Remember Me
By Reiko Katsura
Rating: R
Pairings: Main: Harry/Draco, Side: Hermione Ron, Mentioned/Other: Kingsley/Bones, Draco/OFC
Warnings: AU following OoTp
Word Count: ~19,000+
Mental Health Issues: Early Onset Dementia, brief mention of Anorexia
Summary: The war's ended, and just when Harry Potter begins to believe that his fighting is over, he's proved wrong.
A/N: I really hate leaving you guys hanging. I'll post part 3 soon. It really should be read in one go. More emotional that way.
:Part Three:
"So you're telling me, that by doing these…"
"Cognitive exercises, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded. "That by doing cognitive exercises… I might be able to forestall the dementia for a while longer?"
Healer Humberbeck hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Your case is slightly different than most people who suffer from Early Alzheimer's, Mr. Potter. You are—relatively—younger than most people diagnosed with the dementia, by at least two decades. A case such as yours is almost unheard of…"
The Healer noticed the irritated look Harry was sending her way, and cleared her throat uncomfortably. "As you well know, there aren't many Wizards who develop this sort of dementia, even among those who are elder. I've spoken to quite a few Healers who have treated Wizards with Alzheimer's—and no, Mr. Potter, your identity has not been disclosed—about ways to delay the disease. One Healer, from Wales, directed me to a Muggle institution known as the Albert Einstein College of Medicine, which performed a rather large study on the development and possible postponement of Alzheimer's. The study showed that people who indulge in mentally stimulating activities each day can delay the effects of Alzheimer's—not all, but a good portion of the memory loss—for up to two months."
Harry stared at the Healer, and let everything she said sink in. It wasn't a concrete course to take, but that didn't matter. If he could hold the disease off for even two more months…
"And what kind of activities do you mean?" Harry asked.
The Healer smiled at him. "Nothing too strenuous, Mr. Potter. Simple things like reading, writing, solving puzzles and crosswords, listening to certain genres of music, playing board or card games, taking part in discussions and debate… the point is to engage yourself in cognitively stimulating activities as often as you are able to. Once a day would suffice, actually. Based on the studies, by exercising the brain, one may delay the onset of Alzheimer's and Dementia for a short length of time."
Harry paused and let that sink in, as well.
"But my age…" he trailed off.
Healer Humberbeck sighed, and shifted in her seat. "The statistics of the study were all targeted amongst men and women between the ages of forty and eighty. I can't make a solid inference to determine whether or not cognitive activity will actually delay the progression of your dementia, but I am very hopeful of it, Mr. Potter."
Harry nodded. "I'll do it," he assured her. It wasn't much of a sacrifice to his time, not if it meant drawing out the time he had left. Harry hadn't played Chess since he'd left Hogwarts, but he was sure Ron wouldn't mind playing him a game every so often. He could also pick up a few puzzles from Hermione—she loved those kinds of things. He didn't read much, having never been much of a reader, but that could be easily remedied; Draco had a collection of books at their house. Surely something would catch his interest.
"Mr. Potter." Healer Humberbeck interrupted his thoughts.
Harry glanced up at the elder woman, and nodded for her to speak.
"Have you spoken to your friends and family about this?"
Harry's shoulders shrunk, and he shook his head. No, he hadn't.
Healer Humberbeck frowned. She tilted her head to the side, and her large curls fell over her shoulder. "Don't you think it would be a good idea to? The dementia is already progressing, Mr. Potter, and will only get worse. Soon you will start to advance to a more moderate stage. Things need to be done, for both them and yourself. The longer you hold off on telling them, the harder it will be—especially knowing how late in the disease you are."
She tucked her folder further into her chest and looked at him sternly. "Arrangements will need to be made, and it will only be harder—for everyone—the later you let them know."
Harry sighed and pushed his sliding glasses further up his nose. He knew all this already. He'd already considered what had to be done. Or some of it, anyway, since Harry had taken to ceasing all thought as soon as everything became too overwhelming. Why dwell on what couldn't be changed? Why make the time he had left even more depressing than it was?
