back then. But now, he greeted them with an easy smile. Tall as ever, he stooped down to kiss Pansy’s cheek before pulling out a chair for her.

“How are you?” Pansy asked excitedly. “You look great!” Turning to Blaise and Draco, she said, “Doesn’t he look great?”

They nodded in agreement. Gesturing to the four firewhiskies already on the table, Theo said, “I thought I’d get us started.”

“Cheers,” Blaise said happily, tipping his bottle towards Theo before taking a swig.

“Tell us about the Ministry,” Pansy said. “How has it been? What is it like? Is it as boring as it sounds?”

“Boring?” Theo laughed, shaking his head. “Not at all. I mean, there’s a lot of paperwork, sorting out everyone’s Floo. We were really jammed before term started—loads of people trying to get to Diagon Alley, you know, for school supplies.”

“And what about your boss? Is she still awful?”

“Edgecombe?” He shrugged, taking a sip of firewhisky. “She’s alright. Still gets on my nerves. But she’s been gone for a while. Something went wrong near Rossendale…a bunch of networks got crisscrossed, or something. So she hasn’t really been around that much.” Pansy opened her mouth to ask him something else, but he looked around at Draco and Blaise. “And what about you lot, then? How’s Hogwarts?”

“Boring,” Blaise sneered, sitting back in his chair. “Loads of people didn’t come back for their eighth year.”

“Yeah, I see a lot of them at the Ministry.” Theo held out his hand and started to count on his fingers. “Daphne’s over at the Portkey Office, so I see her all the time…Millicent was on the Pest Advisory Board, dunno what happened to her…or maybe I just haven’t seen her around…and then there’s one of the Patil twins, working in the Foreign Affairs Office…I still haven’t sorted if she’s Padma or Parvati…”

“Parvati,” Pansy said promptly. “Padma’s at Hogwarts with us.”

“Thanks,” Theo said, grinning. “It was getting old, calling her ‘Patil’ whenever I saw her.”

“Wasn’t Terry Boot working with you for a bit?” Blaise asked.

“He was, yeah,” said Theo, counting off another finger. “He’s in the D.M.A.C. now, though.”

“D.M.A.C.?” Pansy asked.

“Sorry—Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.”

“You’re so clever, Theo!” Pansy gushed. She sounded very much as though she was speaking to a precocious toddler. “Look at you! You’re a real Ministry employee now, aren’t you?”

As Blaise and Draco sniggered, Theo rubbed the back of his neck. “Er, yeah. I guess I am.”

“Don’t miss Hogwarts, then?” Blaise asked him.

Theo shook his head. “No, not at all. Lots of people only have their O.W.L.s, and anyway, with the partial credits we got…” Catching sight of the look on Pansy’s face, he said hastily, “But you should finish out the year! It’s really important.”

“I’m glad you’re getting on, though,” Pansy said.

“I am, yeah.” Theo hesitated, and then said so softly that they almost couldn’t hear him over the noise in the pub, “You all remember Lavender, right? Lavender Brown?”

As the three of them nodded, Pansy said, “It’s terrible, what happened to her…at the Battle…”

“Yeah. Well, the thing is…” Theo was smiling now. “We’ve started seeing one another.”

Pansy sat up straight in her chair, eyes wide. “Lavender Brown?”

“I know we never talked much at school,” he said quickly. “But she’s…she’s very nice. It took her a while to recover, but now she’s on the Floo panel. We work together.”

At the pained look on Theo’s face, Draco said quietly, “You’ll have to bring her around next time.”

Theo gaped at him.

“Yeah, Theo,” Blaise taunted him. “Hiding your girlfriend from us, are you?”

Theo was positively scarlet as he grinned. “No, no…I just thought, you know, that I should warn you all first…” He looked over at Pansy, who was still staring at him. “She’s…she’s really nice, Pansy.”

“Of course she is,” Pansy said, recovering. “I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

“So was I,” he said, looking relieved. “But once we started working together, we had a chance to talk, you know? She’s really smart, Lavender, and you’d be amazed at how well she’s handled everything—her injury, you know, from…”

“Greyback,” Draco muttered. The name tasted very sour in his mouth.

“That’s right.” Theo shook his head, frowning. “She still has the scars on her face. But she acts as though nothing happened. I wouldn’t be able to just move on, like she does.”

“Theo,” Pansy asked timidly, reaching out to touch his hand. “She doesn’t…she doesn’t turn, does she? Into a…?”

“Oh, no, no,” Theo assured her. “He wasn’t transformed when he bit her.” His face took on an uncharacteristically resolute expression as he said, “But still. It wouldn’t bother me, even if she did.”

“Of course it wouldn’t,” Pansy agreed. “I think it’s wonderful, Theo. You’ll have to bring her next time.”

Reassured that Pansy had decided to be reasonable, Draco sunk deeper into his chair, nursing his bottle of firewhisky. The others discussed the upcoming Quidditch season—Lavender, apparently, supported the Wigtown Wanderers, a source of great ire for Theo, a lifelong Puddlemere fan. Although he tried to follow their discussion, Draco found himself overwhelmed by the heat and the loud noise in the pub. He couldn’t help but be relieved when they finally decided to call it a night.

“Draco,” Theo said as Pansy brought their empty bottles to the bar. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“Yeah, alright.” He had been expecting this. They made their way out of the pub, Blaise tactfully pretending to be occupied with rebuttoning his cloak.

The crisp night air was refreshing. Draco plunged his hands into his pockets, casting around for something to say before Theo brought up the inevitable. But he couldn’t think of anything.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to come with me next weekend,” Theo said, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself. “I’m headed up to Azkaban, to see my father.”

Draco looked at the ground, saying nothing.

“I thought you might want to come. A few weeks ago, Greg and I went together. It really isn’t that bad.”

“How’s Greg doing?” Draco asked suddenly, peering up at him.

“Oh, er…alright.” Taken by surprise, Theo faltered. “He works as a security guard, now.”

“At the Ministry?”

“No, no…St. Mungo’s…some of the patients get a bit, er, rowdy…” There was a moment of silence as Theo considered him. “You should think about coming with us, though. We went for lunch afterwards. I bet he’d really like to see you.”

Personally, Draco doubted that very much, but he didn’t want to crush Theo’s hopes. “Right. Well, I’ll check with my mother. I know she goes sometimes. She might prefer that I go with her instead. So I’ll…I’ll check,” he finished lamely.

“Sure.” Theo looked as though he knew Draco was being evasive, but they were interrupted by Pansy and Blaise, who pushed through the pub door and out into the cold.

“It’s freezing!” Pansy cried, rubbing her arms. “Come on, let’s get back.” She turned to Theo and wrapped him in another hug. As they said their goodbyes, Draco stood off to the side, ill at ease. He thought again about what Theo had said about Greg, and for some reason, he felt sick to his stomach. He couldn’t think about Greg without also thinking of Vincent.

Draco knew it was going to happen before it did—there was a roaring sound in his ears, and then he swore he could hear the crackle of Fiendfyre as it screamed at him. He staggered back, but the smell of burning flesh assaulted him…his heart was hammering in his chest…he knew vaguely that he had fallen onto the cold pavement but that didn’t matter, what mattered were Vincent’s agonizing shrieks as he burned alive…no human should ever make that noise…it was less than human, beyond human, it was insufferable and it just went on and on and on…

“Draco? Draco! My God. What’s wrong with him? Go get Madam Rosmerta, Blaise, go ask for help!”

“No,” Draco said groggily. He forced himself up and tried to ignore the sharp stab of pain in his shoulder. “I’m fine. I drank too much, that’s all.”

“You had one firewhisky,” Pansy said. Her voice was loud, far too loud. It rang in his ears as he tried to sit up.

“Take it easy, Draco,” Blaise muttered. As their faces came into focus, Draco winced. All three of them looked terrified.

“I’m fine. Just a dizzy spell.” He looked up at Blaise, begging him to cooperate. “Help me up, will you?”

As he struggled to his feet, Draco prayed that the others wouldn’t notice the trembling in his hands, the wobbling in his knees. His heart was beating so fast he worried they might be able to hear it.

“Mate, I hope I didn’t upset you,” Theo said nervously.

Draco shook his head, but that only caused him to feel even more nauseous. “S’not you,” he croaked. “Just tired.”

“Let’s get him back to the castle,” Blaise said, supporting Draco as they started to hobble down the street.

