a/n: M-rated fic guideline "Not suitable for children or teens below the age of 16 with possible strong but non-explicit adult themes, references to violence, and strong coarse language."
this fic contains a sex scene, and that is why I have been hesitant in posting it on this site. however, I do not feel that it averts from the guidelines since the scene isn't very explicit. still, it's hard R, so if you do not wish to read a slash lemon, I bid you to go elsewhere.
Title: Everything Forgotten
Words: 4100
Genre: Angst/Fluff
Summary: In the wake of the war Harry has to relearn everything he's forgotten.
Warnings: Character death (NOT Harry or Draco). Blood and sex. Yes. But not together.
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Notes: This is written for greyhunter(Stray) for the AWDT 2nd birthday exchange. Prompts used: "Penguins are pretty" and "Right here in my arms."
G.G.G.
A silent cry cuts the air And as Darkness falls,
as the villain succeeds,
the hopeful soul forgets all but despair
as invisibly wounded he bleeds.
so shall also we,
for life is naught but what
you hear, feel, taste and see.
G.G.G.
Rain splashes down on his face in a gentle patter, the heavy drops almost softly touching his skin before sliding down over his cheeks and neck to soak his collar more thoroughly. He feels cold and jaded as he stands staring up at the sky from the balcony, drawn-out and weary, ready to spill his tears just like the grey clouds above him.
He hears the low scraping of the door sliding open behind him and he closes his eyes, tilting his face even further skywards, welcoming the rain. Arms wrap around his torso, a warm chest fitting itself against his back, squashing his cold wet shirt between their bodies. The scent of expensive cologne surrounds him, and breath drifts down his neck as Draco speaks softly into his ear.
"What are you thinking about?"
Draco's words are warm, and his nearness slowly chases the chill away, even through the barrier of wet clothing and the continuously falling rain. It's so different to how Harry remembers him, a pale pointy boy with a constant sneer on his mouth, ready to throw angry heated words at Harry at every opportunity. Harry remembers feeling brittle and lost, but he also remembers the scorching anger.
He doesn't know this Draco, this softness. He doesn't know his warmth, doesn't remember, even though he's been told. Told of the befores. Told of other things than what he recalls. Told of other things than misery.
"I don't understand," he whispers, and the words dissipate as they leave his mouth, replaced by drops of water falling on his tongue and lips.
"No-one does," Draco responds, lips grazing Harry's ear, "We just have to go on. Keep hoping."
They fall silent, listening to the rain pattering against roofs and windowpanes, enveloping them in a living stillness, falling, wetting, soaking.
"Tell me something good," Harry rasps thickly, trying not to feel the burning of his eyelids.
"Something good..." Draco says slowly, as if to himself. Harry nods anyway. "Well, I know that penguins are pretty."
Bemused, Harry turns his head to look at Draco, and sees a smile playing on his wet face. His eyelashes have clumped together, but beneath them his eyes are a dark grey, so filled with warmth that Harry feels heat rise on his cheeks. He averts his gaze.
"That was...", he fumbles for a word, his eyes trailing the path of a drop of rain as it rolls down Draco's cheek, "Stupid."
It's not until Draco's smile develops into a grin that Harry realises that he is smiling himself.
"Maybe," Draco admits, "But it made you smile."
Harry shakes his head in amusement, turning his face away from Draco, and leans back against him as Draco's chin settles in the crook of his neck.
On the balcony in the rain, cradled in Draco's arms, Harry learns consolation.
G.G.G.
It's warm in the room, yellow and orange flames flickering in the fireplace. When Harry turns slightly to look at Hermione he can see them reflected in his glasses. Ron sits facing him on the other side of the chess table, his ginger hair brighter in the light of the fire than Harry remembers.
There is always rain in his mind, damp hair, dull brown-red surrounding a frowning face. I can't believe you, Harry, Ron says, flinging the bed hangings shut. Harry tucks his face into his pillow and longs for sleep.
"Harry?"
Harry opens his eyes, and the image is dispelled. He's sitting in a comfortably stuffy chair, the room is warm and well lit, and Ron is looking at him with a slightly perplexed expression. Harry wonders if that was how Ron used to look during Transfiguration class.
"It's your turn."