"For example," the Healer continued, and Harry wondered if she had been talking at him that whole time, "Where will you go during the later stages of the dementia?"
Harry looked up at the Healer sharply. "What?"
The Healer sighed. "Your living arrangements, Mr. Potter. Some people with Alzheimer's choose to live at homes that specialize in dealing with patients of dementia. Others choose to remain with their families, under the care of their own. This is something that will have to be dealt with." She paused, and then added, "Some other things to consider would be your job—I believe you're an Auror, yes?—and retirement, property ownership, money, last moment deeds or wills, debts needed to be paid off, making sure your family is well-taken care of…"
Harry stared at the back of his hand, where the faded lines that read I must not tell lies etched across it. His eyes were stinging, and the lump that had managed to dislodge itself from his throat seemed to come back with a vengeance. He was going to be sick.
The Healer must have realized that Harry could go no further, because she sighed and stood from her seat.
"Here, Mr. Potter," she said, and handed over a green paper-bag.
Harry took it, slowly and shakily, but didn't open it.
"There's some more information about the disease in there—Muggle books on Alzheimer's, namely— as well as tips to make sure you continue to lead as much a normal life as possible, and resources to meet your needs. If you need anything else, do not hesitate to drop by."
That was a dismissal if he heard one, and Harry took it greedily. He shot up from his chair, clutching the bag tightly in his hand, and nodded mutely.
"Remember, Mr. Potter, that your next appointment is in two weeks. Have a good day."
"Good day," Harry murmured back, or he was sure he did. He kept his eyes to the floor and he rushed out of the office, then out of the hospital.
Harry stood a little way off from the main doors, looking up into the open sky.
He should go home. One side of his head was arguing Draco was sick, and was probably wondering where Harry was.
Harry exhaled deeply. He wasn't in the mood to see Draco just yet. More, he didn't think he could handle it. When Harry closed his eyes, and felt his body grind and his world swirl, it was with an image of Diagon Alley in his mind.
It was six in the evening when Harry finally made it to his apartment, clutching a white paper bag in his hands. He called out his arrival, a habit he'd formed years ago, and slipped off his robes and shoes.
Harry picked the bag off from where he'd set it by the mantelpiece, as well as the one full of books the Healer had given him, and padded down the hall and towards the living room in his black slippers.
"Draco?" Harry called out loudly.
There wasn't an answer.
Odd, he thought, as he plopped onto the sofa and began pulling the contents from the white bag. It was Thursday, and Draco usually left work to come home around five.
Perhaps he had to work late, and forgot to tell him.
There was that extra "or" that was floating around in the front of Harry's mind, but he bore down on it and pushed it away as far as he could.
Harry pulled the lid off a wide brown box, and pulled out a smaller one. He un-capped that one as well, until the item he'd bought in Diagon Alley was in his hands.
A Wizard's Polaroid camera.
Harry fumbled with the camera for a while, and alternated between playing with the item's gadgets and reading the rather uncoordinated manual. It took him about fifteen minutes to get the thing to work, and he tested it on himself by turning it in his hands and lifting it into the air.
He pressed the button and the sudden flash was strong enough to nearly blind him. Harry dropped the camera onto the couch beside him, and blinked rapidly in an attempt to expel the bright lights dancing before his eyes.
When he could see a bit clearer, Harry picked the camera back up and pulled the small strip of paper that was sticking out from the bottom.
Unlike in Muggle Polaroids, there was no need to wait or wave the thing around. Instant Development, the witch who'd sold it to him had boasted.
She was right, apparently, since Harry found himself looking into his copy, nose scrunched and eyes squinted from being caught off guard by the flash, with little effort on his part.
Harry cradled the camera in his hands for a while, then set it back into the box. He closed the lid, placed the camera inside the larger box, put it back in the bag, and spelled it to his bedroom.
He leaned back into the couch until he head was fixed on the sofa arm, and lifted his feet to the other side.