“I’ll write to you, Theo!” Pansy said, giving him one last hug before scurrying after them. Draco was utterly humiliated as they limped along in silence. He needed to get a hold of himself. Loads of other people had suffered during the war, during the Battle, but they weren’t fainting in front of the Three Broomsticks. His work with Potter had never seemed so important.

***

“You didn’t tell me you were Quidditch captain this year,” Draco said from his spot on the blanket.

Potter shrugged. “You never asked.” He reached towards Draco’s arm. “I’m going to check your Mark. Alright?”

“Yeah. Fine.” Turning his head away as Potter rolled up his sleeve, Draco told himself to let it go. But some stupid, stubborn part of him persisted. “How’s your team?’

“Alright. Ginny’s brilliant as Chaser.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah. Ron’s playing Keeper again.” Potter held up a hand before Draco had a chance to respond. “Whatever you have to say about him, I don’t want to hear it.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Draco grumbled. After a moment, he asked, “And you’re playing Seeker, then?”

“Right.” If Potter thought his questions were odd, he didn’t show it; he had taken out his wand and was tracing the outlines of Draco’s Mark.

“First match is Gryffindor against Slytherin,” Draco said evenly.

“Slytherin have no chance.”

Draco made to push himself up—the logical side of him knew that House divisions and the Quidditch Cup didn’t really matter, anyway, but he was almost excited to slip into these antagonistic roles—when Potter cut him off. “I mean, you’re not playing, right? You were probably their only hope.”

The breath he had been angrily holding rushed out of him. He gawked stupidly at Potter, not knowing what to say. Oblivious, Potter rubbed his thumb one last time on Draco’s forearm and then readjusted his wand. “Right. Ready?”

He was never ready, not really, but he would never admit it. Still baffled, Draco settled onto the pillow, turning to face the giant oak tree. His Mark throbbed as Potter twisted the tip of his wind into his skin.

“Alright, here we go. Three…two…one…”

He was about to drop at any moment. The corners of his vision blurred. The room around him swam—murky, unclear, out of focus. Every last one of his nerves was on fire. He had felt pain before, but never this deep, ripping agony that splintered his very core. He blinked slowly, turning his head, and he could just make out his father’s grim face. His father who, he knew, was absolutely no use to him now. In his shock, he thought numbly to himself that other fathers might have run forward, might have raged, might have protected their child whatever the cost. But his father stood out of the way, as though hoping he wouldn’t be seen.

Just as the ringing in his ears began to fade, he heard the Dark Lord’s high, cruel voice. “Up, Draco. Get up.” He couldn’t get up. There was no way. If he did, he would fall, and that would only earn him further punishment. But what if he didn’t try? Would the Dark Lord kill him for his disobedience? It wouldn’t be so bad, though, dying…if he died, the pain would end, and that thought was comforting enough to keep him on the floor a few moments longer, until he heard the Dark Lord call him again.

“Up, I said.” Sterner this time. Harsher. Draco forced himself up onto his knees, and then his feet. Swaying, he turned to face the Dark Lord, who sat in his armchair, Nagini at his side.

“You will do what I’ve asked, Draco,” he said softly. “Or you’ll find that tonight, I’ve been very merciful indeed.”

He couldn’t. He had tried and failed. He had to say something, but the words wouldn’t come out. As he floundered, the Dark Lord raised his wand again, and he braced himself, knees already buckling—

Draco shouted as he stumbled out of his memories. Potter was holding his arm, urging him to stay still, but the pain in his Mark was unbearable. He trashed, yelling out; his arm felt as though it would rip in two. Finally, the ice-hot pain tapered off, and Potter was muttering in a soothing tone, rubbing his shoulder as Draco covered his face with his free hand.

“I’m here, I’m here,” said Potter, still digging his wand into the Mark. “Just about done.”

There were tears coursing down his face, he realized—he could taste the salt on his lips. But the anguish emanating from his arm, pulsing through his body, was so acute that it drowned out any embarrassment he might have felt.

“Done,” Potter said, massaging Draco’s forearm. “What’s wrong? It hurts?”

“Yeah,” he said through gritted teeth. He pulled his arm away and rubbed at his Mark.

“Malfoy.”

Draco looked up in surprise; if he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn Potter sounded scared. In the dark, his face was pale, his eyes wide.

“What is it?”

“Your…” Potter faltered.

“My what?” he snapped. “My Mark?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Your memory. The one we just saw. Can you remember it at all?”

Draco pushed the hair out of his face. His ears were ringing. If he really focused, he could just make out his father’s grey eyes staring down at him. But that was it.

“Not really. I can sort of remember my father. We were at the Manor, I think. Why?”

“Forget it,” Potter said quickly, pocketing his wand.

“Tell me. Was it bad? Was it…was Macnair there?”

“Macnair?” Potter asked, grimacing. “No. Never mind. It isn’t important. You don’t remember, anyway.”

“I guess.” Draco was very much aware of the way Potter studied him. Uneasy and looking to get away from Potter’s gaze, he sat up. He wasn’t as nauseous as he had been last time, but he was exhausted. It was as though that memory had sucked out every bit of strength he had left. Worse still, he felt the beginnings of a headache tightening in his temples.

“Your Mark?”

Draco looked down. The Mark might have been a bit paler than before, but it was hard to tell. “About the same.”

Potter was already standing, used to their routine by now. When Draco remained on the blanket, cradling his head in his hands, he could feel Potter dawdling.

‘Go, just go,’ he urged him silently.

“Are you coming?”

“Give me a second.” He dug his palms into his temples, telling himself that he would feel better in a minute.

Potter crouched down next to him, trying to catch sight of his face. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” he hissed. “Just give me a second. My head’s killing me.”

“Sure,” Potter said, startled. “I just figured, you’re always so quick to get back…”

Draco doubted very much that he would be able to make the trek to the castle in this state. He barely had the energy to sit up. Annoyed, he growled, “Just go, Potter. I’m fine. I’ll catch up.”

“Are you mad? I’m not leaving you in the forest alone. Not when you can’t even stand.”

“Why do we have to come all the way here, anyway?” Draco demanded, squinting up at him. “We couldn’t just find an empty classroom?”

“This is where Hermione and I started it,” Potter said, still crouched down next to him.

“Oh, yes, what a great spot you’ve chosen,” he drawled.

Potter wavered, and then said, “This is where Voldemort killed me. Or tried to, anyway.”

Draco pulled his hands away from his face to look at Potter properly. On top of everything else—the aching remnants of pain, the first pulls of a headache, the nausea twisting his stomach, and the very odd sense that he had forgotten another important memory—he was now overwhelmed with a deluge of shame. “Right,” he said awkwardly.

“I’m not trying to make it weird,” Potter said. “I just…yeah. We thought it might help, to come here. Where the part of him in me, where it died.”

“Right.”

“And, er, I couldn’t really think of anywhere else. And maybe it…I dunno.” Potter sighed. “This is really experimental. So I thought it might be important, to do it here.”

“Right.” He was beginning to sound like a broken record.

“We’ll use an empty classroom next time,” Potter offered.

“No.” At the surprised look on Potter’s face, he said, “It’s working. I can’t afford to mess it up. We shouldn’t change anything, just in case.”

“Alright then,” Potter said slowly, scrutinizing him. Draco absolutely hated it when Potter analyzed him like that. He wanted to get back to his dormitory, to sink into his warm blankets and forget, but his legs still felt heavy, his arms stiff.

“Tell me about Quidditch,” Draco said. He turned and stared resolutely at the oak tree.

There was a long, pregnant pause, and Draco thought Potter was about to leave him in the forest. Instead, he sat on the blanket, exhaling deeply. “Well. That’s a whole thing. Ginny’s fine, she’s always been great.” Something strange prickled in Draco’s chest—cross, he shoved it away. “Ron’s alright. He’s a lot more confident this year. And then, er, my Beaters…they’re the main problem.”

Draco tipped his head back, taking in the cool breeze. “Why?”

“Well, Peakes is strong, but his aim’s been off. And Coote…he’s got himself a girlfriend this year, so he’s always late to practice. And then they fight over that. It’s a big mess.”

“And your other Chasers?”

“Robins. She was a great find. McDonald, not sure if you know her…” When Draco shook his head, Potter said, “She’s good. Needs a bit of work. But she’s really keen.”

They were quiet for a moment. He watched as Potter ripped little tufts of grass from the ground. Finally, Draco said, “And then there’s your Seeker.”