"Oh, right." Harry blinks, moves forward to look at the chess-pieces on the board. He stares at them for a few moments, unable to let go of the unease the memory brought. He moves the rook, knowing that he will lose. He knows that Ron always wins, but he doesn't know the grin on Ron's face as he places his final winning moves.
Harry has a past. A past of angry faces, sorrow and pain. Mistakes, empty eyes staring up at him—being frightened, feeling small, useless and lonely. He knows Ron and Hermione, knows that he likes them—he can feel it, but he cannot remember.
He cannot remember anything but betrayal and arguments, Hermione's young sad face, hiding behind unruly locks, her eyes red from crying. Terror, tears, his heart squeezing so tight he wonders if he will die from it.
"Harry, it's okay," Hermione's voice assures him, her hands gently swiping hot tears from his cheeks, "It's going to be alright."
"What if it won't be?" He wonders how she looks right now, but doesn't dare to look. What if he remembers correctly.
"Harry, I—" her voice trembles, and Ron cuts her off.
"We'll still be here, mate." A heavy hand rests on Harry's shoulder, and he braves the sight.
Hermione is on her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands. She looks sad, but not in a way that he can recognise. Ron's face is determined, his arm steady.
Harry puts a hand over Ron's on his shoulder, and cups one of Hermione's with the other. In the Granger-Weasley living room, Harry learns friendship.
G.G.G.
It is in Molly's warm embrace that Harry learns forgiveness. There are so many things he doesn't understand, so many things he has yet to experience, so many things he has yet to add to his life, so many pieces which are still missing in the puzzle.
The first person who ever smiles at Harry is the nurse who stands at his bedside as he wakes up at St Mungo's.
Harry remembers wondering why she isn't yelling at him, telling him that he'd been an idiot for getting injured, that he had been in the way of other patients, that he should have woken up quicker so that they could have released him.
Nothing. Only a warm smile, a slight tilt of the head. "You're going to be just fine, Mr Potter."
Molly smiles as he enters her kitchen, immediately offering him tea in her usual manner, fussing over how thin he is—don't they have proper food in that hospital?—and Harry remembers it faintly because the first time it occurred it had made him uncomfortable, like it wasn't meant for him.
He wonders why her voice isn't shrill, he wonders why she smiles at him when he couldn't save Arthur.
Everything happens in his peripheral vision, people moving, casting spells, getting hit, falling. He doesn't have time to look, to see if those who are falling are friends or foes, he can only keep on fighting, keep moving forward, keep letting the incantations fall from his cracked lips.
The rain is dense, but not heavy, and it prickles against his skin as the wind whips it into his face. The ground is mud beneath his feet, sticky and heavy, clinging to his feet as he tries to move. There are shouts and cries, yells and screams, terror, death, pain.
And in the middle of all of it, laughter. But Harry won't let himself focus on that laughter until he has to.
Another cry is released over the battlefield, but this one Harry recognises. He turns towards the sound, eyes searching frantically for what he does not want to see.
There, between what seems like hundreds of moving bodies, he can see a lying figure, a dot of red against the dull brown and grey. Panic swells inside him, cold, burning, stabbing. He starts to make is way through the throng of people, trying to avoid crashing into people as he almost wades through the deep, thick mud.
Somebody slams into him from the side, and he slips, falling to the ground. He tries to stand up, but fails, prevented by an unexpected weakness in his knees. Instead he starts crawling in the direction he was heading before. Mud is slipping between his fingers, cold and slick, the hems of the sleeves of his robe are grimy and sticky. His entire lower legs are covered in mud, his clothes wet and heavy, restricting his movements and making them slow.
It's as if the earth is trying to suck him in, pull him down as he moves one hand or leg at a time, having to wrench it up with a slick plopping sound. His glasses have slipped on his nose, they're dotted with rain and mud, and he wonders if he will be able to find—if he will be able to see...
Red hair, recognisable even here on a field of death, catches Harry's gaze, and he hurries over to the fallen Arthur Weasley.
Lying on the ground, bleeding heavily from several slashing spell wounds, Mr Weasley already looks dead to the world. Blood everywhere, mixing with the mud, coating skin and clothes with red.
His eyes are closed.
"Mr Weasley", Harry cries, and oh God please don't be...
Mr Weasley's eyes open, recognition shining in them as they land on Harry.