He didn't know what had propelled him to purchase the camera. It had caught his eye on more than one occasion throughout the years—the thought of capturing memories of a new, better life appealing—but he had never actually set out to buy the thing. They were expensive, yes, but that had never been the issue.
Harry fiddled with his fingers for a while, linking and intertwining them, before he sat up and headed for his room.
He was lying to himself. He knew the exact reason why he'd purchased the camera now, rather than before.
It was because before, there was never a rush to capture his memories. To capture his happiest moments. There'd been all the time in the world.
But there wasn't anymore. His time was running out far faster than he'd ever expected. Even during the war, when his life had always been in danger, and there'd been that lingering fear of dying, Harry had been able to hope for a future. He imagined one with Draco, and his friends and family. He spent some nights daydreaming about the things they would do, instead of sleeping. He would picture him winning the war, putting an end to the madness and destruction that had been the Wizarding World back then, and living a happy life.
Harry couldn't do that anymore. When he thought of his life in one year, or five years, or forty years—everything would come out blank. Blank and empty, as he was sure it would be.
He didn't have a future, no matter how much Healer Humberbeck tried to assure him he would.
Harry moved further up the stairs, one hand trained on the wall, trailing his path.
He was only twenty-five years old. The thought of living the rest of his life, which could very well be another near-century, with his mind a blank slate, terrified him.
And then there was Draco.
Harry never allowed himself to think of what would become of his love for too long, simply because the feeling he'd get in his chest—as if someone was handling his heart in their hands and squeezing it—was excruciating. But sometimes he couldn't help but think, no matter his intentions.
What would happen to Draco when Harry had forgotten him? Would he move on? Abandon Harry and settle with another person? Find another man to live his life with and be happy?
When Harry thought about that, he'd get so sick with envy and hurt and rage that he wouldn't be able to see straight. And then he would calm down, and let remorse take him.
What was the point of Draco being with a person who couldn't remember him? He was only twenty-five, as well; he had his entire life to lead. What right did Harry have to blame him for being with someone else? What right did Harry have of condemning him to a life of loneliness? Or worse—a life full of guilt?
The thought of Draco being unhappy was worse than the thought of him moving on.
Moving on. Another issue that made Harry's insides grow cold.
He would be kept at a standstill while everyone else continued with their lives. Harry wouldn't be there when Ron and Hermione had kids, or when Kingsley finally came around to asking widowed Madam Bones to marry him. He wouldn't be around to watch Weasley Wizarding Wheezes become an international enterprise, or fairer laws for Werewolves be ratified. Harry wouldn't be there to watch his Godson, Teddy, grow up, or to watch Draco become the head of his department.
Harry stopped just before his door and placed his forehead onto the cool surface of wood. He rested one hand on the door knob, but didn't push.
Healer Humberbeck had said to him, "It's not as if you're dying. You can still be a part of your friends' and families' lives," but Harry didn't see how that could happen. How could he be a part of something he wouldn't know? Wouldn't remember?
In all truth, he would have preferred to die. To be diagnosed with a disease that killed him, rather than stripped him of his memories. That way, at least, he'd be able to leave everyone behind him with no strings attached. He would be able to see his parents again, and Sirius, and Dumbledore, and Remus, and Tonks, and Fred. He'd be with his parents, family, and friends who'd died, and though that was no replacement for being alive with the living, it was far better than being alone.
Harry swallowed heavily, and squeezed his eyes shut.
He needed to calm. He needed to calm down before he imploded, before the rush of despair and anger and frustration grew too overwhelming to handle. He was certain he'd accidentally blow up the house with his ever-growing anxiety. Draco had already been angry at him for destroying their bedroom; he would kill Harry if he destroyed their flat, too.
With another deep inhale, Harry returned his hand to the knob and pushed it open. He walked in, tiredly, and non-verbally cast Lumos.
The room lit, and Harry froze.
There, lying on the floor in an awkward heap, was Draco.