“Yeah. I heard he’s a real prat.”

Draco sniggered despite himself. As Potter snorted, it occurred to him that they were having a laugh together. Sort of. It was a sobering thought.

“And why are you so interested in my Quidditch team all of a sudden?” Potter asked him. Even as his eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth was twitching. “Going to run back to the Slytherin team with all our secrets, huh?”

“Oh, yes, Potter,” he scoffed. “Finally, you’ve uncovered my ruse.” Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to his feet, waving Potter away as he leaned forward to help. “I don’t really care much about Quidditch this year, anyway.”

“But you’ll be at the game?” Potter asked, rising up next to him.

“What?”

“Gryffindor versus Slytherin. You’ll be there to support Slytherin, won’t you?”

Taken aback at the serious look on Potter’s face, Draco shrugged. “I guess.”

He waited, wrapping his arms around himself, as Potter Vanished the blanket and pillow. They gathered their things and then walked back to the castle together. Neither of them said anything, but Draco thought it wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. And, as his Mark continued to throb, he was forced to admit that Potter’s presence at his side was reassuring. They understood each other, in a very odd sort of way.

***

All day Sunday, Pansy was unbearable. First, she nattered on about Theo and Lavender Brown, absolutely convinced that Blaise and Draco must have more details. They didn’t, of course, but that didn’t stop her from pestering them. These concerns were quickly dismissed, however, when she realized around lunchtime that she had misplaced her Transfiguration essay, sending her into a panic as she ripped her room apart. Draco tried reasoning with her—“If you’ve tried Accio it’s not coming, you must have tossed it somehow, or ruined it”—but she wouldn’t listen. It wasn’t until three that she finally relented and followed them out to the grounds to continue their sketches for Herbology.

“You can copy from mine, Pansy, it’s not a big deal,” Blaise said, exasperated. “People lose things all the time.”

“I don’t!” she said shrilly. “You two are positive you didn’t take it? This isn’t a joke?”

“Positive,” Draco said. He wanted to snap at her—she, of all people, had accused him of being paranoid just the other day—but he was still guilty from the last time he had lost his temper at her. Instead, he said, “That paper isn’t due for another week. You’ve got plenty of time. If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Oh, piss off,” she groused, crossing her arms against the cold as they made their way down the path.

“Let’s go to the lake,” Blaise said, consulting his list. “We still need to do bearberries.”

They found a mat of bearberry shrubs easily enough. Blaise conjured three pillows and they sat in the grass together, pulling out their sketchbooks. Draco felt a fresh wave of guilt when he spotted the torn corner of his thistle drawing. Ashamed, he turned the page, hoping the other two hadn’t noticed. They sketched quietly, the silence broken only by the sound of dry leaves as the wind swept through. It was a beautiful autumn day: the sky was blue, dotted with thin, snaky clouds. Draco sketched the little red berries as they jostled together in the breeze.

“What are they used for, again?” Pansy muttered.

Blaise leaned over, consulting his textbook. “Bladder and urinary tract infections.”

“Lovely,” Pansy said drily. Draco couldn’t help but laugh.

“Stomach problems, too. And wound healing.”

Draco held out his sketchbook, eyeing his drawing critically. His leaves were a bit wonky, he thought. Looking over at Blaise’s work, though, he decided he was happy enough. He set down his sketchbook and allowed himself to stare out at the lake, waiting for the others to finish. Off in the distance, he could see the memorial that had been erected in honour of those who had fallen during the last Battle. Engraved into the snowy white obelisk were over fifty names—names that had belonged to his classmates, his professors, his friends. And here he was, sitting outside on a nice autumn day, sketching plants. He felt sick at the thought.

“Draco,” Blaise said from beside him. “Is your arm alright?”

Mortified, Draco realized that he had been gripping his Mark. It ached beneath his sleeve. “Yeah, fine,” he said, bringing his hand to rest on his knee instead.

Pansy was staring at him. “Draco,” she whispered. “Isn’t it…if your Mark hurts, isn’t that usually…?”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said at once.

“But…” He saw Pansy’s eyes flit down to his arm before coming back up to examine his face. She looked terrified. “Why else would it hurt?”

“It’s, er…it’s happened on and off,” Draco lied. “Since he died.”

“Maybe it’s all messed up now, since he’s dead?” Blaise suggested.

“Yeah. Probably. It’s getting better, though.” He felt terrible lying, but his guilt was assuaged as Pansy’s tensed shoulders slowly relaxed.

“You should see Pomfrey,” she advised, returning to her sketch. “Maybe she can do something.”

“It’s alright. As I said, it’s a lot better than it was.”

“I hope you’re right,” Pansy said. Draco’s heart fell as her voice wavered. “Because if he’s back…if he isn’t really gone…”

“Pansy,” Blaise said, reaching out awkwardly to pat her back. “He’s dead. It’s over.”

Draco was torn. He wanted to tell his friends why his Mark hurt, but he couldn’t bear their questions. If he told them he was trying to get rid of the Mark, he would have to explain that he was meeting Potter every night to do so. And for some strange reason, that didn’t sit well with him.

‘They’ll just nag me,’ he told himself. ‘They won’t understand. They’ll think Potter’s up to something.’

Abandoning his sketchbook, Blaise stretched his arms above his head. After a moment, he said, “I thought that was really decent of you, Draco. The other night, with Theo.”

“I haven’t agreed to go with him to Azkaban, if that’s what you’re on about,” Draco warned him.

Blaise scoffed. “I figured as much. No, I’m talking about his new girlfriend. Lavender Brown.”

“Oh. Er. Right.” Suddenly uncomfortable, Draco picked up his sketchbook and pretended to flip through it.

“He seemed really worried about telling us,” Blaise said.

“I think he was worried about my reaction,” Draco murmured.

“Yeah. But you weren’t…you weren’t lying, were you?”

Draco looked up and saw Blaise and Pansy staring at him. He shook his head. “No. Of course not. Why should I care?”

“At least she’s a pure-blood,” Blaise said, sneering.

Something within Draco snapped. That word. He recoiled, almost physically, at the sound of that word. He swore it made his Mark pulse. Urging himself not to grab it again, he took a deep breath. “Yeah,” he mumbled, shifting uncomfortably on his pillow. He didn’t know what else to say.

***

It was unseasonably warm out. Potter had pulled off his ratty jumper while Draco cast aside his cloak. As Potter examined his Mark, sliding his thumb along the line demarcating the skull from the snake, he said softly, “It’s fading, along the edges. You can see.”

Draco hadn’t really noticed. Most of the time, he tried to pretend the Mark wasn’t there, looking resolutely away whenever he washed his arm in the shower or dressed himself. But he didn’t want Potter to know that, to think him weak or cowardly, and so he grunted in agreement.

“How are you getting on in your Transfiguration paper?”

Draco was taken off guard by Potter’s question, thrown out as though this was normal for them. As though they regularly discussed their homework, their classes. “Fine,” he said stiffly.

Potter gave him a funny look as he rolled his sleeve up higher, fulling exposing the Mark. “I wonder what that mouse got up to.”

Draco bristled. He didn’t want to discuss it.

“You think it knows it used to be a toad?” Potter asked conversationally.

“How the hell should I know?” Draco snapped, flummoxed. “I don’t think it knows anything, Potter. It’s a mouse.”

“Maybe. You saved it, though. Saved it from being turned back into a toad.” He was grinning widely now as he asked, “You think it’s better to be a mouse than a toad?”

Draco drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. The effect was rather muted, he thought, by his position on the ground with his arm in Potter’s lap. “That has nothing to do with it. Would you want to be stuck in a box all day in McGonagall’s office?”

“I guess not,” Potter said softly, taking out his wand. “I wonder if the owls got to it.”

“Who knows.” He was startled by a little pang of worry, but he tried not to dwell on it. “Anyway, let’s get started.”

“Yeah.” Draco winced as he felt the by-now familiar press of Potter’s wand against his skin. “Three…two…one…”

He thought his heart might explode, it was beating so fast. His father had been in the drawing room with the Dark Lord for hours. It was awful, being alone in the Manor on the night of a meeting—the other Death Eaters leered at him. Greyback was always too close for comfort, flashing awful smiles that caused his stomach to twist in fear. Even though Draco’s father had fallen from the Dark Lord’s favour, he still offered some protection. And so did Severus, but he hadn’t arrived, yet. Without them, Draco felt very much exposed. He sat in an armchair by the empty hearth, back straight, nose raised in as haughty a manner as he could manage. His mask nearly slipped, however, when he saw Macnair striding towards him.

