Notes: Thank you all for your lovely comments, etc. I so enjoy hearing from all you wonderful readers. I apologize for the late update, I was on vacation and away from the digital world completely. I've made Snape Draco's godfather in this story, which is simply a creative choice. I don't claim for it to be canon.

WARNINGS: Minor references to sexual assault, torture. Nothing graphic.

16. Look What Thy Memory Cannot Contain

Draco frowns down at the sopophorous beans slipping from beneath Granger's knife. He's watched her crush them a hundred times in potions lessons, but now she struggles, the knife skittering over the tough exterior.

The line of her jaw tightens and she pushes more forcefully into the bean. The silver juice spurts upward like a miniature geyser, nearly into her face.

Draco sighs and crosses the small kitchen to stand by her side. He lifts his hand to cover hers, but she shies away before he makes contact. Draco silently swears. He knows better. She seems so normal most of the time, even when she struggles with potions ingredients, that he forgets how much trauma lurks just beneath the surface.

He takes a step away. "I'm sorry. There's just a better way to do it."

Heat rises on her cheeks, but her dark cinnamon eyes are clear as she looks up at him. "Please show me? I'm unfortunately still missing much of my memory, which includes all of my potions classes."

Draco suspected as much. He indicates the knife and the stubborn beans, "may I?"

She nods and takes a careful step back. He waits until she's beyond his reach before stepping forward. "It turns out these guys are a lot easier to slice once you've crushed them with the side of the knife. Just like it's easier to crush garlic with the side of the blade and then peel it."

A month ago Draco had no idea how to deal with garlic, especially using such a Muggle method, but he's become something else in his weeks with first Potter and now Tom and Granger. Aside from the potions they brew—both for themselves and the Order, they keep the magic to a minimum. It's next to impossible for hostile forces to sense a well-brewed potion, but detecting a spell in a Muggle neighborhood is too easy. Tom put up intricate wards that should be impenetrable, but all three of them agreed not to push their luck.

Draco isn't entirely sure what they are doing now, what their purpose has become now that they escaped Malfoy Manor and no longer teeter upon the precipice of immanent destruction. He brews potions because he promised Potter that he would help, but Tom seems to have no designs beyond caring for Granger.

But Draco isn't naïve. Whatever Tom appears to do is only a fraction of his true activities. He may seem to only dote on Granger, but the dark coal of his eyes when Draco catches him unaware speak of violence and blood and the darkest of magic.

Draco only wishes to know his purpose. Is he going to ruin the Death Eaters that held Granger? Is he going to make a play for the wizarding world in general, as his other half has already done? Or is he going after the Dark Lord himself? Is such a thing even possible? Can Tom exist without the Dark Lord? There are too many possibilities and too few answers.

And then there's the lunacy that lies between Tom and Draco. With Hermione free, Draco assumed Tom was finished with him. Their entanglement was never anything more than leverage for the other boy.

But the moment they were alone, the moment their hands brushed as they both reached for the same pot, they fell into each other. Perhaps it was force of habit. Draco honestly doesn't know. All he knows is that Tom's lips find his in forgotten corners and stolen moments. They are so far from over.

Without his feelings for Potter as a buffer, Draco is slipping into something he cannot condone. The sparks beneath his skin are supplemented by a satisfied warmth every time he catches Tom's azure stare. He no longer feels only the simple pull of lust between them. It is a disaster, but he keeps walking further into the catastrophe.

He doesn't understand what Tom wants from him. He doesn't know what he wants from Tom. The primal need for release is one thing, but the soft touches and warm stares are quite another.

And then there is Granger. Granger, who is so broken she is unable to sleep through the night. Granger, who remembers nothing of magic or the boy who loves her. Granger, who Tom looks at like she's given him a second lease on life—and perhaps she has.

She will always matter to Tom more than Draco. That has never been a question. It is one of the few truths he knows. Whatever happened in the dark recesses of her cell—whatever happened with McNair—changed them.

She became scattered fragments of a witch. But where she is less, Tom became more. He is nothing like the Dark Lord. He is ruthless and manipulative, but he lacks the true mania that comes in the absence of empathy. The dark boy feels for Granger; the lines of it are written across his face, impossible to hide when he looks at her. He feels beyond rage, greed and desire. Draco thinks this added layer of sensitivity makes him more dangerous than ever.

It also allows Draco to excuse their liaisons. He is not giving in to a heartless monster who wants control over him; he is helping a boy who feels just as keenly as Draco does. Perhaps it is a lie to appease his conscience. Perhaps it is truth.

The simplest explanation is less complex. Draco is simply weak. He has no desire to turn Tom away, so he does not. He is flesh and blood and want and if that leads him to ruin, so be it.

