There on the bench sat a white haired man.
It was easy to label him as 'homeless'.
But observe him for any capacity and one would notice that he was too clean, clothes too finely made to actually be homeless. Upon closer inspection, one may get the impression that those well-made clothes had the look of hospital garb, but it was slightly too off, slightly too peculiar to be that.
He'd mumble to himself occasionally, speaking of fantastical things that had no possibility of existing. Anybody who overheard him would be inclined to think him articulate and his accent, refined. His gestures and mannerisms as he relayed these wondrous tales were gracious and precise — not a single wasted movement. In fact, one might speculate and bemoan, that he'd be the perfect, well-bred gentleman, if only he didn't seem to possess such convictions in his stories.
One would be forgiven for thinking that he was merely a member of the oft eccentric gentry, taking a leisure break in the park in between doing whatever it was that people like him did.
One however, would be wrong. The too-strange-to-be hospital garbs were precisely that. Its curious origin was one that most people would not be privy to. These same people would also be shocked to find out that his tales contained not a word of a lie and in fact were pure, unfettered truth — even if it was a truth that was different from theirs.
For days, he did nothing but sit there. Those returning to the park often started to question if he ever left, but they had no evidence to their claims and no one quite dared to near him, unwilling to chance the risk that he may be genuinely mad.
Until one day, a red headed man walked up towards this figure on the bench.
The white haired man looked up at this red headed man and after a tilt of the head and a brief smile of confusion invited the man to sit down next to him.
"Blaise," the white haired man said.
Contrary to popular belief, the first to fall to Hermione's spell weren't her parents.
It had been unintentional, almost an accident, really.
She had only wanted to escape having to attend yet another dull Quidditch match that Ron and Harry would inevitably insist on dragging her to. It wasn't even a Gryffindor match — Hermione had tried reasoning that there was no obligation to watch it, but logic never did fly well in the face of her two best friends, no matter how sound.
Minutes before the match was due to start, she gave them the slip and padded off to the seventh floor where sanctuary in the form of the Room of Requirement awaited her.
There, Hermione paced the seventh floor corridor, asking for a place to hide. No sooner had she taken the final step of her third pacing than the Room delivered and a door appeared on the once bare wall.
What it gave her wasn't the large training room they held the meetings in secret the year before, rather it looked more like a place of storage for those with hoarding inclinations. The air was thick with dust and there was a pervading, almost invasive scent of must that permeated every breath she took. All around her, stretching beyond even the eye can see, were towers of old things, stacked high and precarious, lost and forgotten in that magical space that defied all laws of physics.
A thought occurred to her then about what would happen if one of these towers were to fall and bury her deep beneath it.
It seemed too morbid a thought to pursue however, so she shook her head and was soon lost to a fascinating book she found propped at the foot of one of the towers. So absorbed in reading was Hermione that she hadn't noticed when the door creaked open to admit someone else into her claimed sanctuary.
He really shouldn't have tried to sneak up on her.
She'd been researching the spell — had already begun formulating a plan to remove her parents from the dangers that would come their way just for being what they were. She had practiced and practiced it, needing to get the word right, to get the wand movements down to a science that when she noticed the shadow looming over her, it had been almost instinct.
She never did find out what he was doing in the Room of Hidden Things that day.
She'd brought him to Dumbledore right away, of course, but the old headmaster had only taken a calculating look at the boy who trailed after her like a lost puppy and told her that the boy needed her now and sent them both away.
When Dumbledore fell and Hogwarts was torn apart mere days later, the boy's induced memory loss became the least of her concerns. She had grabbed him and Ron and Harry, and together, they had fled, hand in hand.
"What are you doing out here, mate?" said the red headed man.
"I've got detention next, remember? Snape gave me one when I slipped that eye of newt into Longbottom's cauldron," the white haired man replied, grinning absently into the distance. "Worth it though. You should have seen the look on his face."
The red headed man ran a hand through his hair, tugging lightly at the ends. The action caused them to stick up, giving the impression that he had a ginger hedgehog on his head.
"She's worried about you, you know," said the red headed man in a quiet tone that defied his gruff demeanour.
"Who? Pans?" the white haired man asked, one eyebrow arched, amused. "Why? It's just detention with Snape."
The red headed man leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and scrubbed his face tiredly with both hands. He turned to look at the white haired man, but at the distant, vacuous smile that the white haired man gave him, the red head turned away and stared at the patch of flowers near the foot of the bench.
After a moment's pause, the red headed man pushed himself up off the bench.
"Don't go anywhere," he said to the white haired man while still steadily avoiding his gaze.
"Where can I go? I've got cauldrons to scrub," the white haired man said, smiling slightly. "Snape would skin even me alive if he catches me skiving."
"Yeah, I suppose he would," the red headed man said. "Yeah," he repeated and for a second he looked torn, but having seemingly gotten over his apprehension, he reached out and awkwardly patted the white haired man's shoulder. Then he tucked his hands into the pocket of his trousers and ambled off, leaving the white haired man on the bench alone again.
In the beginning, it was difficult.
Her spell was more thorough than she realised and they had to amount a lot of time in re-teaching him the things they already knew. Ron had a harder time than most reconciling the relatively docile boy to the one that had hounded them mercilessly in school for years.
Lessons between the two were explosive and tension ran taut. For ages, it felt to Hermione and Harry that they were walking on eggshells, that one day they'd wake up to one or both of them dead, having slain each other in the dead of night.
That all changed when the boy dragged Ron out of the middle of the battlefield when he'd been cursed and got him on his feet before anyone else even knew that something had happened.
It turned out, if one were to separate the boy from the prejudice, what one had left was a devastatingly intelligent, unerringly loyal and scrupulously cunning young man. Bravery wasn't his strength, but they already knew that. What he lacked in courage, he more than made up in a keen sense of self-preservation and he, they'd grudgingly admit, had saved their skins more times than they cared to count.
The four of them fought together, ate together and slept with their backs pressed tight against each other.
When the Death Eaters sent the boy's parents' heads in a box to the Order for his perceived betrayal, they had tried to keep it away from him. But when he caught a glimpse of the box's contents and his face held only blank confusion before he turned away, shrugging, the ash that was in Hermione's mouth turned into bile on her tongue.
She gave him a silent promise that day, that she'd fix it one day, after the war was over.
The red haired man was replaced by one with jet black locks and brilliant green eyes, framed by round glasses. There was a curious scar too on his forehead, shaped just like a little bolt of lightning.
"First Blaise, now you, Theo?" the white haired man said before he looked up and flashed a wan smile at the black haired man.
"Bla-... Yeah, Blaise told me you were here," the black haired man said.
"What's got everyone's knickers into a twist?" the white haired man huffed and blew at the fringe which had fallen into his eyes.
"We're just worried, mate," the black haired man said, absent-mindedly reaching out to the other man.
"What are you doing?" the white haired man asked as he backed away from the hand that came towards him.
The black haired man startled and blinked, like he was waking up from a long-time dream and stared at his hand then back at the white haired man.
"Sorry, I just- Your hair- I was going to tie it-" the black haired man stammered then sighed. "Sorry. I used to do that for-... for someone else."
"Personal space, Theo," the white haired man said, keeping a wary eye on the other man like he might jump him at any moment. "We talked about that."
"Yeah. Sorry," the black haired man apologised again and wrung his hands together as if to keep them occupied. "Isn't it time we head back to the... common room?"
The white haired man furrowed his brows and narrowed his eyes at the other man. "I have detention. Does no one around here remember the things I tell them?"
The black haired man opened his mouth almost like he were about to argue but then he deflated, his shoulders drooping. When the white haired man turned away for a moment, a look that can almost be described as forlorn came over the black haired man but it disappeared as soon as the white haired man turned back.
"She's asking about you," the black haired man said, mouth working and testing the words like he wasn't sure.
"Then tell her to stop worrying! I'm fine," the white haired man hissed, flicking a hand in annoyance. "Honestly. Pansy's not my keeper."
"No," the black haired man said, leaning back against the bench and crossed his arms against his chest. "I suppose she's not."
The war did end, eventually, with Harry standing triumphant over the fallen body of Voldemort, flanked on both sides by the three that stuck by him at all times. Hermione's hand had found the boy's in that last stand and even as they stood over their fallen enemy, neither let go of the other.
What followed was a whirlwind of celebration and mourning and rebuilding but throughout it all, their hands remained firmly clasped in each other's.
Later on when she found out that her parents had succumbed to an unfortunate fire in Australia it became convenient to pretend that she'd forgotten about the silent promise she made to the boy so long ago.
It had seemed like a chance at happiness for the both of them. Memories and their ugly past would have just been baggage — unneeded, unwanted.