"Anorexia?" Harry repeated bewilderedly, staring at the Healer with wide eyes.
The Healer, a tall man with dark gray hair that fell down past his hips, nodded.
"I'm afraid so, Mr. Potter."
"B-but," Harry spluttered, and tried to make sense of what the Healer was telling him.
The first thing Harry had done upon seeing Draco unconscious on the floor was Floo to St. Mungo's. The Healers had taken Draco into an emergency room and forced Harry to stay in the waiting area. That had been nearly fifteen minutes ago. The Healer who was speaking to him now, Andre Rumesore, had only just come out, and was explaining to Harry that the reason Draco had passed out was because of the lack of nutrients in his body. Draco was severely underweight, and showed signs of starvation.
"Draco wouldn't, Healer," Harry tried to argue. His mind was reeling. Draco wouldn't.
The Healer sighed. "Mr. Potter, there is no denying the signs. Amongst those, our scanners had also revealed indications of anorexia."
Harry opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the door to the room Draco was in opening. A woman with blonde hair popped her head out.
"Sir? The patient is awake."
Harry made to move at that, determined to see Draco, but was stopped by a strong hand on his arm.
"Not yet, Mr. Potter. We haven't finished testing Mr. Malfoy."
"But—"
"Please wait outside until we call you in."
The Healer turned away, leaving no room for further argument, and disappeared behind white, swinging doors.
Harry sunk down into the hard, uncomfortable bench, buried his face in his hands, and waited.
For the next half-hour, Healer Rumesore had been popping in and out of the Emergency rRoom, keeping Harry notified of Draco's physical and mental status. Draco was slipping in and out of unconsciousness, and the Healers forbade Harry from entering before Draco was ready and able to see him.
The door swung open, and Harry's head shot up eagerly. Healer Rumesore nodded to him, and Harry stood up quickly and hastily made his way over.
"Mr. Malfoy is doing better now, and wishes to see you," he said, and ushered Harry along. "After you finish speaking with him, please tell one of the Mediwitches outside to alert me. There are things we need to discuss."
The Healer opened the door for Harry, and Harry nodded gratefully.
"And do take care not to upset Mr. Malfoy. He is in a vulnerable state."
Harry nodded again, and stepped inside the room. The door swung closed behind him, but he didn't make sure to see if the Healer had indeed left. Instead, he strode forward.
As Harry approached the bed, his steps began to slow. There Draco was, laying on his back with his eyes closed, almost blending with the white sheets around him. Magic charged the air, electric almost, and surrounded the bedding in a humming, soft light. Harry moved closer, and he must have made some noise, because in the next second Draco's eyes opened slowly and he turned his head.
"Hi," Harry said finally. He stopped when his knees came into contact with the bed's matting.
"Hi," Draco repeated, hoarsely.
"How are you feeling?" He asked, and leaned down to brush the stray blond hairs that had fallen down Draco's face, behind him ears.
Draco quirked his brow slightly. Harry thought he would have cracked that sardonic smirk he was so prone to doing when Harry asked obvious questions if he had been feeling any better.
"Like utter shite," he muttered after awhile, then sighed.
Harry conjured a chair and slumped into it.
"Draco—"
"I suppose the Healer told you, then." It wasn't a question.
Harry grabbed Draco's hand, which had been peaking from out of the thin covers, and squeezed. He knew what Draco was referring to.
"Yeah, he did."
Draco nodded once, then brought his gaze back up to the ceiling.
Harry broke the silence that had formed by asking, "Why?"
He knew that Draco understood what he was talking about.
Draco shrugged—or, at least he attempted to in the weak condition he was in—and continued to stare at the ceiling.
Harry squeezed the hand he held Draco's hand in, and growled, "I think you know why you've been starving yourself, Draco."
Draco's shoulder twitched again, and Harry snatched his hand away. "I'm not in the mood for games, Draco! Do you have any idea how close you came to dying? Do have any idea how I felt when I saw you there, lying unconscious on our bedroom floor, whiter than death? