A/N: Sorry for the delay. My laptop decided to die on me and we had to make do with my phone. Otherwise, I hope you like this chapter! Much happens.
Potter didn't cast a diagnostic charm? Find out what that's about.
The potion I took wasn't an anti-nausea potion, so why did it work? Could I have been poisoned? Was it some kind of placebo effect, or was I just
The next two days bring rain and listlessness as Draco waits for Narcissa's response to arrive, spending his time going over sign language and the case. His mood is worsened by the fact that he hasn't really interacted with anyone since Potter became his healer, and he's starting to miss the friendly banter with Agnes and Gilderoy.
But mostly, his irritability is because Soto never came to visit after she was demoted, not even to say goodbye or apologize for accidentally giving him the wrong potion. She doesn't go to see Gilderoy, either, for all the years she was his healer.
Really, it's as if they never existed in her hemisphere at all.
And Potter, unsurprisingly, is far more than lacking in the warmth that Soto brought. Instead, he brings clipped words, weighted statements, and confusing signals that Draco has trouble deciphering. On the surface, there's the obvious irritation and distrust, and Draco doesn't want to consider what lies beneath that.
Thankfully, Potter largely avoids Draco, save for daily check-ins and lunch-bringing, and Draco is torn between relief and annoyance. On one hand, they aren't exactly on good terms with each other, and he doesn't particularly want to see Potter when he's already on edge. On the other, Draco craves the stimulation of their arguments—mostly about the spell Potter used on him—and the way Potter has begun to speak to him like an equal, rather than a child like Soto did.
If nothing else, Potter at least seems to be a competent healer, and has shown that he knows what he's not capable of doing, too—he's been adamant to bring a memory specialist to see both Draco and Gilderoy, and Draco has a meeting with the healer later in the afternoon.
To say he's nervous would be an understatement. He has no idea what to expect from the healer, or the meeting. Narcissa's warning not to see a brain specialist weighs on him, but he reasons that there must be a difference between a memory and a brain specialist, right?
And despite the way his chest tightens at the thought of potentially uncovering more about his past, he supposes he'll have to start asking questions eventually.
Draco frowns, shakes the thought away, and tries to focus on the book on his lap. He's still trying to learn how to sign the letter K, even though it's not necessary to know at the moment. It really only bothers him because his hand doesn't want to move that way.
He's interrupted by a sharp knock on his curtains. Draco sets the book aside and glances at the clock—lunch time—and knows it's undoubtedly Potter on the other side of his curtains.
"Come in," he calls with a heavy sigh.
Potter pushes past the curtains, lunch tray floating beside him, and silently directs the tray to Draco's bedside table with a flick of his wrist.
That's the biggest thing that irks Draco—how casually Potter uses wandless magic around him, knowing that he can't perform any spells himself. Frustration curls in his stomach.
He furrows his brow, and decidedly doesn't comment on it. Best to leave it be.
"You have a letter," Potter says, producing a folded piece of parchment from his pocket, holding it out to Draco so the wax seal is visible. A perfect circle, unbroken, and obviously from Narcissa.
"You didn't read it? I'm surprised," Draco drawls, taking it from Potter with barely a glance to his face. He's afraid his eyes might linger on the shadows under Potter's eyes—or worse, his lips as he speaks, which is becoming an unfortunate habit anytime Potter is around.
"Unlike you, I don't feel the need to breach other people's privacy. But if I had read it, you wouldn't be able to tell," Potter quips, giving Draco a dark look.
Draco quirks an eyebrow. "It's called being curious about what's going on in other people's lives, Potter. At least I don't use random spells on people and lie about it."
Potter doesn't seem surprised that Draco still hasn't let that go.
"You don't use spells on anyone," he points out quickly. Draco winces—that's a low blow—and hopes Potter didn't notice.
Unfortunately, it seems that he did, because his expression turns uncomfortable and apologetic.
"Sorry, I didn't think. If it bothers you, I'll stop using my wand so much," he says, stumbling over the words. And despite how awkwardly it was delivered, Draco's heart flips at the (albeit poor) apology, and the thought that Potter would be willing to stop just because it might bother him.
"How kind of you," Draco mutters sarcastically. Potter stares at him for a moment, probably asking himself why he even attempts to be nice, before he rolls his eyes.
"You're such a git," he sighs.
"Tch, now you're resorting to name calling? What are we, twelve?" Draco asks, lip twitching. Potter scratches his nose, and stares off to the side, lips twitching.
"Ferret," he mutters under his breath.
"Moron."
Impossibly, Potter's lips pull into a reluctant smile. He glances at Draco, a gleam in his eye that Draco can't pinpoint the meaning of. But Draco's mouth goes dry—Potter's eyes seem to burn—and he flushes at the eye contact. Nothing else is said between them before Potter abruptly clears his throat.
"Oh, right," he starts. "The memory specialist will be here around five. I'm staying overnight, so I'll be here to introduce you to them."
Draco opens his mouth. Closes it when he realizes he doesn't know what to say. Instead, he nods, and Potter nods along with him, and it's all so painfully awkward.
At last, Potter bids him goodbye, and Draco tears open Narcissa's letter as he tries to push that interaction out of his mind. He's not sure why he's so flustered, or even stranger, why he's in a better mood than he was before.
The letter appropriately pulls his attention to other things. It reads:
Draco,
I'm glad to hear that the journal was helpful, darling. I was concerned some parts might upset you — I'm relieved to know they didn't. And yes, you were a wonderful artist. You put a lot of time into developing your skills. I believe you started to sell your work after the war, before you went into the Aurors. If you want to see more of it, I wouldn't be opposed to finding some of your paintings.
Unfortunately, I don't know much about herbaria, or the list you asked about. I don't have many of your textbooks anymore, either. I fear I'm not of much help there, and I apologize.
I would love to come and visit you again. Tomorrow, perhaps?
Love,
Mother
Draco furrows his brow, lips pursed. Well, the lack of an answer about herbaria is disappointing. He'll have to figure it out some other way.
Maybe he should have asked for any book on potions. Narcissa surely could have provided one if he'd only asked differently.
He's still frowning slightly by the time he's done writing his reply. It's quite short, simply thanking her and expressing that it would be lovely to see her tomorrow, adding that he would like to see some of his old artwork if possible.
Because Potter will remain in the ward overnight, for whatever reason, Draco opts to keep the letter to himself until after he's met with the memory specialist. He has time, and doesn't really want to seek Potter out so soon after the awkward way he left earlier.
Draco places his letter on top of the ever-present stack of newspapers and eats his lunch slowly. He figures that he's put off seeing Agnes for long enough. By now, he thinks in amusement, she might be closer to the new patient than she is with him.
He wonders what the chances of her knowing about herbaria are. It's worth a try, he supposes.
He leaves his empty tray on his bedside table once he's finished eating, sliding his feet into his slippers and making his way to her cubicle. He mentally goes over how to sign hello, and though he's done it so much that he can do it perfectly, there's a nagging thought that he could mess it up.
He tries not to think about it as he knocks on Agnes's curtains. There are voices on the other side, and Draco groans internally when he realizes it's the new patient and Gilderoy.
Well, he's been putting that meeting off too, so perhaps he deserves it.
The curtains are pulled aside, Agnes' fluffy face and brown eyes coming into view, and she lets out a loud, happy bark upon seeing him.
Draco flinches, tries to cover it up with a smile, and puts his hands over his ears. So much for the quiet greeting he was expecting.
"I know I've been a bit of a recluse the past few days, but I wanted to pop by and say hello," he says.
Agnes grins, stepping aside and gesturing for him to enter. He does, but stops when he sees an unfamiliar person sitting beside Agnes's bed, dark hair and a gaunt face, eyeing him suspiciously. It's clearly the new patient.
"Hello," Draco greets cordially. The new patient turns his gaze away, not responding, and Gilderoy, who is sitting beside him, pipes up.
"Hello!" he chirps. "Basil, meet Draco. Draco, meet Basil."
Basil doesn't seem to be very receptive, still refusing to look at Draco, and he shifts uncomfortably under Gilderoy's openly expectant look.
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Draco says tightly. Unsurprisingly, Basil says nothing at all. Agnes seems to be wincing as she watches the exchange.
Gilderoy catches onto the tense atmosphere and stands slowly, gently taking Basil's hand.
"Come on, Basil. Let's give Agnes some time with Draco. He's been quiet lately, you know," Gilderoy says, whispering the last sentence like Draco can't hear him. "I have my appointment soon, anyway."
Gilderoy shuffles past Agnes's curtains, Basil tagging along behind him with their hands still entwined. Basil pauses momentarily just outside the curtains to fix Draco with one last suspicious glance, before Gilderoy tugs him along.
Draco resists the urge to scowl. For whatever reason, it seems Basil has taken a dislike to Draco. It's no problem for Draco, but it is a tad irritating.
He turns to Agnes, managing a smile. It's a bit belated, but he finally signs hello, the movement of his hands coming naturally after practicing it so much.
Agnes's eyes widen in excitement. She signs something in response, but it's too quick for Draco to catch. She continues signing, and he's not sure how to get her to stop without interrupting her, so he just lets her do it until she stops on her own.
She waits expectantly for his reply, and he flushes.
"I'm not that fast at it yet," he says with a bashful smile.
Agnes rolls her eyes and, with a slight shake of her head, plops onto her bed with a sigh. He sits in the armchair that Gilderoy recently vacated, watching as Agnes reaches for her notepad and scratches something down.
You disappeared on me, it says. Draco feels a twinge of guilt, but knows that Agnes is more than likely saying it playfully, rather than actually meaning it.
"I got lost on the way here," he jokes. Agnes breathes a laugh, but something about it doesn't quite feel the same as usual, and the smile drops from his face.
Agnes pushes the notepad to him.
You have a penchant for losing things, don't you.
The corner's of Draco's lips tighten. He's not sure if it's just him having an off-day, but her words sting.
"Agnes," he says uncomfortably. "Not—not today, please."
Agnes gives him a remorseful look and scratches a response down.
Sorry. I just haven't been in a great mood lately. Nothing has been right since Potter took over as head healer.
"What do you mean?" Draco asks wearily. Agnes tenses, and he can practically feel her irritation grow, rolling off of her as she writes. He doesn't understand what he's doing so wrong.
It's just that Potter worked in an entirely different branch of healing magic before this, so is he even qualified to treat you and Gilderoy? Or to be a head healer? It doesn't seem like it, and it's been bothering me.
Draco flushes. It's been two days since Potter became part of the ward, which certainly isn't enough time to judge anything. He feels an inexplicable need to defend Potter, pushing the unwanted image of Potter's reluctant smile out of his mind.
"Well, Soto wasn't exactly doing a stellar job here, was she? She did give me a wrong potion that could've poisoned me if I'd been any less lucky," Draco points out, and Agnes lets out an angry huff, starting to write her response before Draco is finished speaking.
"Besides, Gilderoy can make actual improvements with the new mind healer Potter is setting him up with—and if Potter was biased, he wouldn't even treat Gilderoy."
Agnes's stare is hard when she roughly pushes her notepad back towards him a minute later, gripping her quill tightly.
You're being dramatic. It was an accident. It didn't justify removing her from her position completely, and certainly not threatening to strip her of her license. He's either heartless and unprofessional, or here for something other than healing people. But of course you don't see any of this.
And I wasn't going to mention it, but you know what? Whatever's going on between you and him in your little nighttime wanderings, I don't want to know.
Draco goes very still, heart freezing. He blinks at the words, rereads them, not wanting to believe what she's suggesting.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he asks, voice deathly soft.
Agnes looks concerned for all of a second before she scribbles a response, hand shaking now. From anger or worry, he doesn't know.
I'm not stupid. I don't think it's a coincidence that the first time you left the ward, you came back with Potter trailing after you like a lost crup. And with the rest of your little escapades, it doesn't take a genius to put two and two together.
Draco stares at her. Confusion and hurt and anger swirl in his stomach, pulling him a hundred different directions.
He stands slowly, easing himself out of the armchair. Agnes doesn't look at him.
"I don't know what I did to make you think this, or what 'escapades' you're referring to, but thank you for letting me know how you feel. I hope Gilderoy and Basil are good company. I'll leave you to it, then," he says, words clipped, and immediately exits Agnes's cubicle.
He scowls as he walks back to his bed, thinking over what Agnes said. He has no idea what he did to make her say something like that, and trying to remember what he said right before she got upset gets him nowhere.
The fact that he can't even recall the details of the conversation shakes him up.
And worse, when he pushes back the curtains of his cubicle, Potter is sitting in the armchair and reading an old issue of the Daily Prophet, looking like he owns the place. Legs crossed, chin in his hand as his finger fiddles with the corner of the page.
Draco hates how much he wants to keep staring.
"What're you doing?" he snaps. Potter looks up from the newspaper to meet Draco's gaze, raising his eyebrows.
"Snooping," he says, straight-faced, and Draco rolls his eyes.
"Very funny," he replies sarcastically, as Potter stands and sets the newspaper aside. He fixes Draco with a level look, and Draco can't tell what he's thinking at all.
"Are you ready to meet the mind specialist?" Potter asks expectantly.
"Are you ready to tell me what spell you used on me?" Draco retorts.
Potter raises his eyebrows, incredulous. "You're actually bringing that up right now? You're more stubborn than I thought." He almost sounds impressed. "It was a calming spell."
...A calming spell. Merlin. Draco could gape at Potter if he wasn't aware of how stupid he'd look doing it.
"Why did you keep that to yourself this entire time, then?" he asks indignantly. "You made it seem like some gigantic secret."
"Well, it was to you," Potter shrugs, and Draco can't really argue with Potter when he's right, so he doesn't say anything at all. "Let's go, huh? They're waiting."
Potter sets a quick pace, and Draco follows closely, a bit startled when they walk past Potter's office and into the hall.
"Where are we going?" he asks. Potter shoots an amused look over his shoulder.
"A separate examination room. It's more private," he explains, and Draco hums. He's grateful for any semblance of privacy, even if it's with a stranger.
Really, he's just glad to be away from Agnes right now.
Potter leads him to one of the small rooms near the staircase that Draco noticed a few days before. The plaque beside the door is labelled 4B, he notes, and Potter knocks before he pushes the door open. Potter gestures for Draco to enter, and he does, nervously.
The first thing Draco notices is that the memory specialist is around Potter's height—a bit taller than Draco—and wearing blue robes instead of lime green like Potter's. Draco wonders if they're from a different hospital.
The second thing he notices is that Potter's eyes gleam when he sees them, and something about it makes his heart contract, but the specialist gives him a kind smile and Draco tries to shove his envy away.
"Malfoy, this is Healer Cassidy. They're the best memory specialist in Britain," Potter says. The admiration in his voice is obvious, even to Draco, and he ignores the spike of jealousy he feels at that. Cassidy blushes a bit, but turns their attention to Draco instead of replying to Potter.
"You can call me Bryn," Cassidy, Bryn, says with a bashful smile. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Draco—can I call you Draco?"
Draco nods and smiles slightly, liking them already, and Bryn continues: "Great. Healer Potter, if you will, I think Draco would prefer to do this one-on-one…."
Potter almost seems surprised by the request, like it hadn't occurred to him that Draco wouldn't want him there. He seems to shake himself from it, before he reluctantly nods and gives a muttered of course, ducking out of the examination room. He spares a glance at Draco, and if Draco didn't know any better, he'd think it was a look of concern.
Bryn sits on the stool by the counter, gesturing for him to sit on the uncomfortable-looking examination bed. He complies, discovering that the bed isn't as bad as he thought it would be, and smooths over his robes as he anticipates what they're about to say.
"It's important that you know what I can and can't do for you," they start. Their tone is even and professional, and Draco finds it reassuring. "The spell I'm going to use is called the Memory History charm. You can think of it sort of like a backwards memory charm."
Draco's heart leaps, but falls as Bryn continues: "It's not going to undo the memory loss, but it does provide information about it, like reading the history of your memory. Does that make sense?"
He takes a moment to think over their words. He doesn't understand how the spell works, exactly, but he's grateful to be walked through what it'll do. That's a welcome change.
"Yes, I think so. What kind of information will it tell you?" he asks.
"Well, let me clear up what it won't do first. No spell can tell me who took your memories—it's nearly impossible to decipher that. However, it can tell me what charm took your memories, and the extent of the damage."
Draco swallows roughly. He knew, of course, that he couldn't have walked away unscathed, but to hear it said as the damage, as if it's inevitable, fills him with a distinct sense of dread.
"Is that making sense?" Bryn asks gently, and Draco only nods in response. "This spell may take a while to gather all of that data. Probably ten or so minutes. You may feel a warm sensation in your head and neck, and that is completely normal, but please let me know if you feel any pain, alright?"
Draco clears his throat. "Alright."
Bryn's eyes soften, and he wonders if his nervousness is evident in his voice. "Are you comfortable with me using this spell on you today?"
Draco looks at them in surprise. "You're asking me?"
Bryn smiles and tilts their head. "Of course. I'm not going to do anything that you're uncomfortable with. If you asked me not to, then we would skip to the next step of today's meeting."
He blinks at them. Thinks of how Potter likely lied about what spell he used on Draco the other day. Remembers how Soto never explained any of the charms she used. He wonders how he could have been comfortable with that, at all.
"Draco?" Bryn asks, smile turning down slightly in concern. "Is everything okay?"
Draco sucks in a breath and straightens up, pulling himself back to the moment. "Yes, it is. And I'm okay with you using the Memory History charm."
Bryn grins. "Glad to hear it. It's quite a show to see it in use, and I think you'll like it. If you will, lay back on the table, and we can begin."
Draco does so, shifting on the narrow bed to get comfortable. He doesn't exactly know what they mean by a "show," and he watches curiously. Bryn clears their throat and gives him a reassuring smile before they roll up their sleeves, raising their wand.
"Historiam Memoriae Converso…. historiam… memoriae… converso…" they begin, muttering the words under their breath over and over, repeatedly moving their wand in a complex hexagonal pattern. Their eyes are focused completely on a seemingly arbitrary part of the wall behind Draco, hardly blinking at all as they perform the spell.
Draco watches in fascination as thin threads of pulsing light emerge from the tip of the wand, red and yellow and blue. They dance around the examination room, darting around each other like animals might play, steadily tangling themselves with each other until they're a single, knotted line. He understands fully now why they're in a room separate from the ward.
As Bryn had said might happen, a pleasant warmth starts in the base of his neck and up through his hair as the threads collide, making the rest of him feel cold. The strangest sensation of heat spreads behind his eyes, like he's going to cry, but he doesn't.
The lights start to pulse stronger and more frequently as Bryn's muttering grows more confident. Draco has to cover his eyes as the blue light glows even brighter, until Bryn abruptly swipes their wand as if slicing the air—maybe cutting through the thread—and the line snaps into four, the pieces slowly turning a deep, dreadful black.
Draco gapes, stomach twisting at the sight. The pieces sink to the ground, puddles of black ooze on the floor, before they disappear completely.
Then, all is still, and Draco knows the spell is complete.
Bryn is sweating slightly, breath coming heavy, and the room is silent for a few minutes except for the sound of their breathing. Finally, they push their hair out of their face with a sigh, turning a small smile upon him. Draco can only imagine the kind of exertion it would take to use that spell, and he wonders how often they perform it.
"Quite the show, innit?" they say with a lopsided grin. There's a gleam in their eye, bright and joyous, and Draco understands how they've come to be the best in their field. Surely, their passion must have contributed to that.
He swallows and sits up, rubbing his neck where the warmth hasn't quite faded yet. "Yes, quite."
Bryn hums and turns to the counter, tapping their wand on the small stack of papers, which separate themselves into two different stacks. They tuck their wand away and jot something down on their clipboard.
"The results of the test are going to take a few minutes to present on the page. I have a pretty good idea of what's going on with your memories, but I'd like to have it confirmed first. Until then, I have a few questions to ask you, if you feel you can answer them."
Draco gives a nod—feeling like he's been doing a lot of nodding today—and Bryn clears their throat as they shift a bit on the stool to get more comfortable.
They reach for the small pile of papers behind them and flip through them, clicking their tongue absent-mindedly.
"Right, well to start, how have you been feeling since your admittance? Physically, mentally, emotionally... Whatever you are willing to share is whatever I am willing to hear," Bryn says, and Draco feels himself relax. Bryn is nothing but professional, but not in a cold way that Draco would expect from them.
"Physically," he starts, before he hesitates. Should he tell Bryn about his concerns with the potion and the brief two days of nausea—can he trust them? He's afraid that he's been too open, too naive. Decision made, he continues: "I've been tired. I wake up feeling more tired than when I went to sleep. Is that normal?"
Bryn hums with his words, a self-writing quill jotting something down on the paper.
"Yes, it's very common in the open wards here. If I had any say in it, honestly, the wards would be made more private, with separate rooms for each patient," Bryn says bitterly, expression like something sour is in their mouth. "Unfortunately, I don't have any say in that, but I can give you something to aid your sleep, if you would like."
Draco smiles gratefully. "I would appreciate that. Thank you."
"You're very welcome." Bryn returns his smile easily. The self-writing quill continues to write. "Is there anything else you want to share?"
Draco pauses. Emotionally—well, there's a lot to unpack there, and the past few days of isolating himself have only worsened it. He's not really keen on talking about it, but if he doesn't say anything now, will he ever? He can't imagine saying any of it to Agnes, Narcissa, or—Merlin forbid—Potter.
"I've been conflicted, truthfully. My mother sent one of my journals from when I was at Hogwarts. It was… distressing to know the kind of person I was," he admits slowly, not meeting Bryn's eye.
"I'm sorry, Draco. I can imagine how that must have felt. To know so little of the person you once were, and to only get to see something from a time in your life when you were likely just as confused as you are now," Bryn says softly, and Draco finally meets their eye, folding his hands in his lap. He doesn't reply.
"But I want you to know that people change, Draco. If it's reassuring to know, you—at twenty nine—were much, much different than how you were as a teen. Whatever you read in your journal doesn't show the person you grew to be. And it's regretful that you haven't been given that opportunity."
Draco swallows roughly. Somehow, he hadn't thought of that at all. But he can't find it in himself to accept Bryn's words right now. If he does, then he'll start to wonder who he was at twenty-nine, and twenty-eight, and twenty-seven…. on and on.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "I just don't know if I want to remember a lot of the things I did and the things that happened to me."
Bryn's expression is one of understanding and kindness.
"I can't say I would feel any differently in your shoes. And, because this is something a lot of my patients have struggled with, it doesn't make you any less Draco. You understand?"
He sucks in a slow breath. In, out. Because, somehow, Bryn understands.
"Yes, I do," he replies. Bryn's smile is sympathetic.
"I was going to get to this later, but I'll ask now. Would you like to view a few memories involving you?" Bryn asks.
Draco eyes widen. "Yes, of course. But how? And what do you mean by 'view'?"
Bryn laughs easily and takes a small velvet pouch out of their pocket. From it, they pull a vial full of a swirling, luminescent silver substance.
"This is what a memory looks like in its physical form. It's not very complicated to remove a memory, but once you do, it allows other people to watch it exactly as it was experienced. A magical instrument called a pensieve will make it so we can watch the memory."
Draco stares at them in amazement. That's possible?
Magic. What a wonderful thing.
"Whose memories are they?" he asks, and Bryn tries in vain to hide their small smile.
"Healer Potter. He was kind enough to extract a few memories for our viewing today." Draco's excitement dims, and he tenses at the thought of viewing a memory of Potter's. Nothing good could be in them, not involving Draco.
Bryn seems to catch onto his unease, and adds: "I've watched them myself. There's nothing, uh, too disagreeable. I think you would be interested in seeing them, actually, given your concern about what you read in the journal."
Draco is about to answer, before the tip of Bryn's wand lights and blinks, and their attention is turned to the clipboard.
"That'll be the results," Bryn explains. They look over the few pages, humming in understanding occasionally at whatever they're reading.
Draco waits nervously, smoothing his robes. Things didn't exactly seem good when Bryn used the Memory History spell.
"Well, Draco, I have good news and I have bad news, and they're kind of contradictory. You ready to hear this?" Bryn asks.
Draco swallows roughly and mutters his agreement. Steels himself as Bryn brushes their dark hair from their eyes and turns their clipboard around to show Draco.
They point to a graph near the bottom of the page with their wand. The graph is labelled with strange symbols, numbers, and filled by multi-colored lines—red, blue, and yellow, like the lights from the spell. Bryn taps their wand to the page, and the lines start to move.
As Draco watches, the blue and red begin to grow exponentially from the start, the yellow hovering near the bottom, until suddenly, the blue drops down to zero and the yellow shoots up. The red drops drastically, but not entirely. Draco's chest tightens as a black, spiky dot appears where the blue line peaked.
"Each of those lines represent different parts of your memory. The blue is what we want to focus on—it shows the growth in memories you've retained. Where it dropped back down is where your memories were taken. Make sense?" Bryn explains. Draco nods, the knot in his chest tightening further with their words, and they continue:
"In this instance, the black dot is an indicator of what kind of spell was used on you. This memory charm is known as the 'Repealed Obliviate,' and it's usually completely reversible."
Draco's eyes widen, and Bryn pauses a moment to let the words sink in.
It's reversible. He swallows against the lump in his throat, lips pulled into a frown. He's still not sure he wants his memories, even if there's a chance he can have them, but how could he say no to that?
"What's the bad news?" he asks hesitantly. Bryn's expression turns sympathetic. They put the chart aside and lean forward ever-so-slightly, as if wanting to reach out to Draco. The dread he's been feeling since the beginning of the meeting peaks.
"I'm afraid that there's little-to-no hope of regaining anything. The problem lies with the condition your brain is in. It's very likely that you've undergone prolonged exposure to ill-intending magic. It's caused permanent damage that will make it nearly impossible to reverse the charm. I'm truly sorry, Draco," Bryn says, voice solemn.
Oh…
Draco clenches his fists in his robes and turns his gaze away from Bryn.
So it's permanent brain damage, then. Caused by some unknown exposure to negative magic, that could've happened at any point in his life, and he has no idea when. Whether it's from the war, or Azkaban, or the Aurors—he'll never know.
"It's okay. I didn't have my hopes up," he replies softly, voice breaking and betraying his emotions.
"Draco," Bryn starts gently. "What you're feeling is completely understandable, and valid. Whether or not you'd hoped to regain your memories, or if you'd never wanted them at all, it's difficult to have that option stripped from you."
Draco bites his lip, still not wanting to look at them, but nods shakily.
"Yes. You're right."
Bryn sighs softly.
"If you'd like and are comfortable to, we can continue the meeting as planned. It may not spark any memories like we thought, but it can still be useful," they say, an encouraging note in their voice.
He wants to say no, but his curiosity gets the better of him, and he agrees.
Minutes later, he finds himself standing in front of a shallow basin, filled with a strange, water-like substance. Bryn uncorks the glass vial of Potter's memories and empties it in the water. He expects it to diffuse, but it remains separate from the liquid in the basin.
Bryn quickly walks him through what viewing the memory will be like and what he'll have to do to view them. Draco shifts uneasily at the thought of pressing his face into the liquid for a prolonged period of time.
"I'll be there the entire time. And remember, we can't be hurt, seen, or heard. We're only spectating. However, if you need to for any reason, we can leave the pensieve," Bryn continues.
Draco thinks that he probably won't leave the memories for anything, even if they are completely horrible, but keeps the thought to himself.
"Ready? Let's go together, on three."
He steps up to the basin on Bryn's count, leaning over and slowly pressing his face into the pensieve when Bryn reaches three. He instinctively squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, even though he knows he doesn't need to.
Draco opens his eyes to grey. He blinks. Spins in place, looking in every direction.
"The memory hasn't formed yet," Bryn says from beside him. Their voice sounds strange. "It will soon."
Moments later, a storefront emerges from the fog, a cobblestone road forming their feet, the world bursting with color. Draco gapes. Again, all he can think is magic.
He focuses on the memory. In the shop window are a variety of robes, ranging from elaborate, elegantly-designed formal robes to casual everyday wear. The wooden sign hung above the door reads "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions." People bustle about; the noise and colors and voices overwhelming.
Despite it, Draco's eyes immediately find Potter. He couldn't be any older than eleven. He's short and scrawny, with his mop of messy black hair and hand-me-downs, and he's entering Madam Malkin's with a nervous expression. Draco glances at Bryn, and they give him a small, encouraging nod.
He follows Potter into Madam Malkin's, Bryn right behind him. His breath catches at the sight of a child who is unmistakably himself, standing with his arms outstretched as sewing tape measures zip around his torso.
The short witch working with memory-Draco gives Potter a smile and tells him she'll be with him in a minute.
"Hullo, Hogwarts too?" memory-Draco asks. Potter startles, and turns his attention to memory-Draco.
"Yes," he replies.
Draco frowns. This close, he can see just how thin Potter is under his hand-me-downs, to the point that it's concerning, and he's very nervous. It makes Draco's stomach turn over; he has of course read mentions about Potter's childhood in The Prophet, but it's different to actually see the effects of it.
And, on top of it, it's difficult to reconcile the Potter he knows—the healer, and the war hero—with this younger self.
Memory-Draco continues to talk at Potter. Draco doesn't even hear the words, eyes caught on the differences in their expressions—Potter's, growing increasingly indignant and disgusted, and memory-Draco's, with a permanent curl of his lip and narrowed eyes.
Memory-Draco asks for Potter's surname, and Potter doesn't get to reply before the world dissolves around them, fading into grey haze.
Draco glances at Bryn nervously, anxiety tightening his chest with the disappearance of the ground, and Bryn gives him another comforting smile.
"I'm right here," they say, and Draco nods, mostly to himself. "Remember, we're only in a pensieve."
Another scene forms just as quickly as the previous one vanished.
They're standing in a courtyard, a castle towering over them and the sun just beginning to rise. Rubble and debris are scattered across the space. Dust is falling. A ring of school-aged teens stand in a half-circle, bloodied and covered in dirt and sweat. A redheaded girl is sobbing, but the sound can't be heard. Everything is muffled.
The rest of the students' eyes are red-rimmed, expressions grim and tear-streaked and hopeless. Draco doesn't see himself among them.
And across from them, standing in the center of a long line of darkly dressed wixes, is a tall, pale wizard, eyes glowing red and thin lips stretched into a terrifying smile.
Draco's stomach turns over. He has to turn his gaze away, unable to stand the sight of that wizard. He knows the only person that can be is Lord Voldemort, despite the fact that there weren't any pictures of him in the Prophet articles he read.
He understands now why there weren't.
It's then that Draco finds Potter—in the arms of an impossibly large, hairy man—arms hanging limp. Draco lips tighten, and he can't look at Potter, either.
He reminds himself that Potter is alive and well, that this is just a memory.
"He beat you!" someone shouts, voice breaking, and the strange muffled quality over the courtyard shatters. The sound of the girl's choked sobs reach Draco, then, and the sound makes his throat tighten.
Voldemort's high-pitched, airy voice echoes in the courtyard, sending Draco's skin crawling: "Harry Potter is dead, and though you have fought valiantly, it was in vain. Join us now, and no blood will be spilled. I do not wish to fight."
There's a tense silence for a long moment, before someone steps forward. Draco's eyes snap to a blond boy no older than seventeen, his steps crunching in the rubble. He's wearing a battered and torn hat, face scarred and bloody. There's steel in his eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw, and Draco's lips tighten.
Voldemort eyes him, expression turning incredulous.
"Is this all?" he asks lightly. His Death Eaters laugh, loud and cruel, and the students begin to shift uneasily. The boy's stare hardens as he glances over his shoulder, and Draco almost thinks he nods to someone. "Longbottom, I presume?"
"Right," the boy says, and Draco's stomach flips when his lip curls and he spits, "And I'll join you when Hell freezes over."
Voldemort's expression turns venomous, and suddenly the hat upon the boy's head is on fire. He drops to the ground with a shout, the other students screaming his name, before he pulls a sword from the flaming hat—and everything happens so quickly and at the same time that Draco almost doesn't see Potter roll from the giant man's arms.
His heart skips a beat. He finally sees himself. Memory-Draco breaks from the Death Eaters, the first to notice Potter. He runs to Potter's side and throws him a wand, shouts his name, and then the world descends to chaos.
Spells and hexes are cast left and right, and Draco flinches as a few pass through him, but he can't tear his eyes from the sight of Memory-Draco. His face is tear-streaked and terrified, and despite it, is fighting his own people with Potter at his side.
The scene dissolves into grey before he's ready, the sight of himself standing alongside Potter turning to nothingness, and reforms quickly in the familiar colors of cream and light blue. He's still reeling, heart pounding—he fought with Potter's side—and blinks at the new memory.
It's a waiting room in St. Mungo's, and something terrible has happened. From every direction comes yelling and wails of pain, shouts of the healers for Dittany, murtlap, and sedatives. Aurors in various states of dress are appearing with loud cracks all around them, startling Draco and sending his heart thundering. Some of them are carrying or supporting the injured, soot-covered people from whatever disaster has occurred.
But somehow, through the chaos, Draco is drawn to Potter, not much younger than he is now. His green eyes are sharp and blazing, managing to bark instructions to the other healers as they all turn to him for direction.
Draco swallows roughly. Potter looks for all the world like this is exactly where he belongs, level-headed in the face of the crisis, guiding the others through it.
Oddly, the sight of it makes Draco's heart leap.
Another crack, and an Auror appears almost directly at Potter's side, an unconscious, redheaded child in his arms.
Draco blinks. He is that Auror.
Memory-Draco's expression is impossibly collected and haughty, his impeccable robes and hair starkly contrasting the other Aurors'. His cool gaze is impressive, Draco has to admit.
"Potter. This child was caught in the fire," memory-Draco says, voice carrying over the shouts in the room. Potter turns his sharp gaze upon memory-Draco and the child, and his eyes widen. His composure breaks.
"Rose," he says, voice heavy with worry, brow furrowed. His wand is in hand immediately, casting a myriad of diagnostic and healing charms on her—presumably someone he knows.
"Put her down here," Potter finally says, gesturing to an empty chair beside him. Memory-Draco complies, placing her down gently as if afraid she'll break. "Thank you for helping her. For bringing her to me. Are—are Ron and George okay?"
Draco tilts his head in confusion. He figures that Ron and George must be related to Rose in some way, maybe caught in the fire.
Memory-Draco's expression doesn't soften, and neither does his voice, but Potter almost seems to take comfort in it.
"They're fine. She slipped away from them. I have a feeling she ran back into the building to rescue the Pygmy Puffs," memory-Draco says. Potter pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs.
"Of course she would. Well. Thank you for going after her. If you see Ron, please let him know she's going to be okay. And—don't wind up in here tonight, Malfoy. You don't want to be stuck with me to treat your injuries."
Memory-Draco smirks, but doesn't reply. He disappears with a crack.
Draco stares at Potter, eyes wide, until the memory fades into nothingness. He recalls Potter's words about them being stuck together, and it sends him reeling.
His chest feels—warm, and full, and damn, he has feelings for Potter, doesn't he?
"Draco, the memories are over," Bryn murmurs, stepping closer to him. "Time to go."
He glances at them and licks his lips, hoping they didn't see his blush. He closes his eyes as he imagines himself being pulled from the pensieve, and when he opens his eyes, he's back in the examination room.
Bryn glances at the clock on the wall and purses their lips, but doesn't comment on the time. Draco figures that they must be running behind.
"How do you feel?" Bryn asks, a note of concern in their voice. Draco tugs on the sleeve of his robes and looks away, because truthfully, his thoughts keep going back to Potter—his ever-unruly hair, his concern for Rose, the gleam in his eye as they fought side-by-side as teens…
"A lot better than I thought I would," Draco says honestly, and Bryn smiles, albeit tiredly.
"I'm glad to hear that, Draco. I'm sorry to say I have to be going now, but we'll meet again, alright?" they say sincerely.
Draco voices his agreement, and then Bryn walks with him back to the ward. They say goodbye and wish each other well—Draco going to his cubicle and Bryn to Potter's office—and Draco finds himself watching the red glow of the sunset from the ward's only window.
When the sun has gone down completely, he sits in bed and stares at his curtains, lost in thought. Tonight, oddly, none of the lights are turned on, so Draco sits in the darkness for a while and mourns—not for the first time—the loss of his memories.
They're gone for good, now. There's no chance of getting answers to half of the questions he had.
Draco's mind wanders to Potter's memories. They replay over and over in his head. The only thing he can even think is that, at least at one point, he fought against Voldemort, and likely his father as well.
It's like Bryn said: he changed.
He bites his lip and thinks that he owes Potter a thank you.
Quick, light footsteps approach his cubicle, drawing Draco out of his thoughts and making his heart jump. He knows those footsteps.
The curtains are pushed open abruptly, Potter not even bothering to knock. Draco rolls his eyes. Of course he wouldn't.
"Malfoy? Are you awake?" Potter whispers.
"No," he says. Potter sighs audibly.
"Can I talk to you?" he asks. Draco can imagine him rubbing the back of his neck with that painfully awkward expression on his face, and he's not sure whether he's glad that he can't see anything beyond Potter's silhouette.
"Sure," he answers. Potter shuts the curtains behind him and slides into the armchair easily. Draco raises his eyebrows—how Potter can see is a mystery.
Potter clears his throat.
"Healer Cassidy told me about the test results. I'm so sorry, Malfoy. Is there anything I can do to help?" Potter says. For the first time, there's only a straightforward sincerity in his voice, and Draco doesn't doubt that Potter is being honest.
He doesn't say that Potter already has helped, by offering his memories. That would just boost his ego.
"Yes. I think you should start calling me Draco," he says softly, not quite sure where the words are coming from, picking at invisible lint on his clothes. There's no use, really, when Potter can't see him, but it's for his own sake.
Potter is quiet for some time.
"Draco," he finally says, like he's trying it out, and Draco looks up sharply. "I can do that. Draco."
The complicated mix of feelings he's had about his name dissipate upon hearing it spoken by Potter—like he never needed to worry about whether he's Draco enough. Perhaps Bryn's comforting words helped get him there, and Potter was the last push. Because he says it like it's a secret only the two of them are in on. And, Merlin if that's not dramatic, but Draco can't help it. Something about Potter seems to bring out that side of himself.
And if Draco is honest, he feels more like himself than ever when he's around Potter. The realization leaves his cheeks hot, and he's thankful that it's nearly impossible to see given how dark it is.
They sit quietly for a long time after that. Gilderoy's snores are loud, but not louder than Potter's steady, easy breathing directly across from him. He realizes at some point that his breath has synced with Potter's, and he has half a mind to make himself stop, but can't be bothered.
Maybe it's because it's dark—everything seems to be said easier in the dark—or maybe it's how intensely intimate their silence feels, but Draco finds himself wanting to fill the space with words.
"Have you ever seen the scars on my chest?" he murmurs. "I don't know how I got them."
Potter sucks in a breath.
"Yes, I've seen them," he says. There's something tight in his voice, and Draco worries he's said something wrong, until Potter continues: "I'm the one who gave them to you."
Draco's eyebrows shoot up, but he's less surprised than he probably should be.
"What happened?" he asks.
Potter sighs heavily. "We got into a fight in sixth year. I didn't know what the spell did, but it had been labelled 'for enemies.' So I used it on you, and I'm sorry I did. I wish I hadn't."
Draco thinks about it, expecting to be angry and hurt, but finds it easy to accept that it happened. He's not even upset about it, not really—maybe in a distant sort of way, but he's preoccupied by the realization that he doesn't like how apologies sound coming from Potter, especially not for things Draco can't remember. "I think you've made up for it since."
Potter snorts. "Yeah, sure."
Draco glares at him, even though he can't see it. "You have. I'm not a liar."
"Yeah? How," Potter asks, and Draco sighs in frustration. Why must Potter be so stubborn?
"You're my healer, aren't you? You volunteered your memories. You didn't have to," he points out. He thinks to himself that he's only arguing because it's Potter, but he knows he's lying to himself.
"How did this turn into you comforting me?" Potter says with a shaky laugh.
In a moment of courage, foreign but not unwelcome, Draco reaches forward and seeks Potter's hand out in the darkness. He finds it, and his heart pounds, and he turns it over so he can put his fingers between Potter's.
His hands are sweaty, but so are Potter's, and it's not as nice as he expected. But at the same time, it's better because of it.
"What're you doing?" Potter asks, voice shaking ever-so-slightly. He doesn't pull his hand away. Draco absentmindedly rubs his thumb over Potter's, wondering how they got so calloused.
"Trying to convey to you how I feel about this. Is it working?" Draco asks. Potter breathes a laugh.
"Yes, it is," he murmurs. "I can feel how wrong you are through your fingertips."
Draco snorts. "I highly doubt that. Your hands are too calloused to feel anything as light as my fingertips."
"Draco, I hate to break it to you, but your hands are so sweaty that it would be impossible for me not to feel them."
Draco flushes, but breathes a laugh at it.
Potter falls silent, and it stretches between them. Draco continues to rub absent circles on the back of Potter's hand.
Finally, Potter sighs: "Christ, Draco. I probably shouldn't be doing this. I'm your healer."
Draco hums and moves like he's going to pull away, and Potter's grip tightens slightly. Draco laughs knowingly. "You'd have to let go of my hand in order to not be doing this, you know."
"Fuck off," Potter replies immediately, no heat behind it.
"I'm trying." Draco says. He hears Potter's sigh, and it sets him off laughing again, trying to stifle the sound with his free hand—until Potter is laughing too, and between the two of them, they could wake the entire ward.
Instead of leaving him uneasy, it only makes him smile.
Potter leaves shortly after, claiming he has paperwork to do, which Draco doesn't believe one bit. Unfortunately, he can't keep holding Potter's hand forever, and he's starting to grow tired.
Their goodnight is soft and awkward, but it leaves a warmth in Draco's chest that he carries with him to sleep. His dreams that night are of walking to room 4B, of the potions storeroom and everything within, of herbaria and bubbling green poison antidotes.
It feels very strange, like it's actually happening, but everything is hazy around the edges. His legs move of their own accord—he finds that he doesn't quite care all that much—and carry him to just outside the door of the ward. He's carrying too many vials to open the door, and begins to transfer them to one hand so he can go back to bed.
But just then—
"Help!" someone in the ward screams, the sound horrible and agonized and pleading, jolting Draco from sleep with a gasp.
He lurches, as if to sit up in bed, but when he opens his eyes, he finds himself exactly as he was in the dream: standing in the hall outside the Janus Thickey Ward. A handful of vials drop from his loose fist and shatter on the floor.
The screams go hoarse, no longer even words, before they're gone completely. The potions from the broken vials mix and spread across the floor, until he's standing in a small puddle, the acrid smell of it reaching his nose.
The pieces slowly start to come together. Draco's stomach drops. His eyes begin to sting from the stench of the potions.
As he stands there, barely holding himself together, he's distinctly aware of one thing:
His slippers are dirty.