Granger clears her throat and Draco realizes he's frozen in place, sopophorous bean crushed beneath his knife. He abruptly sets the knife aside and motions for Granger to try. "So yeah, it's just a trick I learned from Snape."

"Snape?"

He forgets how little she now knows. That she occasionally remembers the most mundane details doesn't help. It's like an incompetent first-year tried an obliviate spell. "Our potions teacher and my godfather. I don't think you liked him very much—he certainly detested you."

Granger's dark brows draw together as she positions her knife over a bean. "Detested me? I thought I was skilled at potions."

"You were." She slides her warm eyes up to him and he realizes his mistake. "You are. I'm sure it will come back to you."

She goes back to crushing the bean and Draco finds the words falling from lips before he can censor them. "I grew up with Snape as a potions mentor. I'd brewed hundreds of potions by the time I came to Hogwarts. He was always fairly understanding when I was in the lab with him, but at school he was… cruel. I was too thoughtless to consider why he was so different. I was just happy when he rubbed Potter's face in whatever mistake he'd made."

Granger has figured out the method. She crushes three more beans before asking, "I thought you were just with Harry Potter."

He laughs, sound cutting through the kitchen like a wave. He never imagined having to explain his relationship with Potter to Hermione Granger. But somehow even Tom, who has never laid eyes on Potter, has divined more than Granger.

"I was. But Potter and I haven't always been very friendly." He pauses, trying to find a tactful way of explaining his imbecilic childhood decisions. "You know about pureblood wizards, right?"

"I know what the scar on my arm means."

The angry pink lines are impossible to miss. Draco swallows down his pity. It serves neither of them. "Right. Anyway, my family comes from a long legacy of pureblood wizards. I grew up believing I was superior because of this fact. That the blood in my veins is more potent than the blood in yours." Her knife slips and he hastens to add, "I've grown up a lot since then. Anyway, I swooped in, acting like a superior ass when Potter first arrived at Hogwarts and asked him to be my friend. I desperately wanted to know him. He was famous and destined to be popular and my father had all but ordered me to befriend him. I wanted a friend who could help me climb the social ranks at Hogwarts. Potter only saw an arrogant ass and turned me away."

Draco looks down at his hands twisting together, his fingers are pale and long. He will never know how they might look tangled in Potter's raven hair. His next words escape in a soft whisper, "I suppose I never got over it."

Granger pauses, tilting her curious eyes to meet his. "What do you mean?"

He should keep his mouth shut. Potter loves her. Tom adores her. If Astoria were here, safe from the clutches of the Dark Lord, he would surely tell her. But Draco left her behind in that hell and now Granger is looking at him with eyes that promise more than he deserves.

So he says, "I became obsessed with him. First because he'd stolen my chance at pleasing my father and achieving universal popularity—being popular in Slytherin is hardly the same thing as being adored by the whole of Hogwarts. As we aged, my interest evolved, expanded beyond my control." He shakes his head. He really shouldn't be having this conversation with Granger.

She shifts, setting down the knife and leaning against the marble counter. She studies his face. He feels transparent, as if she has used the knife to cut away his armor and his soul is spurting outward.

Granger takes a step closer. Her breath ghosts over his skin. He freezes, afraid a single twitch will startle her away. She brings her hand to rest on the racing pulse at the base of his neck. He doesn't move. She lets her hand fall away.

"You're in love with Harry Potter."

He has no idea how she has divined this truth, but he lacks the strength to deny it.

Granger plucks up her knife and begins crushing the next bowl of beans. "When it comes to Harry Potter, it seems the situation is rather unfortunate for both of us. I've been told Harry's in love with me, which means he isn't in love with you."

An astute deduction. Draco's chest aches, as if each of her words is another twist of the vise around his heart. "No, he doesn't even like other boys."

"How long have you known?"

"Known what?"

"That he will never love you the way you want." The words would be cruel daggers if her eyes weren't so bright with compassion.

"About two weeks."

Granger makes a noncommittal noise and takes a moment to rinse her knife under the faucet. She dries it carefully with a towel and sets it beside the remaining sopoporous beans. Her voice is tight when she says, "if I were the proper type of girlfriend, I might be upset with you for trying to steal my boyfriend, but I can even remember his face. Perhaps you could tell me about him?"

Draco blinks. Of all the things he expected Granger to say, this isn't it. "You want me to talk about Potter?"

She shrugs. "It might help me remember to have someone who so clearly cares for Potter talk about him. Tom has never met him, so I can hardly ask him. He doesn't seem to enjoy the topic of Potter at all, which I suppose isn't surprising considering they're destined to be enemies or something like that. I remember odd things, Draco."

He's well aware. "I guess I could try."

"What does he look like?"

The question is startling. He knows she's forgotten Potter entirely, but can't remember a time when the boy's luminous eyes and tousled raven hair weren't imprinted on his soul.

"Like Tom, honestly." Granger stares at him, eyes round. "I mean Tom is taller, but only slightly. Their eyes are completely different. Potter's are like emeralds in the dark of night, illuminated by distant light. And Tom's—" he stops himself before he gives away too much. "Well, you know what Tom looks like. Potter doesn't have quite the same shocking symmetry, but he's handsome enough."

Her gaze is distant, as if she's trying to turn his words into images. She shakes her head. "All I see is Tom with different eyes."

Draco tilts his head. "Maybe I can show you."

She nods eagerly, so he hands her his wand. "I know you've forgotten a lot of magic, but I think you'll be able to do this even if you don't do it well. And it's a small enough spell, the wards will have no problem hiding it."

Granger turns the wood over in her hands, studying every polished curve of the wand. She looks up at him with wide eyes. "I can feel it. The power within it."

He knows what she means. This wand especially sings to him, as if it is a siren and he a helpless sailor. "Just say legilimens and point the wand at my temple."

Her eyes flash up to his and he knows she understands the spell, but she doesn't stop. He pulls an image of Potter from his memory—one where he's flushed and windswept from the exertion of a Quidditch game—and lets down his shields. He's never even cracked them since the day he received his mark, but there's no imminent danger here, on another continent entirely.

It is the least he can do for Granger.

She whispers the words and her eyes glaze over. She has no skill as she bumbles through his thoughts like a blind hippogriff. He doesn't care. It makes it easier to show her a slideshow of Potter, everything from his first capture of the golden snitch to his expression as he held Draco in his arms mere weeks ago. It is profoundly intimate and yet he feels no shame sharing these moments with her. If anyone will understand his attachment to Potter, it is Hermione Granger.

Eventually he runs out of memories. He raises his Occlumency shields gently, not ejecting Granger from his mind, but merely nudging her along until they are separate once more.

Silence settles between them, but it is not heavy, does not demand to be broken. Granger hands his wand back and he takes it with numb fingers. The ache in his chest has grown to a painful throb. He knows he should have expected this reaction. He no longer believes he will ever find joy with Potter, but his heart still hangs in tatters within his hollow chest.

Granger murmurs, "I had no idea that's what love felt like. I think I've felt an echo of it in the depths of my mind, but nothing like… that. Harry Potter is very lucky."

He's not entirely sure what she means, but it isn't the time to ask. "Did it help?"

"I think so." She takes another step closer. "I want to try something, but I need you to stay very, very still."

Draco blinks down at her. "Whatever you need."

Granger takes one step and then another, until they are nearly flush against each other. Then she wraps her delicate arms around his and squeezes tightly. He's impressed by the strength of her grip. She is no longer the frail shell of a girl he remembers yearning to help.

"Thank you."

Draco isn't sure if he should speak. Granger doesn't seem to mind his silence. She tightens her hold and Draco attempts to breathe as evenly as possible. They stay that way for what seems to be an eternity, but might be only be a heartbeat. He doesn't pay attention.

Hermione digs her toes deeper into the warm sand, the pale grains like smooth silk against her skin. She marvels that something as crude as worn rock can feel so soft.

The solstice is nearly upon them and the heat of the sun blazes down on her. She wears an oversized sun hat that keeps her head and shoulders from the worst of the heat. She would go without the hat, but she remembers her father lecturing on the dangers of sun exposure and skin cancer. Hermione is fairly certain there's a spell to help with that, but she still can't recall a lick of her magical education.

So she wears a floppy straw hat with ridiculous fabric flowers sewn into the band. She supposes it's cute, but it's not her style. Not that she knows what her style is.

But she can definitively say not this.

She flops onto her stomach, short-sleeved sun dress bunching beneath her thighs as she rolls. The buttons down the front cut gently into her, but the discomfort is minimal. The dress is modest, more matronly than fashionable, but this choice Hermione fully supports. She's not yet comfortable baring more skin than absolutely necessary. She doesn't mind the swing of the dress just below her knees, but the slight vee cut of its neckline is the threshold of her comfort level.

The past few weeks with Draco and Tom saw marked improvement in her ability to coexist with people she knows. Her greatest accomplishment is that Draco no longer makes her flinch when he brushes past.

But the tension comes back full force the moment she steps outside of their warded cottage. The likelihood anyone, let alone their enemies, knows where they are is slight, but for Hermione it's a reentry into the warzone, into a world where pain could lurk beyond any corner.

She forces herself out the door each day. She will never leave safety is she does not take these small steps. And while a small part of her, the part that desires safety above all else, would be content to waste away in that small paradise, Hermione knows she would not be content to surrender so completely to her fear.

She has been forged in the fire of suffering and she will not let that strength go to waste, no matter how jumbled her nerves remain as she lounges on the crowded beach.

She ignores the slight tremble of her fingers as she turns a page in her book. The sun is warm through the dappled shadow of her hat and the paisley print of her dress. She concentrates on that. So many months without warmth, without light have made her ravenous for the natural energy of the sun.

The murmurs in German and French around her fade to a quiet hum as she relaxes the slightest bit. The rigid line of her shoulders becomes something pliable and human. She turns the page.

It's a romance novel, one of those sensational grocery store books she once swore never to touch. But she can't bring herself to delve into the stack of magical reference volumes Tom has slowly brought to the cottage. She knows he wants her help, can sense the urgency within his stare when he asks if she's willing to start her magical education again. Tom is planning something big, something dark if she knows anything about him. And while she appreciates his faith in her abilities despite her memory loss, she isn't ready to face the hard bite of reality etched in those pages.

She enjoys the florid romances instead.

The sun has sunk several degrees, but is still far from the horizon, when a shadow falls across her book. Her pulse skips a panicked beat until she makes out the features of the figure standing above her.

"You should have said something," she chides as Tom sinks onto the towel beside her. He's wearing khaki shorts and cerulean polo that matches the hue of the cloudless sky. The clothing makes him seem so far from the magically resurrected creature he is that she has to take a steadying breath. It is so easy to forget with him, to see only the strikingly handsome boy and not the darkness beneath.

Hermione makes sure she doesn't forget, no matter how easy it would be to slip into satisfied oblivion. She may need him, but she will not blind herself in the process. It is a bit like believing two contradictory truths. She finds she can manage as long as she keeps her focus on the here and now and doesn't wander into the minefield of the past or the future.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound the least bit sorry and Hermione gives him a scathing glare. He sighs, leaning back on his elbows. "I truly didn't mean to startle you."

"Don't pretend for one minute you forgot how damn jumpy I am," she retorts and turns another page. It was probably another one of his bloody tests to examine her progress.

"I do apologize." This time he's looking at her—she can sense the radiance of his stare just as clearly as she can feel the heat of the afternoon sun.

She reads the same sentence twice. Never mind that it's a rather provocative section of the book, Tom has that effect.

"What are you doing here?"

He's silent for too long, but Hermione won't look. Finally, he settles on what little space is left on her beach towel. His head rests adjacent to hers and she feels his breath ghost across her ear as he turns toward her.

"How can you even read this trash? 'He pulled her tightly into his arms, the mounting power of his desire evident against her searing core'? That's just…" he shakes his head and she can feel the soft ends of his hair brush her cheek. "I have no words for that. And how is this crap not triggering anyway?"

Hermione drops the book to the sand and turns until they're eye to eye. The distance between them is barely enough for the air molecules of their breath, but Hermione is used to him at this proximity. "Because it's not bloody real, you moron. There's no chance the hero is going to burst out of the book and pounce on me."

"You never know what might come out of a book."

Her mouth is abruptly dry and she can't fully explain why. She ignores the small curl of something beyond annoyance in her gut. "I'd be willing to wager my life that you're a unique case, Tom."

He hums and shifts to look into the cloudless depths of the sky. She follows his gaze, but only sees infinite blue, the heart of summer stretching out all around them.

"You never answered my question."

When he looks at her again, all traces of humor are absent from his arresting features. "I think we should try. You went into Malfoy's mind—briefly, but enough to know what it's like."

Hermione blinks at him. "Here?"

Tom props himself up on an elbow and surveys the beach. A mixture of tourists and locals drink beers and lick ice cream cones as their children scramble around the beach building sand creatures and collecting buckets of wriggling worms. The tide is low and the shadows of beachgoers can be seen scattered long into the horizon. Hermione fails to see how this could possibly be a good location for determining the root of her memory trauma.

"Well, no. Not exactly here," Tom agrees, springing to his feet. He holds a hand out to her.

Hermione curls her fingers around his and he hefts her easily from the sand. She lets go to shake out the towel and stow it and her book in her beach tote. Once her belongings are properly stored, she turns back to him. Tom extends his hand, a wicked smirk pulling at his full lips. It's a dangerous expression on him, one she can't afford to notice.

She rolls her eyes instead and loops her arm through his. "Lead the way."

They meander through families and couples, avoiding towels and picnic lunches as best they can. Eventually they get to a stretch that's less populated. Tom pulls her into a grove of trees with broad leaves that block the clearing from sight. It's inland from the beach and the delighted cries of children fade to quiet shrieks in the distance.

It's not the safety of their cottage, but it's not quite public either.

"Don't you need the wards for this?" she wonders.

"Maybe if I hadn't already cast another set here," he replies with a knowing smile.

She shakes her head. "You knew I'd agree."

He shrugs, the movement pulling at the cotton of his polo. "I didn't know for sure. But after you told me about what Malfoy did for you, I thought you might be ready."

She is most definitely not ready. But not because she doubts the method or his skill. She isn't ready to know what went wrong, why she's more broken than she ought to be. It makes no sense to remember her trauma but not her life. She can't imagine Tom will find anything good.

But she is done waiting, done letting purgatory expand before her like high tide. She will find only pain, but it is better than silence, than the absence of all that she was.

Tom gently grasps her shoulders and positions her in the center of the clearing. He uses his thumb and forefinger to tilt her chin up until their eyes lock. Her skin is hot where he touches, charged with more than the afternoon heat.

"It's easier if we maintain eye contact," he explains, eyes glistening a shade darker than the skies above. She nods. "Tell me to stop at any moment and I will. I'll check in with you as I go. I'll ask permission whenever I get to a new part of your mind. You are in charge, not me."

"Okay," she murmurs.

He drops a warm kiss at the corner of her mouth. It isn't quite sexual, but it doesn't feel platonic either. "I've got you."

Hermione takes a fortifying breath and drowns in the depths of his fathomless stare. "Let's do this."

"Okay, I'm coming in now."

He doesn't use a spell and a wand like she did with Draco. Tom simply places a hand against her temple as he stares into the depths of her mottled soul. She supposes his skill far outmatches her awkward attempt at magic with Draco.

She doesn't feel anything, but she can tell from the twitch of his lips that Tom is experiencing plenty as he slides through her mind. His fingers tremble against her temple. "I've made it through your imprisonment. You've blocked out a fair amount of the trauma, but the memories are still here. If you ever wanted to access them, you could."

"Not today." She already has a fairly good idea of what she endured in the dungeon of Malfoy Manor. "I want to know why I can't remember before. Why I can't remember Harry Potter."

Tom flinches. It's subtle, just the tic of his jaw muscle and the curl of his lip, but Hermione knows him too well. He blinks and canvas of his face is neutral once more, all evidence of his reaction long gone.

"I'm going deeper."

This time she feels him run up against a barrier. It's a tingling sensation, the nagging feeling that she has forgotten something very important. His lips drop into a frown and she feels the tingling again. Tom's grip on her temple tightens and he slants forward until their foreheads press together. She can see nothing but an infinite sea of luminous sapphire.

"Oh," he says, pulling away abruptly. "Damn."

Hermione brinks up at him, eyes wide. "What?"

Tom tilts his head and examines her, as if seeing her in some fundamentally different way. He takes a half step back and shakes his head. His laugh is rueful when he looks back at her. "You obliviated yourself."

It takes him a second to remember the word means nothing to her. He runs a hand through his ebony hair, lithe fingers tanging in dark waves. "You erased your own memory, Hermione. You made yourself forget all about magic and all about your boyfriend."

Hermione can't help the horror in her voice as she croaks, "what?"

Tom shakes his head. "I can't tell you why, though I think both you and I can guess at your motivation. In any case, you did this to yourself. And the good news is that if you did this to yourself, you can likely undo it too. Although I'm not aware of many successful reversals of self-inflicted obliviate spells."

Hermione still can't wrap her mind around the fact that the holes in her memory are self-inflicted. She erased so much. And for what? A few pieces of strategic information she didn't want to pass into Voldemort's hands? Or had it gone wrong when she'd done it? Perhaps she hadn't meant for the effect to be so widespread.

She digs a hand into her temple, the ghost of Tom's fingers still lingering against her skin. "So how do we fix it?"

"We teach you magic again. At least a fair amount of memory magic until you have the skills to detangle your own mind." He closes the distance between them. She welcomes the steady warmth of his chest against her cheek as he pulls her into his embrace. "I can't promise you it'll be successful, but I will help you in whatever way I can. The ultimate result is up to you."

It is at once gratifying and daunting to know that her fate is hers alone. Hermione appreciates the return of her agency, but knows the path forward is fraught with missteps and impossible expectations.

She may not be up to the task.

She forces a calming breath, waits for her pulse to mellow as she leans into Tom. This may be her mountain to climb, but she will not make the journey alone. He brushes his lips across her throbbing temple and she melts further into him.