"We've got to get you out of here", Harry says loudly, trying to be heard over the noise without yelling.
Mr Weasley's face is sad, almost as if he is disappointed. "There is no use, Harry." His voice is weak, and Harry has to half read his lips to understand what he's saying. "There is no rescue for me. I've lost too much blood. "
Harry opens his mouth to object, but is cut off.
"Tell my family that I love them," his eyelids are drifting lower, "And make it worth it, Harry. Make it all... worth it."
Harry holds Mr Weasley's cold hand in his own muddy one until there is no more breath, no more pulse, no more pain.
He remembers, and wants to cry, but it is not his place. It is not his right. He came too late. He did nothing. He watched Mrs Weasley's husband die, and now she is letting him drink her tea, nibble on her biscuits.
It's wrong and out of place. There should be no compassion in her eyes, no understanding, no soothing words. Cold. Cold is how she should be—but she is not.
When her arms wrap around Harry he doesn't protest it, but turns his face to her shoulder and cries.
G.G.G.
The blue light of the television lights up the room, flickering when the picture alternates between dark and light. The volume is turned down low, and Harry can't decipher the words, only a vague murmur.
Draco lies with him on the sofa, chest pressed against Harry's back, arm slung over Harry's waist. His nose burrows into Harry's hair, his mouth occasionally forming words against the back of Harry's neck.
Their feet—Harry's bare and Draco's sock-clad ones—are wrapped in a blanket, and Harry feels warm and comfortable.
He closes his eyes, seeing the light play on his eyelids. He wonders what Draco is saying against his skin, which words he dares not voice. He wonders if they're words which have been said before, words he can't remember. Words which Draco doesn't think he's ready for.
But if there's one thing Harry is, it's ready.
He reaches for Draco's hand, and pulls it up to rest over his heart. It beats for you, he thinks, twining their fingers together.
With Draco's body warming him as he drifts into sleep, Harry learns contentment.
G.G.G.
Dean Thomas is reported missing, assumed dead. He is also the father of the four month old child which rests in Ginny's arms. She coos, rocking her little girl soothingly.
There is sorrow here, but also happiness. Ginny cares for her child, every movement is soft, every action careful.
"It's a blessing in disguise, Harry," Ginny says, sitting down next to him on the worn couch at the Burrow, "She is a right menace, keeps me awake at all hours of the night, making me wonder if I'm not enough sometimes," she pauses to smile fondly, "But she is the future. She is my future. Right here in my arms."
Harry nods, trying to stop the emptiness from welling up inside him.
It is when Ginny carefully hands him the baby, gently lowering the small body into his unsure and slightly shaking hands, that Harry learns trust, but it's not until he looks reverently down at the little sleepy face and sees her eyes—Ginny's eyes—that he learns hope.
G.G.G.
Harry learns passion as Draco pulls him down on top of him on the bed, flushed skin sliding together, boxers still tangled around Harry's feet. Harry feels nervous, uncertain, but he wants. He doesn't remember this, doesn't know the planes of Draco's body, which places to touch—but Draco does.
Draco turns them over, sliding his hand over Harry's abdomen and down his leg to remove the boxers. Harry is embarrassed already. He looks up at the ceiling as Draco's head hovers over his crotch, trying not to notice the way Draco's hot puffs of breath tickle his skin.
His cheeks heat up as Draco seems to be stalling, hand sliding up Harry's leg again to trace small circles on Harry's thigh with his fingers. Harry chances a glance downwards to see Draco lying there, propped up on an elbow, staring at Harry's erection.
This is a mistake, he has no idea what he thought it would be like, but certainly not like this: uncomfortable, his body aching, his chest tightening, his heart clenching. He is just about to turn away, roll onto his side, pull the covers over his naked body, twist his hips away from Draco's reach, when Draco looks up at him, his hand fumbling up over Harry's side to close around Harry's fingers in a comforting grip.
His eyes are full of longing, and Harry's stomach drops. "I've missed this so much," Draco whispers, hand clenching slightly, "I've missed you."
Harry's mouth is dry as Draco crawls forward, slack as Draco's lips touch it, hesitant as Draco's tongue runs over the lower lip. It's warm and wet and strange. The only memory Harry has of kissing is that of being terrified as Cho's face comes closer and closer—this is nothing like that. This is firm and smooth, Draco's tongue gently massaging his own, fingers in his hair, soft skin beneath his hands, Draco's chest close to his own, a warm hardness pressing into his thigh.