“Draco,” he said. “Where have you been hiding? I had almost started to think you’d abandoned us.”

He recoiled as Macnair came to lean against the back of his armchair. He smelled of tobacco. “I hope your mummy and daddy aren’t locking you up in your room all day. Protective of you, aren’t they?”

As surreptitiously as he could, Draco glanced towards the drawing room door. It was still firmly shut.

Macnair must have noticed, because he laughed and said, “All alone among the wolves, are you? Poor thing.” He came in closer, looking down his long nose as he said, “I could protect you, you know. Your father’s worthless, I’m afraid. But I could keep you safe.”

In what he hoped was a smooth, confident voice, Draco said, “I don’t need protecting.”

“Don’t you?” Macnair tutted. “And what’s going to happen when you fail, then? You’ll be disposable. Your Master won’t want you anymore. But if you’re mine, if I claim you, surely the Dark Lord will spare you.”

“I won’t fail,” Draco snapped. “I’ve already got a plan. You’ll see.”

Macnair went on as though he hadn’t heard him. “He’s very pleased with me, right now, the Dark Lord is…I’ve still got the Giants wrapped around my finger.”

Draco shifted as far as he could in his seat. Where was Severus? Why hadn’t he arrived yet?

“You’ve heard the rumours, I’m sure…of what they plan to do with you, when you fail…Greyback is hopeful, of course. You’ll want to consider my offer very carefully, I imagine.”

This time, he did retch. Draco just managed to drag himself off the crimson blanket before he vomited into the grass. He hated that Potter was there, and he hated himself for not being able to stop. As dry heaves racked his body, he felt Potter’s hand on his back; he was muttering to him softly, although Draco couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Finally, as the heaving subsided, Draco sat back. Potter cleaned the grass with a sharp flick of his wand. His hand was still on Draco’s shoulder. Feeling foolish, Draco rubbed angrily at the tears in his eyes. His mouth was dry, but he didn’t trust himself to conjure anything.

“Could you—” he croaked, looking over at Potter. His face was pale. Draco swallowed several times, urging himself not to vomit again. “Water.”

“Oh! Right, of course.” Potter conjured a cup and then stuck his wand within its depths. “Aguamenti.” Draco took the cup gratefully. The cool water soothed his burning throat and settled his stomach.

“Are you alright?”

Draco didn’t know what to say. He held the little tin cup in his lap, examining it.

“That was…” Potter let out a shaky breath. “That was awful.”

“What was it?”

“It was…Macnair.”

Draco froze. Memories rose, unbidden, to the surface; he tried to stop them, but they pushed past his pleas, causing his heart to freeze. “What happened?”

“You were at the Manor. Your father was in another room, with Voldemort. And Macnair came up to you…and he was awful, threatening you, and…” Potter shook his head.

“He did that a lot. I must have dozens of memories.” Draco swallowed thickly. “You think we’ll have to go through all of them?”

“I hope not.” Potter looked down at the Mark; Draco didn’t dare. The sight might make him sick again. “Hermione said we don’t have to see every memory. Just enough to get the whole…the whole web, she called it, to collapse. So hopefully that’s the last of them.”

“Yeah.”

“Can you remember anything at all? I tried to get most of it, but you jumped up…”

Draco shut his eyes. There, on the edges of his consciousness, he thought he could see Macnair’s face, hovering over him. But it was slipping away, like water dribbling through his fingers. And he was grateful for that. “Not really. It’s fading.”

“Good.” Potter cleared his throat. “That’s really good.”

“I don’t want to go through all of it,” Draco said. “But, fuck, I’d like to forget. It might be worth it.”

Potter bit his bottom lip but said nothing. Still queasy, Draco gently lowered himself onto the blanket. “Let me rest here for a minute.”

“Of course.”

The silence stretched between them. Draco did his best to slow his breathing while Potter sat next to him, staring at the ground. It should have been awkward, but Draco was too unsettled to care. As Macnair’s face floated before him, he groaned, squeezing his fists. “Don’t want to puke again.”

“Go ahead. It’s fine.”

Draco shook his head, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “What’s wrong with me?”

“What we saw, it was…it was really bad. I…” In a very quiet voice, Potter said, “I didn’t know.”

“There are plenty of things you don’t know, Potter,” he mumbled.

“Yeah. And I…really, Malfoy, I feel…”

“Oh, don’t start,” he snapped. “I’m already sick as it is. I don’t need your sympathy.”

Potter gave a weak chuckle. After a moment, he said, “Macnair. Did he…what did he do?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“And anyway,” Draco said bitterly, “you’ll probably see it.”

“I don’t want to see it,” Potter whispered. There was a pause, and then he said hurriedly: “I mean—that was stupid. Seeing it…it’s nothing, is it, when you actually lived it…”

“You’re fine.” Draco waved his hand, dismissing him. “I don’t want to see it, either.”

‘But I’ll have to, in the end, just watch,’ he thought to himself grimly.

***

Diggle had them learning general defensive spells—Shield Charms, counter-spells, revulsion jinxes. The room was loud with the sounds of students shouting and occasionally falling against desks and chairs. It was too loud, much too loud; a headache had already started to squeeze his head like a vice. The result was that Draco was quite on edge as Blaise continued to fling hexes at him, looking to break through his Shield Charm.

“Nonverbally, if you can, please!” Diggle called out as he paced through the students. He was dressed in the most garish violet robes Draco had ever seen; they clashed terribly with his purple top hat.

Blaise smirked at him. “Go on, then, Draco.”

He had no interest in dueling—still drained from his session with Potter, Draco found it difficult to stop himself from swaying. But he refused to look weak in front of the others. Grimacing, he took a deep breath and then sliced his wand through the air. Blaise repelled his hex easily.

“Oh, very good, Mr. Zabini, very good!” Diggle gasped, clapping his hands. “And nonverbally, too!”

Draco rolled his eyes as Blaise drawled, “Looks like I’ve bested you, Draco.”

“Looks like it,” he said moodily.

Blaise hesitated. “Are you alright? You’re really pale.”

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “And you still haven’t gotten through my Shield Charm, so I don’t know what you’re boasting about.”

The sneer returned to Blaise’s face. “Let’s try it, then. Ready?” Draco nodded. They paused, waiting for the other to make a move, when Blaise whipped his wand forward. Draco reacted a fraction too late; his wand flew from his hand, soaring towards Blaise. He caught it, grinning slyly.

“What’s happened, Draco?” he taunted. “Starting to slow down in your old age?”

But Draco couldn’t hear him—the noise in the classroom faded as a ringing sound filled his ears. He staggered back. In front of him swam a scene he had mulled over hundreds of times: Potter was ripping the wands out of his hands; Draco barely struggled…and then Greyback was crumpling onto the ground…and then his mother screamed as his aunt threatened Potter and his friends with her knife…

And then Draco was back in Defence, his heart racing so fast he thought it might explode. He had fallen against a desk and was nearly on the floor. As the ringing in his ears subsided, he heard Blaise snap, “It wasn’t me!”

The room swam back into view just as Pansy and Diggle reached his side.

“Draco, are you okay?” Pansy said, grasping his arm. She looked terrified.

“Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy,” Diggle was tutting. “I warned you not to outdo yourself. This isn’t a Dueling Club, boys.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Just tripped, that’s all.”

Pansy whispered furiously, “You didn’t just trip, Draco. You nearly passed out.” She was trying to push him into the chair, but he resisted, begging his knees to stop trembling as he stood. The entire class was staring. As Diggle helped him up, Draco found Potter’s face. Unlike the others, his eyes weren’t wide, his jaw wasn’t slack. Instead, he was scowling.

“Off to Madam Pomfrey, I think, Mr. Malfoy,” Diggle said.

“I’m fine,” Draco hissed, pulling his arm away. At the startled look on Diggle’s face, he gritted out, “Sir.”

“Right, well, er…” Diggle looked around, as though hoping someone would tell him what to do next. “What time is it? Oh, my word, look at the time! Off to dinner with you, off you go…and don’t forget that foot of parchment on counter-spells next week!”

As the other students drifted off to pack up their things, Draco wiped his forehead. He was sweating, even though the room was quite cool.

“Draco.” Pansy was glaring at him. “He’s right. You need to see Pomfrey. You fainted, Draco.”

Blaise was now at his side. “I didn’t mean to do it,” he said weakly, passing Draco his wand.

“You didn’t do anything,” he grumbled, pocketing his wand. “Can you both drop it? Come on, let’s go to dinner.”

His stomach tightened strangely as he saw Potter striding towards them. His arms were crossed, his brow furrowed. There was an awkward silence as they regarded one another. Finally, Potter said, “I need to talk to you.”

Draco looked over at Blaise and Pansy, who were staring at him, confused. Not knowing what else to do, Draco pulled himself together and managed to say, “Go on, then. If it’s that important.”

Pansy wavered for a moment, looking very much as though she wanted to argue. Draco touched her arm, muttering, “It’s fine. I’ll see you at dinner.”

After a moment, Pansy and Blaise finally retreated, shuffling out of the classroom along with the others. Draco wanted badly to sit down—he felt as though he was going to collapse at any second. Instead, he swung his satchel over his shoulder and leaned back onto the desk, forcing his face into what he hoped was a look of detached boredom.

The moment they were alone, Potter asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” he sneered. “Worried about me, are you, Potter?”

“Tell me what happened.”

The serious look on his face took Draco by surprise. “Nothing. I tripped, as I keep saying.”

“Anyone with eyes could see you didn’t just trip,” Potter said sharply. “Is it your Mark?”

Looking down, Draco realized that he had been gripping it again. Irritated with himself, he stuffed his hands into his pockets, glaring at Potter. “It keeps happening. I don’t know what it is. I keep seeing…old memories. It’s as though I’m there, reliving it.”

Potter frowned. “Are your memories coming back?”

“I don’t know!” Draco rubbed his face tiredly. “Just now I saw that time at the Manor, when you took my wand.”

Potter shook his head. “We haven’t erased that one.”

“And what about that time in the…in the room. With Vincent.”

For a second, Draco thought he saw Potter grimace. But then he resumed the neutral expression he usually wore, his features smoothing out easily. “No. We haven’t done that one, either.”

“Then what’s…what’s going on?” Draco asked. “This has never happened before. They’re not just memories—it’s like I’m there again.”

“I keep telling you, we’re doing too much at once,” Potter growled. “You need a break in-between. When Hermione and I—” He broke off and looked away.

“Is this why you stopped?” Draco breathed. “Is this what happens? Your memory is all fucked up and you…you…you go mad?” His heart was racing. What if he never went back to normal? What if his memories continued to haunt him like this, bursting forth so vividly that he couldn’t possibly ignore them?

“No. That’s not why we stopped. I told you, we never got that far.”

“What have you done to me?” Draco pushed off from the desk, forcing himself to stand.

“I haven’t done anything!” Potter said hotly. “It’s just too much at once! Take a few weeks off.”

“I can’t,” he hissed. “I want this over with. I want this fucking thing gone.”

“You’re mad if you think I’m going to keep meeting you every night, just so you can faint in class. We’ll give it a month.”

“A month?” He knew that he was at Potter’s mercy—that he needed to be calm, reasonable. But it was almost impossible to douse the anger swelling up inside him.

“At least.” Potter gave him an appraising look, and then shrugged. “We have all year. I don’t see what the rush is.”

“Potter, no.” Terrified, Draco reached forward to grab his arm. “Please. You can’t. I need to get rid of it. You don’t understand.”

For a moment, Potter said nothing, staring down at Draco’s hand in surprise. Then, finally, he muttered, “I agreed to help you with your Mark. Not to fuck up your memories, or…or whatever else this is.”

“This never happened to you, then?” Draco took his hand away, embarrassed by his outburst.

“No. I’ve told you, we only tried twice.”

“But why? Why did you stop?”

“Because. It just didn’t work out. But not because of…” Potter motioned vaguely in Draco’s direction. “Whatever this is.”

“Right. Fine. So maybe it’s like losing a tooth, you know?” When Potter raised his eyebrows, Draco said, “There’s that part in the middle where it really hurts. When it’s just on the verge of falling out, but it hurts every time you touch it. And you just need to rip it out, get it over with.”

Potter shrugged. “I guess.”

“We can’t stop. If you won’t do it, I’ll…I’ll…” He refused to meet Potter’s eyes as he said, “I’ll do it myself. You found that book, where, in the library? I’ll find out how, and I’ll do it on my own.”

There was an awkward silence as Draco looked at the ground. Finally, Potter exhaled wearily. “Fine. Tonight. See you.”

Not quite believing his good luck, Draco glanced up. Potter had an unhappy look on his face, and for a moment Draco felt a twist of guilt in his chest. But he couldn’t just abandon him like this. Not when the Mark was already fading. Potter held his gaze for a moment, frowning, and then strode out of the classroom.

***

“You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

“It always hurts, Potter.”

“If it hurts more than usual.”

“Fine.”

“And if anything strange happens. Anything at all.”

“Fine.”

Draco glared at the enormous oak tree as Potter traced his fingers along the Mark. He took longer than he usually did, pushing Draco’s sleeve up as high as it would go. “Does it hurt now? If I touch it?”

“No.”

“Has anything else happened, since class?”

“No.”

Potter hummed to himself. Slowly, he pressed the tip of his wand into Draco’s arm. It was very difficult to hold still as a fresh wave of pain burst from his Mark, but he managed.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Potter took a deep breath. “Alright, then. Three…two…one…”

It was well after midnight. His father had just arrived back, accompanied by a dozen Death Eaters and the Dark Lord himself. Draco dawdled by the staircase, hoping against hope that he might not be summoned. Panic gripped him—those sorts of traitorous thoughts could get him killed. Just as he started to wonder whether he had been forgotten, he heard that chilling voice: “Draco?”

Everyone’s eyes were on him as he edged into the sitting room. The Dark Lord was in his preferred armchair, Nagini wrapped around his legs. Draco glanced over at his father, whose expression was inscrutable.

“Draco. How have your holidays been?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, but he had to say something. Finally, he managed to croak out, “Very good.”

“I hope my intrusion into your home continues to be agreeable to you.”

“Of course, my Lord.” He forced himself to look up into the Dark Lord’s red eyes.

“Tell me, then. What news of the boy?” The Dark Lord leaned back and held a long, pale hand out to Nagini, who brushed her head against it.

“I don’t see him much, my Lord,” he whispered. His chest was so tight that he couldn’t take a full breath. “I’m busy working on…on Dumbledore.”

“You must have classes with him, surely?”

Draco broke out into a cold sweat. Something flipped unpleasantly in his stomach. “Yes. He, er…he’s better in Potions, this year.” As the Dark Lord’s lip curled, Draco went on: “But he’s afraid. You can tell. He…he doesn’t have a plan at all. He has no idea what’s going on.”

The Dark Lord smirked. “How sad it will be for him, to lose his protector, his champion…and after having lost his godfather, no less…tell me, Draco, what stands between Harry Potter and I once Dumbledore is gone?”

“Nothing, my Lord.” Draco swallowed thickly. It took everything in him to shut the fear out of his mind, to wrap his thoughts up and to force a tremulous smile onto his face. “Nothing at all.”

“Everything is going as planned, then? With the little task I’ve set you?”

Petrified, Draco nodded. “Yes. Yes. I…Yes.”

“I hope so, Draco.” He gave him a twisted smile. “I can’t think how your mother and father might react, should you face your Lord’s wrath…Greyback is ever eager, as you know…”

Just as Draco felt a scream well up within him, that hideous face broke into a hundred pieces. He was back on the forest floor, breathless. The pain radiating from his Mark was agonizing. “Do you have to fucking twist your wand in like that?” he yelped, wrapping his other hand into the blanket so as not to reach for his arm.

“Sorry,” Potter said grimly. “I want to make sure I get all of it.”

He couldn’t argue with that, and so he clenched his jaw, grimacing at the metallic taste in his mouth. Gradually, Potter relaxed his grip, until at last he pulled his wand away.

“It looks about the same,” Potter said. “How does it feel?”

“Burns.”

“Sorry.”

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his palms into his temples; his head was pounding.

“Malfoy. Why didn’t you say it was me? At the Manor?”

“What?”

“You knew it was me. Why didn’t you say?”

Everything hurt. He felt as though his very bones were bruised. “Why? Is that what came up?”

“No. Or else how would you remember?”

Draco grunted. Perhaps if Potter would just be quiet for a second, he could sleep. He was comfortable enough. The ground wasn’t so hard, really, once he adjusted himself. And it was dark and cool in the forest. Just five minutes of sleep, that was all he needed, just enough to recover…

“Malfoy. Tell me.”

“I don’t know, Potter,” he moaned. “What does it matter?”

“Just now, in your memory…Voldemort was there.” Draco flinched at the sound of that name. “And some other Death Eaters. Your father was there, too. And Voldemort asked about me, but…but you panicked. I could feel you panicking.”

“Fascinating.”

“So why did you panic? And why didn’t you say it was me, at the Manor?”

“Potter.” He sighed angrily, reaching over to tug down his sleeve. “If you’re trying to get me to admit that I wasn’t actually a Death Eater, that I was on your side, then stop it. I took the Mark.”

“I know that,” Potter said quietly.

“Then what does it matter? I panicked. I don’t know. It feels like ages ago.”

“You saved my life.”

Draco didn’t want to listen to this. Angry, he forced himself to sit up. “They called the Dark Lord, anyway. So it didn’t matter.”

“You bought us time.”

“Would you stop it?” Draco demanded. “I’m trying to forget, Potter.”

In the dark, he could just make out Potter’s bright green eyes. He couldn’t place the look on his face. Suddenly cold, he crossed his arms against his chest.

“Are you alright?” Potter asked, reaching out to him.

“I’m fine. Let’s get back.”

“You look tired.”

“I…” The concern in Potter’s eyes was unsettling. “I just need some sleep. Come on.” Draco held his breath and then pushed up onto his feet. Every muscle in his body ached, but he managed to stay upright.

“Malfoy.” Something in Potter’s voice made him turn. “I don’t want to forget. About what you did. I don’t care what you say. You saved my life.”

“Great. We’re even, then. Come on.”

When Potter finally moved, Draco sagged in relief. He didn’t want to discuss any of this. It was too raw, too tender, like poking a wound that had barely begun to heal. His own motivations were a mystery to him—every choice he had made, it seemed, was buried under layers of fear, of self-interest, of paranoia, of regret.

They had barely begun their walk back to the castle when Draco tripped over a root. He clung to a tree for support, gasping as the brittle bark dug into his palms.

“Here, let me,” Potter said. Before Draco could protest, Potter had his arm around his waist, supporting his weight.

“I’m fine,” he insisted, trying to disentangle himself. But Potter pulled him forward, ignoring his complaints. They hobbled out of the forest together. This was the second time someone had helped him back to the castle in less than a month. Utterly humiliated, Draco kept his eyes to the ground, praying no one was out for a midnight stroll who might recognize them.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” Potter said sternly. “This isn’t safe. Let’s take a break, just for a few weeks.”

Depleted as he was, Draco didn’t have the wherewithal to suppress his resentment. “Really, Potter? Tell me, if you had something like this on your arm, would you want to wait?”

“That isn’t the point.”

“Isn’t it?” he bit back.

“What good is it going to do, getting rid of it, if you end up dead? Or…or mad, or something?”

The Mark ached so tenderly that every time his arm bumped against Potter’s side, a fresh wave of pain coursed through him. Fighting off the urge to groan, to grip his arm, Draco said, “I’d rather be dead than have this thing.”

Potter paused; without his forward motion, Draco stumbled. As they righted themselves, Potter scrutinized him. The pale sliver of moon reflected off his glasses. “You don’t mean that.”

Draco snorted. “You have no idea what I mean.” He pushed away from Potter and forced himself up the path and out of the forest. The air was thinner out on the grounds; it filled his lungs and gave him strength. After a moment, Potter caught up with him. They walked back in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

***

“Draco. Let’s go for a nice walk.” Before he could protest, Pansy took his arm and steered him out of the entrance hall. They had only just finished dinner; Draco thought remorsefully of his warm bed down in the dungeons, calling out to him. His evening plans had consisted of hiding under his blankets and hopefully sorting his Defence homework, but he wisely decided against arguing as Pansy dragged him along.

“Where we are going?” he asked.

“A nice walk, I said.”

“What? You hate exercise. Since when have we ever gone for a ‘nice walk?’”

“Since I decided that I don’t want all of Hogwarts hearing your business.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She said nothing as they pushed through the oak door and into the evening air. A group of Hufflepuffs stood huddled by the entrance, playing Gobstones. Pansy dragged him down the path to the lake.

“Are you going to explain to me what’s wrong?” he snapped. Her grip on his arm was painful.

“Draco.” Pansy stopped short, turning to him. Arms crossed, she said, “You need to tell me what’s going on. You were out of bed again last night.”

“No, I wasn’t.” The lie came to him immediately.

“Yes. You were. Blaise was out for hours…he didn’t get back until one. And you still weren’t in bed.” When Draco said nothing, Pansy narrowed her eyes. “Where were you?”

“I was having a shower.”

“He checked the loo, you prat,” she hissed. “You weren’t there. He couldn’t find you anywhere. He was worried, Draco.”

“And why was he out so late, then?” Draco asked hotly. He turned away and walked briskly down the path. Every step was agony—the slightest jostle set his arm to throbbing. But he refused to show Pansy that anything was amiss.

“That’s a whole other thing,” she said, waving her hand dismissively.

“What do you mean?”

“That…” Pansy hesitated, and then said, “Ask him yourself. But he’s accounted for. You’re not.”

“Accounted for?” he scoffed. “Meaning what?”

“It’s not my place to say. And stop trying to distract me. This isn’t about Blaise; it’s about you.”

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered, looking up at the sky. Early October was bringing about a truly spectacular palette: roses and mauves mixed together in a frothy wash as the day drew to an end.

“And you look tired,” she went on. “It’s as though you aren’t sleeping. And you still haven’t explained what happened in Defence. Or what Potter wanted.”

“I did tell you,” Draco insisted. “He had my textbook. Took it by accident.”

“He couldn’t say that in front of Blaise and I?”

“He…how should I know what Potter thinks?” Pansy’s persistence was wearing down on him; that familiar surge of anger flared up.

“Why are you lying to me?” she demanded. Their eyes briefly met—she was glowering at him, mouth twisted in fury.

“That isn’t fair,” he replied. “You’re pushing me into a corner. You make me lie to you.”

“I’m supposed to be your best friend,” Pansy said in a small, hurt voice. “And all you’ve done is push me out.”

Draco sighed. He could have been nestled under his blankets by now. “I’m not pushing you out, Pansy.”

“You’re hiding something,” she accused him. “Remember the last time you kept secrets from me? In sixth year?” When Draco turned away, she spat, “Because I still remember. It was awful. I don’t want a repeat of that—of that year.”

“It’s nothing like that,” he said wearily.

“Friends don’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Tell me what Blaise is up to, then.”

“Oh, Draco, it’s nothing,” she said, exasperated. “It’s just…oh, for God’s sake.” She stopped abruptly. They had arrived at the lake; in the distance, Draco could just make out a few students lounging by the shore, casting rocks into the water. “Do you know Kevin Whitby? In Hufflepuff?”

“I…I guess?”

“They’re sort of…” Pansy wavered, and then said in a rush, “They’ve been seeing each other.”

Draco blinked at her. “Alright?”

“Seeing each other,” she repeated, more slowly this time. “As in…they’re together. They’re dating.”

“Yes,” he said idly, “I understand what ‘seeing each other’ entails.”

Pansy rolled her eyes impatiently. “Well, he was worried about telling you.”

“What do you mean?” Draco asked, taken aback. “Why’s he afraid of telling me? Of all people, why would I care if he likes blokes? I’ve known that for ages. Why would he think—”

“Whitby is a half-blood,” Pansy said softly.

It took a moment for Draco to realize what she meant. Finally, as the truth dawned on him, he felt rather sick. “Oh. He’s…I see.”

“Yes.”

“But I had no problem with Theo,” he argued. “With Theo and Lavender Brown.”

“But she’s a pure-blood, isn’t she?” Pansy said, tilting her head as she looked up at him. “So it’s different.”

Draco’s stomach was in knots. He hoped that perhaps Pansy was lying, or had confused things somehow, but the resolute look on her face told him otherwise. “I don’t understand. The other day, when we were talking about Brown, he mentioned that she’s a pure-blood. Remember? He said ‘at least she’s a pure-blood.’”

“Oh, Draco, he was testing you, don’t you see?” Pansy was staring at him as though she had never seen anyone so dim. “Trying to gauge how you would react.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know!” Draco said, affronted. He drew his cloak tighter around himself and pushed on down the path—the wind had picked up. “This is so stupid.”

“I know,” she said, keeping pace with him. “It’s as though we’re all afraid of each other. I kept telling him he was being ridiculous. You don’t…” She looked askance at him. “You don’t mind, do you?”

Draco was tired. So very, very tired. “I don’t care about all that rubbish,” he murmured. “I thought this was all supposed to end, after…” He took a deep breath. “After Voldemort died.” Pansy winced next to him, but he ignored her. “I thought it was all supposed to be over.”

“You can’t expect people to just forget,” she said fairly. “I mean, I…” Pansy was quiet as they wove their way back to the castle. She reached out to drag her fingers through the thick, tangled shrubs lining the path. Finally, she said, “I don’t like it. Any of it. But sometimes, I’ll look at someone like Granger, and I can’t help it…I just…” She looked up at him pleadingly. “It’s just in me. It comes up before I can even think about it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“It happens with you, too?” she whispered.

Draco shrugged. “Sometimes. But for me, it’s different, because…because of what I saw. And what I did. Even just thinking of that word—pure-blood—it drives me mad.”

Pansy reached out and took his hand in hers. Surprised, Draco scoffed. “I’m fine. It’s not me you should be worrying about. But, I just…I don’t know. You can’t see that sort of thing and not be changed.”

“Of course.” Pansy squeezed his hand, and then said, “So, what about you, then? You still haven’t told me where you go every night.”

“I was hoping you’d forgotten.”

“Really?” she smirked. “You know me better than that.”

“You’re not going to believe me,” Draco warned her. “Or, if you do, you’re going to be angry with me.”

“Let’s get it over with, then,” she sighed.

“I’ve been meeting…I’ve been meeting Potter.”

Pansy stopped. She gripped his hand so tightly that he felt his bones crack. “Harry Potter?” she cried. “You’re—you’re—what do you mean, meeting—”

“He’s helping me with my Mark!” Draco said hastily. He looked around; in the dim light of the early evening, they were well concealed. Carefully, he lifted up his sleeve to show Pansy his arm. “Look. It’s better, isn’t it?”

Her bafflement gave way to awe as she peered down at his arm. “It’s…but, it’s…” She brought her hand up to touch it, pulling away at the last second. “Draco. It’s going away.”

“I know.” Draco couldn’t help the excitement in his voice—if Pansy could see it, too, then he wasn’t just imagining things. “It’s so much lighter than it was.”

“It’s not black at all, anymore,” she said. “Can you get rid of it completely?”

“I hope so.” Draco tugged down his sleeve. Checking to see that they hadn’t been spotted, he gently pulled her forward along the path. “Potter thinks it should.”

“So, he’s been doing this for you? But why?”

Uncomfortable, Draco shrugged. “He tried it himself, with his scar. Granger was helping him.”

“And? What happened? He’s still got his scar, hasn’t he?”

“Yeah, he does. They tried twice, and then they stopped. I don’t really know why.”

“But what if it’s dangerous?” Pansy asked, her face anxious. “What if they’re experimenting on you, to see if it works? Is this—Draco, is this why you’ve been fainting?”

“I mean, maybe. I’m tired after.”

“Then you have to stop,” she said at once. “I’ve never heard of anything like this before. You should see Pomfrey, ask her if it’s safe. And until then, you need to stop.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Draco.” Pansy tried to stop him, but he untangled his hand from hers, hurrying back up the lawn. “Listen to me. This is an awful idea. You look so tired all the time, Draco. You look ill. I didn’t want to say anything, I just thought it was from, you know, everything that happened. But you look awful.”

“I want it over with,” he said curtly. “I can’t stand to look at it anymore.”

Pansy argued with him all the way back to the common room, but Draco tuned her out. The Mark continued to burn, serving as an excellent reminder of all the reasons why he needed to be rid of it.

“I knew you’d react like this,” Draco said angrily as they swept down the stairs to the dungeons. “This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Oh, excuse me for caring about you,” she snapped.

“If you care about me, then let me do this,” he said in a voice that he hoped would brook no argument. At the furious look on her face, Draco said more gently, “Potter’s the one helping me. You know how he is. I doubt he’d be doing this if he thought I’d get hurt. It’s going to be fine, Pansy.”

Pansy looked as though she was going to cry, but instead she nodded, pushing past him into the common room. It took everything in him not to bicker with her. He was so sick of feeling guilty all the time.

***

Draco lay on the blanket, his head nestled onto the pillow. Above them, the leafy canopy swayed gently in the wind. He waited for Potter to take his arm, to examine his Mark. Instead, Potter sat next to him, cross-legged, and took out a piece of parchment from his bag.

“What’s that?”

“Hermione wrote me some notes. She saw what happened in class…and she said you look tired, lately.”

The thought that Granger had been watching him—and had, by the sounds of it, perhaps felt sorry for him—was discomfiting. Uneasy, Draco snorted. “I’m fine.”

“Mmm.”

“You’ve told her, then? About…” Draco wanted to say “us,” but that sounded odd. As though there was any sort of him and Potter that formed an “us.”

“Yeah. I was worried.”

Now deeply uncomfortable, Draco tried to get some sort of hold on the conversation. Forcing a sneer onto his face, he said, “I’m so touched, thinking of you two Gryffindors fretting over me.”

“Well, yeah.” Potter glanced up from his parchment, eyebrows raised. “You fainted.”

“Never going to let that go, are you?” he mumbled, turning to gaze back up at the sky. The wind was brisk, rattling through the dry leaves as it whipped by.

“Hermione said we should try to consolidate what we’ve done so far,” Potter said, consulting the parchment.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning there might be gaps in your memory, now, and your mind doesn’t know how to sort it out,” Potter said. “It’s sort of like…Hermione said your memory is a big web, right? A spider web. When we take out a string, the problem is, that string is connected to lots of other ones. So let’s say you have a memory about, er…” Draco braced himself, expecting Potter to bring up some horrible event from the past. Instead, he said, “Dinner tonight. Well, that memory is connected with a bunch of other ones, right? Every time you’ve been into the Great Hall, you form a new memory. If you had pudding, then all the other times you’ve had pudding are connected to that memory, too. If you talked to, I dunno, Parkinson, or Zabini, that memory connects to all the other times you’ve talked to them.”

“Right. Okay.” In the face of this complexity, Draco found himself growing fearful. “So is it ruined, then? My memory?”

“No, no,” Potter said quickly. “Loads of people lose memories, or rearrange them, or put them into a Pensieve. Hermione said it should be fine. We just need to smooth out any inconsistencies.”

“You’re starting to make me feel like this was a big mistake, allowing you to poke around in my mind,” Draco muttered.

Potter had that serious look on his face again. “I wouldn’t even try, if I thought it would hurt you. But I trust Hermione. And it worked fine when we tried it on me.”

“Did it? Then why did you—”

Cutting him off, Potter read loudly from his parchment: “The mind will do the work. The mind naturally wants everything to be consistent, constant, congruent. It’s like healing a scar—the mind will knit over the broken flesh so that it’s whole again.” Potter glanced up at him. “She thinks you’ll feel better, after this. And whatever happened in Defence, reliving your memories…it might not happen again.”

“Alright.” Draco settled onto the blanket as comfortably as he could, offering his arm to Potter.

“Oh, no, this is different,” he said. “I’m not erasing anything. Hermione gave me this potion, here…” Potter reached into his pocket and produced a small, green vial. He passed it to Draco, who turned it between his fingers. The label read Sana Mente. “You just drink that. And it does its work.”

“Did Granger brew this herself?”

“She did. And she definitely got it right,” Potter said, as fiercely loyal as ever.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not doubting Granger’s aptitude, Potter, don’t worry.” He held the vial up to his eyes. “I just…” He wondered where she had found the time. And why she had bothered to help him. “What happens once I take it?”

“Er…Hermione said you might feel a bit dizzy. Tired. But you’ll be conscious, probably.”

“Probably?” he scoffed. “That’s reassuring.”

“It’s hard to know how people will react. You just sit back and let it do…whatever it needs to do. It’s healing you, basically.”

“Yes, healing all the lovely scars we’ve ripped into my mind. Lovely.” Giving a weary sigh, Draco said, “Can’t I just do this on my own, then? Just lay in bed and let it do its work?”

“Absolutely not,” Potter said firmly. “What if you have a bad reaction?”

“How long is this going to take?”

“A few hours? It depends on how bad the damage is.”

Draco frowned at him. “So you’re going to sit here for hours and watch me while I’m off my rocker. How thrilling for you.”

Potter reached into his satchel and pulled out a thick textbook. “I’ll be studying.”

“And you’re sure this is safe?” Draco demanded. “Absolutely sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Hermione’s sure.” There was a pause, and then Potter said in a low voice, “I’ve told you. I would never, ever do something if I thought it would hurt you.”

“Right.” Avoiding Potter’s gaze, Draco uncorked the vial. He took a moment to consider it, and then, gathering his courage, he brought it to his lips and tipped the contents down his throat. The bitter taste was not entirely unpleasant.

“How is it?”

“S’alright,” Draco muttered, passing Potter the vial. He closed his eyes and began to absently thread his fingers through his hair. In truth, he was nervous.

Potter considered him. “Do you feel any different?”

“Not really. Eugh.” An involuntary shudder ran through him. “Awful aftertaste.”

“Sorry.”

They sat in silence, Draco trying to relax but acutely aware of Potter’s eyes on him. Finally, he snapped, “Talk about something.”

“What?”

“Talk about something. Anything. It’s weird, just sitting here, waiting for something to happen.”

“Well…” Potter fell silent. Draco felt rather stupid; he was too embarrassed to check whether Potter had decided to just ignore him. Then, he suddenly said, “Quidditch practice was awful.”

“When? Today?”

“This morning, before class.” Potter gave a tired sighed. Draco heard him shift. “The problem now is…well, Ginny, you probably know…she was my girlfriend, at one point.”

Draco grunted. Again, that strange tightening in his chest.

“Well, we broke it off because I had to go find the Horcruxes. And, you know, it was too dangerous. I didn’t want her to get hurt.” When Draco said nothing, he continued, “So, anyway, it’s a bit awkward now. Between her and I. It wasn’t at first—that’s what I don’t get. Everything was fine. But now…”

“Unless I’m mistaken, the Dark—” Draco shook himself, and managed to say: “Voldemort—he’s gone now. So why can’t you just get back with her?”

“Yeah, I think that’s the problem,” Potter said. “She said the same thing to me, the other night. We were all at the pub—seventh-years aren’t really supposed to come, but anyway... that’s what she said.”

It felt very odd, thinking of Potter with his own friends, his own life. A life that didn’t involve or include him at all, in which he was a distant figure Potter probably never thought about. “Okay. Then get back with her, as I’ve said.”

Potter was quiet. Draco heard him tapping on something—his textbook, probably—and he wanted to turn over and look, but he suddenly felt weary. His eyelids were so heavy that he doubted he could even open them.

After a while, Potter said, “I don’t really…I dunno. I think we got together because we were supposed to, because, you know, the Weasleys, they’re like my family. And Ron’s my best mate. But Ron, actually, he’s the biggest problem.”

Draco was hovering along that strange precipice just before sleep. His body had already floated off, but his mind insisted on clinging to consciousness. He wanted to ask Potter why Weasley was the problem, whether they were arguing, but he couldn’t force his mouth to form the words. Fortunately, Potter continued.

“I guess it’s because she’s his sister. I don’t know, I’ve never had a sister, obviously. But he’s really angry, because I think everyone expected the same thing. They all thought we’d get back together once the war was over. Nobody really said anything, so I think it was just…understood.” He paused, as though waiting for Draco to comment. After a while, he said, “But I can’t. I told myself to just try, maybe it could work out. But…” Potter lowered his voice. “I did what they asked. What everyone asked. I destroyed the Horcruxes. I got rid of Voldemort. So for them to want something else—for them to still want something of me, to still expect something—”

“S’unfair,” Draco managed to say.

Potter was quiet. Draco was starting to feel very peculiar—he was both in his body and outside of it, floating along the forest floor and yet also fluttering above them, watching the scene unravel from somewhere among the treetops. Unable to do much else other than lay there and listen to Potter speak, Draco found himself relaxing.

“Yeah. It’s unfair. But I don’t want to sound like, you know, like a victim or something. Anyway,” he gave a short laugh, “you don’t care about all this. The point is, Ron’s cross with me, and Ginny—she isn’t angry, really, just awkward. And Hermione’s dating Ron, so she’s trying not to take sides. And then they bring all of this to Quidditch practice, and, yeah…” In a sardonic tone, Potter added, “It’s great, telling someone they need to pass the Quaffle when they won’t even look at you.”

Before he could stop himself, Draco laughed. Sobering up immediately, he forced himself to say, “And your Beaters?”

“They’re better. Coote ditched his girlfriend, so that’s been a big help. We’re getting there. And you’ll be at our first match, right? Gryffindor versus Slytherin?”

“Mmm.”

“We had practice right after Slytherin the other day. Ron and I were watching them for a while. They’re alright. Harper’s tough on them, but he’s…he’s alright.” A pause, and then, “I really don’t think they’ve got a chance without you, though.”

Draco felt a strange warmth spreading from the top of his head. It was almost as though someone was gently pouring a cup of water onto him; he shuddered as the warmth trickled down to his shoulders. The base of his skull tingled. It should have been unpleasant, but it wasn’t, not really—on the edges of consciousness, he found himself uncharacteristically unbothered.

Potter continued. “I wish you were playing this year. I don’t know why you aren’t. It’s weird, not playing against you. It’s sort of like sixth year, when you…stopped playing.” Draco dimly heard Potter turning the pages of his book. “It would’ve been nice, to play against you one more year. It feels like everything’s changed.”

Draco wasn’t sure whether it was a dream, or a memory, or perhaps some figment of his imagination, but in his mind’s eye he saw himself on his broomstick, soaring through the air. And there were Vincent and Greg, playing as Beaters…it was nice to see Vincent again, he thought…and there was Potter, shooting past him as he searched for the Snitch…and Draco decided to chase after him, because why not…wherever Potter went, good things happened…wherever Potter went, the Snitch would surely be there…and so he tailed him, but there was no animosity between them, no real competition…it was wonderful, up in the air, keeping an eye on Potter as he scouted for the Snitch…

By the time Draco came to, he had no idea how long he had been out. A momentary panic gripped him as he realized he was on the forest floor—he sat up, gasping, looking around wildly.

“Malfoy?” He jumped as Potter gripped his shoulder. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” He looked over at Potter’s startled face. Some time must have passed—the darkness in the forest was giving way to a warm, rosy light. It was unsettling, seeing Potter’s features without having to squint in the dark.

“What was it like? How do you feel?”

“I’m…alright.” He pulled up his sleeve and looked down at his Mark. It hadn’t changed. “It was like being asleep, I guess. But not really. I was just sort of daydreaming.”

“How’s the Mark?”

Draco shrugged. “About the same.” He pressed two fingers against it and winced. “Still sore.”

Potter sat back and looked at him appraisingly. Draco had the uncomfortable sense that he was being evaluated. Casting around for a distraction, he asked, “What time is it?”

Potter checked his watch. “Nearly five.”

“What?” he barked. “Nearly five? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“That’s one of the things Hermione said to absolutely not do.”

“Potter. It’s five in the morning. We have class.”

“Yeah.” Potter stretched his arms over his head, groaning as he did. “God, I’m stiff. At least breakfast is soon. I’m starving.”

“You have class. You haven’t slept at all,” Draco pressed.

“I have a free period in the afternoon,” Potter said. Before Draco could argue, he asked, “Do you feel better? Can you tell if anything’s changed?”

“I guess I’m not as tired.” Draco picked a dry, shriveled leaf from the ground and began to spin it between his fingers. “Maybe my head doesn’t hurt as much.”

“You looked peaceful,” Potter said mildly.

Draco blanched. He felt exposed as he realized that Potter had been watching him sleep. Of course, he hadn’t been sleeping, not really, but he had been in a position so vulnerable that he momentarily scolded himself for being so careless. Potter could have left him in the forest, or taken his wand, or hexed him, or any number of things. These were all of the worst-case scenarios he had learned to run through in his attempt to survive the war. A part of him knew, though, that Potter wouldn’t actually hurt him. That certainty rested deep within him, a hard kernel of truth that he couldn’t quite explain.

“Well, let’s get back,” Potter said. He sighed as he clambered to his feet. “Hermione will want a full report.”

“Potter,” Draco said, suddenly fearful. “You don’t tell her, right? About my memories?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t.” The sombre tilt of his mouth was proof enough that he meant what he said.