Perfect Memory

By The Fallen Caryatid

PG-13

Ron/Hermione and other relationships yet to be decided.

Chapter Five: "So look back on your treasured days"

Present Time

When Ron woke up again, he was in the Gryffindor boy's dorm. It gave him a bit of vertigo for a moment to be back there, confusing the years for him.

Everything was in its normal place, adding to the abnormality of it; a worn Chudley Canons poster rustled in the breeze of an open tower window. Harry slept peacefully in the bed next over, his glasses on the bed stand, looking exactly the same there as he always did when they were in school.

But they weren't in school anymore, Ron knew. The wretched soreness that pulled at all his muscles was evidence enough for him to know that he had been to hell and back; the fact that all the other boy's beds were long empty and collecting dust added to his sureness that he was in some horrid twilight zone.

His thoughts were confirmed when Draco Malfoy came waltzing through the door.

"Hello, Weasel. Rest well?"

Ron glanced towards Harry, but his roommate didn't so much as flutter his eyelids. Malfoy gave a quick, pained glance in Harry's direction before turning to address Ron again. "We gave him an extremely potent sleeping potion. He shouldn't wake up for another day or two."

Ron started to speak, but only coughed. His throat was incredibly dry. Malfoy noticed and with a flick of his wand, produced a glass of water which he handed to Ron. Ron eyed it warily, causing Malfoy to roll his eyes exasperatedly.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, it's not as though I've poisoned it. How many ways do I have to convince you that I'm on your side?"

Ron went ahead and gulped down the water, figuring he couldn't possibly hurt anymore. Once his throat was soothed, he addressed the Slytherin. "I thought you were dead. I could have sworn I watched Malfoy— that is, er, I mean, Lucius— kill you. I was pretty sure of it. I watched it, you know…"

Malfoy frowned, ruining an otherwise porcelain-perfect face. "Yes, I know. I was dying, Weasel, not delusional. And the fact of the matter is that I was mostly dead, not all dead." He gave a sort of half-smile towards Harry. "I have often said there is a great deal of difference between the two, at least in the wizarding world. Of course, with you, it might not matter so much. Weaselys are practically muggles as it is."

Ron shrugged off the insult easily. In his school days, he would have at the very least leapt up and tried to strangle the peroxide-OD'ed git. But times change and it took a great deal more to piss him off these days. The only person that could really get under his skin anymore was Harry. As far as Ron was concerned, he and Malfoy had buried the hatchet long ago.

"Better to be a muggle than a murdering Malfoy," he sneered in return. Just because the hatchet was buried didn't mean twisting the knife wasn't an option.

Malfoy smirked. He knew Ron wasn't interested in actually hurting him; he just wanted the familiarity of routine. "Good thing that I'm only one of those things, poor-blood."

"That's right! Your father disinherited you before killing you! You don't even have a name to fall back on."

"That's right."

Ron blanched. That was not the response he was expecting. "You're not a Malfoy anymore? But you said only one of those things. So you agree that you're murderer, then?"

"Your level of comprehension astounds me. And you say that like it's an unusual thing these days; there's a fine line between being a soldier and a murderer. A soldier kills because it's his duty. A murderer kills because he likes it. Don't act as if every life you've taken has been absolutely necessary. Don't pretend that you haven't enjoyed some of the killing!" Draco ran a hand through his hair, mussing it up and still managing to look like a disaffected prince.

"Prat," grumped Ron.

"Prat? I give a vicious speech like that and all you can muster up to call me is prat?"

"Look—the point is that we're both murderers, then. And what the hell am I supposed to call you now? Not 'Malfoy,' I'm guessing, with being disinherited and all."

"You could call me 'Slytherin Sex-god'."

"We've been out of Hogwarts for almost a year now; let go of the house, already. How about 'pompous arse'?"

Draco smiled; a real smile, not one of the smirks that he commonly wore. "I'm not sure I care much for that. How about you just keep calling me Malfoy?"

There was sincerity in his voice; something Ron had never heard from the pale Slytherin. Ron relaxed into his pillows, enjoying the easy flow of the banter.

"Is keeping your name like that allowed?"

Draco shrugged. "Like I give a damn about what my father wanted. I have Malfoy blood in my veins, haven't I? Nothing can take that away, not even my father."

The conversation paused as Harry rolled over in his sleep, his features relaxed. He looked very much like the little boy that Ron had met at the train station all those years ago. Draco started to take a step towards the sleeping hero, but seemed to change his mind and stayed posed there, indecisive.

Ron snorted. Malfoy looked ridiculous.

Draco glared at the redhead and marched over to Harry's bed, as if just to prove that he could, but when he got there he seemed at a loss for what to do. Eventually he muttered a spell that produced a quick scan of his vitals. Noting Harry's temperature, he reached out and tugged the blankets over the hero's shoulders.

"He looks thin," commented Ron.

"When hasn't he?"

Ron actually gave the question some thought. "Sixth year, I think. He got that growth spurt and was finally filling out his frame. About half of seventh year, too. But then, between the rituals and missions, well, you know."

"The rituals," Draco paused, unsure of what to say. "The rituals—you and Granger—bloody hell, I should have been there, I should have known, or had a plan ready, or something! I'm sorry for not standing up to Albus, he was wrong—"

"No!" interrupted Ron. "No, don't say that. Don't tell me that he was wrong or that there was some other way, because I don't think I could stand to hear that. The only way that I can cope is to believe that it wasn't in vain, that it was the only way. I can't bear to believe that her soul was wasted on anything less than our last hope."

The blond looked distinctly uncomfortable. "It wasn't in vain, Weasely. It had to be done. But she should have had a choice." He looked over at Harry. "They both should have."

Ron shrugged. "We all should have been able to choose. But it was war, and I'm told these things happen in war." His last sentence brought to mind the blood-hazed memories of his escape and Lupin's frantic explanations of the final battle.

"Malfoy, what's wrong with Harry? What happened at the final battle?"

"Great use of subtlety, asking that question. About as subtle as an on-coming train." He took a deep breath and let it whoosh out slowly. "He can do wandless magic."

Ron's mouth gaped open for a moment before he brought himself back under control. "You're joking."

"I wish. But it certainly accounts for all of his lucky escapes, doesn't it? Well, he fought the final battle using only wandless magic. Which is a tough thing to do against any educated wizard, but against the scourge of the wizarding world, well…"

"How did he survive?"

"It turns out that he," he gestured towards Harry, and Ron realized that Malfoy had never actually used Harry's name during the conversation, "has only a half-decent grasp of his powers. He's fantastic at manipulating magic. But he never was very good at regulating it." Draco paused and sat down on the edge of Harry bed, debating whether or not to continue.

"Just tell me, Malfoy. What could be lost by telling me?"

"His trust, for one," but he continued anyway. "He realized that he wasn't going to kill the Dark Lord with conventional magic as he'd taken on too much immunity. So he strangled him."

Ron struggled to process all of this information. He had never guessed about Harry's abilities, or what he would be driven to do in order to end the war. I wonder if 'Mione knew.

"But there was a backlash of magic when Lord Voldemort died. It hit him," again he gestured towards Harry, "really hard. It was like being struck by a hurricane. It ripped off all that excess magic he had been gathering around him. From what I hear, it was rather painful."

Ron blinked. He was suddenly feeling very tired. His voice sounded odd in his ears. "Is that why he's unconscious now? I don't think I understand what you're saying."

Draco seemed to be struggling to tell the information, but couldn't quite force the words from his throat. "Voldemort's magic…the magic, it…ripped right through him…it didn't just take the excess magic…"

Ron discovered he just couldn't keep his eyes open, and something in Draco's voice reminded him that—"Malfoy, why don't you use Harry's name? You haven't called him 'Potter' once in the entire time we've been talking."

Draco seemed surprised by the question. "I hadn't noticed."

Ron nodded sleepily and yawned. "Bloody hell, I can't seem to stay awake."

Draco nodded. "Then go back to sleep," he said simply.

"Shit, what'd you give me in that water?" Sighed Ron as he slipped down against the pillows. There was a pain deep in his stomach, like something gnawing…

Draco smiled again, but this time it seemed so much sadder. "You should never take a drink from a Slytherin, Weasely. We lie—and we're quite exceptional at potions."

"Bloody…hell," murmured Ron as he slipped off into sleep. The world blurred before his eyes. He could have sworn he saw Malfoy gently reach out and brush the hair away from Harry's face. But then darkness enveloped him, and he wasn't sure of anything anymore.

A/N:

And at this point, everyone is wondering whose side Draco and Harry are really on. If I get reviews, I'll write the next chapter.

This story is PG-13 now, but I'm thinking of changing it to R, you know, for the hell of it. How freaked out would you guys be if I included a slash couple? Of course, I'd keep Ron/Hermione the main focus of the story.