Her friends didn't approve, she knew. But they made nary a single sound of protest when she brought him, lost as a new born babe — a clean slate — to them all those years ago. They'd lost the rights to have opinions now.
And for a while, they were happy.
Then she had woken up one day, in pain, to find that she had been pushed roughly off their bed and him staring at her in horror as he screamed a slur at her that she'd nearly forgotten about after all these years.
That was the first bad day. Soon, many more would follow. After some point, Hermione lost count and she stopped keeping track as they weaved in and out of St. Mungo's till eventually it was easier to just stay permanently.
It was a terrible thought and the guilt would come after but some part of her was glad her parents had perished in that fire before she had the chance to see them devolve into this.
"I was wondering when you'd come," the white haired man said, staring at the ground as the brown, bushy haired woman approached him. "Never took you as one for sending her minions in her stead."
He lifted his head then and his eyes were the cold of steel, boring into her own honey brown ones.
Hermione bit back the urge to defend Harry and Ron, to claim that they weren't that, that they didn't even approve, but she'd gone down that road before and it hadn't end well. So she said nothing and he took that as quiet compliance.
"Then again, I've been wrong about you many times, haven't I, Granger?" he said and smiled the lazy, cruel smile of a predator that knew he had his prey.
"Don't talk to me like you're some paragon of virtue, Draco," Hermione retorted briskly and seated herself next to him, making a show of fussing over the dustiness of the bench as she did.
"No, I'm not," Draco conceded. "But neither are you."
She closed her eyes and took in a deep breath, slowly easing the fists that had somehow clenched themselves and opened her eyes, directing her gaze to the man besides her. He seemed closer than she thought. She couldn't be sure who between them moved first.
"You know it distresses them," she said, reaching out to push the fringe that kept falling into his eyes back.
"Forgive me, Granger, if I don't seem to be in a very generous mood towards your friends," he said as he sat there and allowed her to fix his hair back with a bobby pin that she pulled out of somewhere.
"They are your friends too," she said and ran fingers through his fine hair, smoothing and patting it down in places.
"You say that like I had a choice in the matter," he said, pulling her hand out of his hair though his touch on her wrist remained gentle.
"It's the truth," she said, shrugging and his eyes narrowed as a small growl escaped his lips.
"Then remind me of some of these truths of yours," Draco snarled, mouth curling into a familiar but much forgotten sneer. "My parents?"
"Gone. They're gone," she said and his fingers that were circled around her wrist began to tremble ever so slightly.
"Are your parents gone too?" he demanded.
" ...Yes," Hermione said and fought not to look away from his unwavering stare.
"Good," he spat and she had to ground herself in order to not flinch at that.
"Cause?" he asked.
"Yours or mine?"
"Mine," he said, waving irritably with the other arm.
"Betrayal," she said and steeled herself, almost choking on the words that came out next, "Your betrayal." He dropped her wrist like it burned. It fell into her lap limply and she tucked it against her stomach as she watched him hunch over, burying his face in his palms as tremors shook his stooped back.
Hermione didn't — couldn't — relax, until Draco let out an audible, shaky exhale and pulled his face away from his hands.
"You've burrowed yourself in me deep," he said quietly, though he directed his words to the ground by his feet than at her. "No matter what I know or do, I'll always love you."
He paused, like he expected her to answer him, but she kept resolutely quiet. He sighed and the obvious disappointment in it didn't so much as sting as it did numb her.
"But don't expect me to ever forgive you," he said quietly.
"I know," she said simply.
Draco shut his eyes and leaned back against the bench. Their shoulders touched, sides pressed against each other in the way that comforted like it did so long ago.
"How many times have we done this?" he asked as he shifted his head so his nose brushed the side of her neck while he settled onto the curve of her shoulder.
"Enough," she answered and wound her fingers loosely around his.
"Will you come back?" she asked, nudging him lightly.
"If I said no?" he asked. The words tickled her throat but she only leaned her head on his and looked up into the sky.
"Then I'll stay here, with you," she replied and he chuckled, low and humourless.
"If you're truly merciful, Granger," he mumbled. "You'd kill me."
"I know," she said and he nodded, the movement odd and stilted in that position.
For a while they stayed in silence and Hermione could almost fool herself into thinking that this was a good day.
"Will you come back with me?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "Always."
A/N: Yet another one that has been sitting around for a while before I actually sat my arse down and put it to words. Consider this my take on the Memory Modification trope.
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