It's new. New and wonderful, and Harry never wants it to stop, but he has to tell Draco. He tilts his head down, breaking the connection between their mouths. Draco's breath is hot on his face and neck.
"I don't remember," Harry manages, closing his eyes.
Draco is silent for a moment, and Harry regrets having spoken at all.
"But I do." He releases his grip on Harry's hand, sliding it over Harry's torso, towards his nipple. "This will make you shiver," Draco whispers, lowering his face to Harry's neck, licking a hot trail right below Harry's ear, fingers rubbing lightly over his nipple.
As if on demand, Harry feels goose-bumps rising on his skin, and he closes his mouth as he gives an involuntary shiver. Draco smiles against his neck.
Draco kisses a path down Harry's torso and stomach, lingering slightly at his belly-button.
"This will make you whimper," Draco murmurs, and bites down lightly on Harry's hip. The sound shudders from Harry's mouth, and his hands move to tangle in Draco's hair. "This will make you gasp." Draco trails his fingers up the insides of Harry's thighs, and even though they are the same temperature as his own hands, they seem cold. Harry shudders again and draws a hissing breath.
"And this," Draco says softly, eyes sparkling, "This will make you moan." He dips down slowly, keeping eye contact for as long as he can before he sinks down over Harry's crotch, taking him into his mouth.
Harry doesn't even try to stop the sound from escaping his mouth, doesn't even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed as Draco's mouth surrounds him, hot and smooth and brilliant, and his hands clench in Draco's hair.
His skin is tingling, more sensitive than usual, all feelings centring in his lower belly, spreading from it like spidery tendrils, anticipating its time to blossom.
All too soon Draco pulls away, his body sliding over Harry's as he reaches out to pick something up from the bedside table. It's a jar containing a gelatinous substance, and Harry catches himself holding his breath as Draco coats his fingers and moves his hand down between Harry's legs.
Their eyes meet for a second, and Harry nods a small tight nod, but he wonders if he needed to at all. Draco's finger slowly slips inside, and it's the most uncomfortable thing Harry's ever felt. He looks away, up at the ceiling, at the green walls, the landscape painting, anything but Draco and the movement of his arm which Harry—in extension—can feel inside himself.
Draco's finger twists a little, and then he adds another, turning them slowly. Harry blushes and closes his eyes.
He doesn't open them until Draco pulls his fingers out completely, fumbles with something for a moment before settling his body over Harry's, hands resting on the mattress on either side of Harry's waist.
"You okay?" Is the reluctant offering. Harry knows that Draco doesn't want to stop, and doesn't want to disappoint him.
"Yeah," is his almost strangled answer as he speaks around the lump in his throat. Draco hesitates, leaning away a bit, but Harry stops him with both arms and legs, pulling him down, closer.
It's painful, and it's not wholly unfamiliar to Harry, the stretching, widening, burning pain.
He clenches his teeth together and tries to relax, willing away the low whine which aches to break free from his lungs. It feels strange, wrong somehow. Draco starts to move, a slow rocking movement at first which eventually turns into longer thrusts. Harry gets used to the pain, and soon it doesn't even feel so very strange anymore.
Draco's face is pressed into his shoulder, and Harry reaches up a hand to comb it through his already tousled blond hair. Then Draco angles down, his stomach rubbing against Harry's abdomen and erection, and something which is hidden inside Harry springs to life, making his body jolt and tingle.
Draco thrusts the same way again and again, and Harry's blood sings in his veins, hot and heady, the tendrils of pleasure now more like lightning singeing his body. He curls his legs around Draco's back and tries to make him go even deeper, even closer. Draco's breath rushes out over Harry's skin, perspiration forming on their bodies and faces.
One of Draco's hands moves to rub over Harry's erection, slightly out of sync with the thrusts, but it doesn't matter because it's sweet and hot and the pleasure is just one current flowing through him and Harry comes, his entire body tightening, arching.
When Harry uncurls, Draco is lying on top of him, breathing heavily. Harry feels sticky and sweaty, but when Draco makes a move to pull out, Harry stops him, curling his arms over Draco's back, keeping Draco inside himself.
