"What the hell is going on?"
Draco turned around to see Pansy in a fluffy dressing gown, slippers with pom-poms and her hair in rollers. He smirked. "Good morning."
She rolled her eyes and pointed her wand at him.
"Look, I'm slightly hungover, my toddler is having a mental breakdown in the playroom, and I've left behind my domestic familial bliss to be at your side like the fantastic compatriot I am," Pansy said. Her lips were twitching, which ruined the effect somewhat. "Bloody tell me what's going on, or so help me—"
"I need you to Obliviate Potter."
Pansy lowered her wand and studied the sleeping form.
"As an Obliviator? Or as your friend?"
Draco didn't answer, jaw clenched.
"All right, then…" she said with an exaggerated sigh. "But you'll owe me."
"You're a brick, Pans."
"I know." She perched on the bed. "Is he asleep, knocked out, in a trance, or…?"
"Sleeping Draught. Strong."
"What happened? Why didn't you call the Ministry Dispatch Team?"
"I needed a touch of discretion."
"Not another one of your schemes, again…" She opened Potter's lids to peer into vacant green eyes. "He's quite fit close up, don't you think?"
"I—what?—No, not really—"
Pansy cackled. "You're so easy to wind up." She sniffed at the smoke smell, the only other evidence that something had gone wrong. "What happened here?"
"Potter opened a package full of photographs from his future, a malicious communication. Someone sent it anonymously. It's my day off, but at least I dress by eleven o'clock."
Pansy ignored the slight. "So why do you need an Obliviator?" She narrowed her eyes. "I'm not doing your dirty work. You're more than capable of a simple charm—"
"It won't be a simple Memory Charm," Draco said. "He opened the package, had some kind of magical meltdown. There was a lot of shouting, and then he had a seizure. So you'll excuse me for calling in the professionals."
She pursed her lips and nodded. "What lovely long hair he has."
"Stop ogling my patient."
"So do we need to wipe the last day? Or all his future memories, which he hasn't remembered yet, or…?"
Draco paced. "He could wake up and die. He could wake up and remember nothing ever again, transfer to the Janus Thickey Ward to rot for the rest of my career. Alternatively, it might already be too late, and he'll have lost his mind—"
"Stop panicking and just do your best. You know I hate it when you blame yourself for situations beyond your control. It wasn't your fault, it's a shitty situation all round." She tapped her wand against her chin. "Hmm, I can wipe the package from his memory, but the results might not be pretty… "
"What do you mean?"
"Memories are tied to other memories by associations." Draco nodded; he knew all this. "He's got a weird experimental-induced memory loss that behaves like no other magical disease. He'll probably lose a lot of progress. Can't be helped. He'll be exhausted, definitely."
"There'll be increased engagement with the thalamus," Draco said, "which might reflect an attempt to compensate for attentional performance during demanding conditions."
"How was his attention before?" she asked.
He stared at Potter's prone figure before answering. "Generally good, though he had lowered engagement of spatial attention, seen through his impairment in saccadic eye movements. But his reasoning ability and attention tended to be static throughout the day. What do you think will happen to his non-declarative memories?" he wondered aloud.
"Probably fine. He should still be able to create new long-term memories, but…" She stood up and drew her wand. "Let's get on with it, then. No use agonising. We either do it now or do nothing, and you know I hate inaction. Wake him up. Come on. Quickly."
Pansy was usually right. As he rummaged in his Healers Bag for a Waking Solution, she said, "I could always Obliviate you, too. Then you'll come into work tomorrow, find a bit of backwards progress, and stop tearing yourself apart on your day off—"
"No."
She shrugged. "Just a suggestion."
"You never know who's watching, here. Portraits. Ghosts. And one thing I will not surrender is my reputation."
"Hurry up, then. I dread to think what the state of the playroom will be when I get home…"
Draco pipetted two fluid drachms onto Potter's tongue.
Before panic could fill Potter's eyes, Pansy cast, "Obliviate!"
Of course, Harry was worse.
Before lunch, he was hopeless. At about one or two o'clock, it was like having teenaged Harry back. In the evenings, he remembered snatches of his adulthood but didn't retain a thing the next day.
On discussion with Penny, and on review of some research by a Mind Clinic in Denmark, it seemed likely that the mornings were worse due to the effect of the circadian rhythm on alertness and cognitive performance. The circadian nadir was late afternoon when Potter was at his best. It just made no sense.
"What's declarative memory?" Potter asked, when he was mentally sixteen.
Writing in Potter's records was so annoying when said patient lurked at his elbow.
"It's any memory that you can consciously recall," Draco said, screwing the lid back on the inkwell. "It's limited, and includes semantic memory—information about the world—and episodic memory—which holds autobiographical knowledge."
"That's the type I'm bad at, then."
"Yeah," Draco said. "It's not all bad news, though."
"No?"
"Your non-declarative memory is intact. That's to say, you haven't forgotten English, how to waltz, or the knowledge that you love or hate someone even if you can't remember why."
Potter grinned and perched on the seat of his stationary bicycle. "You're a good teacher, y'know."
"Yeah…" Draco smiled triumphantly. "I know."
Potter scrunched up his nose. "I can't waltz."
"I know that, too."
"… Wanker."
Draco wasn't mindful of when fixing Potter turned into an obsession.
When he got this exhausted, he felt like a shell with no soul or organs. Some evenings, he leant back in his chair and drifted off.
He loved his job. He thrived on fixing problems and being respected for accomplishments that society valued. But when that package arrived and ruined Potter, it became personal.
Things only got worse when Penelope quit.
"It's a great opportunity," Penny had said, grimacing, after she'd dumped that particular Dungbomb. "Don't hate me."
She was being seconded for a year to a mediwitch role with the Tornadoes. It was a great opportunity. But he did hate Penny, in that moment. Just a little bit.
"You could let Jenkins transfer to our unit," she'd proposed.
But Draco refused to have substandard Healers in his team. When your colleagues were useless, you had to double-check all their work. And when you double-checked all their work, you might as well do the damn job yourself. Draco insisted on externally advertising the position.
The Chief Executive, Mr Crocus, was not happy with Potter's setback. "How could this have happened?" he'd demanded, slamming the desk with his fist.
"I am not a miracle worker," Draco hissed, "nor am I his guardian angel."
That wasn't his finest moment.
Sir Kildwick was his usual self. "You look ill, my dear sir," he said to Draco.
"Oh." Draco continued walking down the stairs to Magical Bugs.
"I impute your late weakness to your poor constitution, and I recommend a total abstinence from wine," he advised, following Draco by pushing through portrait after portrait.
"I shall certainly advise you to go as soon as you can to Buxton where I think you will both drink water and bathe with more safety and advantage. These past few years you have been a stranger to that quiet of mind which you formerly enjoy'd."
"Have I?" Draco intoned.
"It is owned entirely to the nature of your complaint, which has harass'd you exceedingly, a vast uneasiness in your mind. I imagine it must proceed from a weakness in some part of your body or from a bad state of the blood."
"I don't think so." God there were so many stairs.
"If there is no griping in your bowels, I recommend you bathe for four or five weeks in salt water and drink tar water one pint of it to six of water, taking half a pint twice a day after standing for forty-eight hours. I hope you will be able to hit upon the cause of your sufferings and by the favour of Merlin above be likeways able to prescribe something that may afford relief—"
"No thank you."
"I am your most obedient servant!" Sir Kildwick called after Draco, when he could follow no longer.
Later that evening, he yanked off his visor, gloves, eye shield, breathing apparatus and overrobes, and dumped them into the incinerator. Dragon pox outbreak. Draco sat on the floor of the shower cubicle, held his head in his hands and felt numb.
Not for the first time, and not for the last, he slept in his office.
He didn't make time to go to the leaving party.
The most frustrating thing of all was that Potter was improving. When anyone spoke to the Longbottoms, or to the lady who thought she was a giraffe, nothing ever changed. They were the same one day to the next.
But Potter's trajectory wasn't hopeless. He'd wake totally clueless, panicked, upset, and lonely, and would cuddle Mother. Magic upset him. Mother refused to wear Muggle clothes, so some days just told him she was his angel and held Potter until he fell back to sleep.
He didn't think Draco was a bully or Lucius. It was worse: Draco was a total stranger. Draco rarely visited him in the mornings.
Then by afternoon Potter felt fifteen or sixteen or even sometimes seventeen. And therein lay progress. Draco clung to that improvement, held it tightly in his chest.
Draco needed that hope. With Penelope gone to Tutshill, he was covering many of her clinics, shifts and annoying patients.
Truly, Draco liked all his patients—even the weird ones. They were his weird patients. Penny's? They were just awful.
There was no point having days off—more things went wrong when he wasn't there, and the minute he turned his back the paperwork doubled in size. The Potter he knew from before the postal incident was there in the evenings though, and Potter was spirited, restless, sometimes angry.
"Don't give up on me," Potter hissed on one of his more lucid days. "Don't you fucking dare. All my hope is in you. So don't cock it up."
"No pressure, then."
Ronald's parents would sit with Potter for a few hours on Saturday afternoons, and Draco's aunt was writing all the time asking to see Potter. By now, he'd given up writing personally to everyone clamouring to see the Amazing Auror and left that to Anne, whom he couldn't cope without.
Draco didn't have time to go to all the monthly meals with Pansy, Daphne, Theo et al., and the only ones who understood were Mother, Potter and his cat, Blue, who was an antisocial useless lump of fur.
He missed his horses. He missed dozing in the Orangery. He missed the feeling of actually getting somewhere with fixing Potter.
In the morning, Scorpius's trunk was packed and Mrs Greengrass was running late. His son hopped onto the reading desk, legs swinging.
"What do you want for your summer present, then?" Draco asked, hands cradling his decaf coffee.
Scorpius shrugged.
"Do you want to go away? We could go to Monte Carlo. You liked it there."
"I suppose."
"Do you think you'll be bored? Tell Grandmama, and I'm sure she'll find you plenty to do. Have you finished your homework?"
"Of course," Scorpius said, rolling his eyes. "Even though I've got weeks."
"Have you done it properly? Nothing is more important than your schooling."
"You sound just like Al. Between you and him I'll go mental."
"You're picking up a lot of funny words from that family. Remember who you are."
Scorpius rolled his eyes. Again.
"Can I have a cigarette?" Scorpius asked, eyeing the packet.
Draco snatched it and stowed it in the inside pocket of his robes. "Absolutely not. You're too young."
Scorpius scowled. "Al said you did much worse at my age. Like challenging Harry Potter to a duel at midnight." He swung off the desk. "I am far more well-behaved than you."
"And yet I didn't give my father anywhere near such cheek."
His son kissed him on the cheek. "I keep you young, Father."
"Scoundrel."
After Draco saw Scorpius and Mrs Greengrass off to their Portkey, he interrogated the hospital portraits about memory loss.
Some portraits were incredibly helpful. They'd tutored him when his superiors didn't want a Death Eater Trainee Healer, and he'd spent many nights with the candles burnt low, making notes.
Dilys was telling Draco about what kinds of adapted Memory-Enhancing Draughts he ought to try next, when she dropped the bombshell: "Now, Draco. There was a youngster I'd heard of whose memories were lost and gradually returning."
"What? Who?" He dropped his quill. "Why didn't you tell me before?"
"Sir Kildwick urged me to mention it. I didn't think it relevant before, as it didn't involve Ministry accidents. Let me think, goodness gracious… It must've been after I died, and I believe the victim was taken care of at home."
"Did that help their recovery? Being in a home environment?"
"I know nothing further," Dilys said. "This all came about whilst I was being repaired. They'd taken me to Filleighmore Frames off Diagon Alley—gosh, I daresay it's gone now—and I didn't see the other painting I was talking to. The portrait seemed dreadfully familiar, though. The patient had unstable magic, lived at home, and was making some progress."
"That's it? That's all you know?"
She crossed her arms over her large bosom and leant forwards. "Being a Healer is not about having answers delivered to you on a platter, young man. You must evaluate the reference books—"
Draco jumped to his feet, eyes wild. "I've checked every reference book I can get my hands on! I've checked several personal libraries. My team is dangerously understaffed!"
Wulfric drifted through the office wall. "What's all this, what's all this?"
Draco covered his face with one hand, teeth gritted together.
"Come on up to the roof, young man, there's a good lad," Wulfric said. "Come on."
Dilys's overheard conversation was a ray of hope. He instructed a private investigator to find out what painting this was, or better yet, find out the name of the patient and what had become of them.
He enlisted every painting, and they visited their counterparts in other buildings such as the Ministry, Hogwarts, the Intellectual Property Library at the Serious Patents Office, and private homes. Discretion was key, as he couldn't risk another little stunt. Anne now read every single letter in its entirety before passing them to Potter. Hermione and Ronald were combing every bookshop.
During one of their Thursday evenings on the roof, Potter said, "There must be something else we can try!"
"Do tell."
"Well, I dunno, you're the expert," Potter said. It was mid-June, and Potter laid on the concrete in shorts and a T-shirt. "There's got to be a potion or something."
"You had an adverse reaction. I'm not trying that again."
"Why isn't Dumbledore here, or Snape? They'd know what to do!" He sat up, squinting at the sun in his eyes. "Why didn't I think of this before?"
"I'm sorry, but that won't be possible."
"Why not?"
"Can't tell you."
"You tell me that Voldemort didn't win," he said, ignoring Draco's flinch, "but I'm locked up without my wand, by you, a Malfoy, you say you're a Healer but you've not helped me get better, you're probably making me worse—"
"Let me guess. This is all some delightful ruse under the Dark Lord's regime because I have nothing better to do." He lit a cigarette. "Give me strength," he mumbled around it.
Potter laid back and watched a helicopter pass by. "I suppose you're right. If this is some scheme to torment me, it's not a great one. Nobody's breaking my bones or attacking me, as far as I know…"
"What delightful ideas has the mind of Harry Potter dreamt up now?" Draco drawled.
"Unless you're Obliviating me on purpose. You claim to be a Mind Healer—"
"Oh, for fuck's sake. And Granger and Weasley are in on it, too, no doubt. The Imperius Curse." Draco stood up. "You're going back to your room."
"No. Wait. I didn't mean it. Please don't send me back yet!"
Draco scowled and moved to the railing. "I'm here out of the goodness of my heart—"
"Because I'm such amazing company, you mean."
Draco's lips twitched and Potter joined him and elbowed him in the rib. "Yeah, simply riveting."
"Do you have many friends?"
"What kind of question is that?"
"Well. You're sat up with me quite a lot. Who else do you hang out with?"
"The usual crowd. Pansy and her husband Julian. I write to Theo a lot, he lives with Tracey Davis in Prague, remember her? I also see Daphne sometimes, oh and of course Blaise and Greg. Luna sends me Christmas cards."
"Luna?"
"Loony Lovegood."
"Don't call her that."
"I was just trying to jog your memory. I don't call her that," Draco said, shaking his head. "Not any more."
"Somehow I think I can trust you more as a friend of Luna's."
"What would you do if you weren't a wizard?"
Draco leant back in the visitor's chair and steepled his fingers. "Kill myself."
Potter threw a Fudge Fly at him, and Draco snatched it like a Snitch.
"Answer the sodding question, you're ruining the game."
"I'm a wizard, it's in my soul. It's like asking a dragon what it would do, were it not a dragon."
"I think I'd be a fireman."
"What on earth is that?" Draco asked delightedly.
"They put out house fires. By driving fire engines and shooting water from long hoses."
"Do they really?" Draco hummed. "Perhaps I'd be a member of the House of Lords."
Potter snorted. "That's not a real job."
"They're an essential part of Muggle politics. A nobleman. You know, to oversee the other Muggles and be a pillar of support in the community."
"Not a million miles away from what you'd be doing if you weren't here. I think they wear robes, too," Potter added. "Why are you here? You don't need the money, surely."
"No, Potter, I do not need the money. There are easier, nicer ways of making money than putting Splinched people back together, regrowing kneecaps and prescribing Dreamless Sleep."
"Oh. I suppose you're right."
"Like investments. Stocks and shares. Breeding Persian cats."
The sound of Potter's roaring laughter was a rather attractive sound. Draco hoped for a swift and timely death.
"Cat breeding!" He gasped in between his laughter. "How do you come up with this stuff?"
"You laugh, but that is an actual job. As is owl handling and racehorse training."
"You're so bloody posh."
Draco checked his pocket watch and stood to leave.
"Oh, hang on. There's a crossword clue I got stuck on."
Draco sat back down and helped himself to a banana from Potter's fruit bowl.
"Go on, then."