As he lies in their bed, his body seemingly fused with Draco's, Harry learns completion.
G.G.G.
There are scars on Draco's chest. Harry knows all of them, but only remembers a few. However, those memories are enough for him to not want to know anything about the rest.
There are several long slashing-wound scars from the Sectumsempra Harry himself cast back in sixth year. He remembers the cold dread rushing through him, the terror of the thought of having harmed somebody to their death, no matter who the person in question is. He doesn't want to be a murderer. Doesn't wish for Draco's death. Doesn't want to be reminded of what he will soon have to do. Scared. So scared.
The other scar Harry remembers is hidden, a jagged cut at the back of Draco's head, covered by hair. It's a battle wound. Harry doesn't know who Draco was fighting, just that he was hit by a curse and fell to the ground, his head connecting with a quite large stone. He was knocked unconscious.
Harry found him awhile later, and when Harry recalls the image of Draco lying limply on the ground, unresponsive, blood seeping onto the ground from beneath his head, Harry can still feel the icy feeling of horror cutting through his innards.
The tears are blinding him, spilling over his cheeks, but he has no time to wipe them away. He needs to get Draco away from here, to Hogwarts, to a hospital, to any shelter at all.
He doesn't have time to check for other injuries, he just gathers Draco's already chilly form in his arms, Apparating them to the first place he can think of, never minding where. They end up in the drawing room at Grimmauld Place.
He calls for help until his throat aches and his voice is a mere whisper, and when Madam Pomfrey is fire-called he slumps to the floor next to Draco's body, his hand cupping Draco's cheek. He doesn't remember when Madam Pomfrey arrives, does not remember hope or relief that no matter how critical his condition, Draco is still alive. No. All he remembers is the way his own tears splash over Draco's face.
"Harry?"
Draco's hands are on his face, brushing his fringe away, tilting his head up to look at him. Harry realises that he's crying.
Their eyes meet, and suddenly Harry has to smile. He smiles through his tears, even though all he knows from the past between them is pain and hurt. He smiles, because even though it's soaked in sadness, it is pure and deep and true.
With Draco's hands wiping the tears from his face, Harry learns love.
G.G.G.
Harry's fingers trail down the side of Draco's face, and the grey eyes open sleepily.
"Hey," he mumbles, shifting to lie on his side, facing Harry, "What time is it?"
"Three a.m."
Draco groans tiredly. "You have to stop staring at me, Harry." His head bounces on the pillow as he wriggles to get into a comfortable position, his knees knocking lightly into Harry's.
"I wasn't staring," Harry protests weakly, knowing Draco won't believe him.
Draco's mouth curls. "I understand if you find it hard to resist," he states mock-seriously, "After all, I am exceedingly handsome—"
"And incredibly self-absorbed," Harry interrupts, grinning.
Draco swats him on the head without much force. "Shush, you." He inches closer, tangling their legs together, nuzzling his face into the crook of Harry's neck. "You need to sleep."
Harry makes a non-committal sound, wrapping his arms around Draco, his palms coming to rest on Draco's lower back beneath his pyjama top.
"Promise you won't stare at me all night."
Harry sighs, turning his face into Draco's hair, Draco's scent enveloping him as he draws a deep breath. "Alright," he whispers, closing his eyes.
In the silence, broken only occasionally by Draco's light snores, touching what seems like every inch of Draco's body, Harry learns joy.
G.G.G.
He is walking down Diagon Alley, on his own for the first time since the final battle. Or rather, for the first time since the war took a steady grip over the wizarding world.
It's August. People are bustling about, children standing with their noses pressed against the candy store and Quidditch shop windows, witches with long shopping lists rushing by, teenagers laughing and carrying heavy bags full of school supplies, families, friends, lovers, everywhere.
It's almost overwhelming, all the colours, the voices, the laughter, the smell of potions ingredients and wood, pumpkin juice and pasties which are being sold in a little stand right next to the Magical Menagerie, being jostled, smiled at, greeted warmly.
It seems impossible, and still it's happening. Harry leans against the wall next to Florean Fortescue's, watching a young couple having ice-cream with their child—a little dark-haired boy—who giggles as his nose gets covered in turquoise ice-cream.
Harry closes his eyes and smiles, simply listening to the goings-on around him. Life.
Harry feels peace.
G.G.G.
fin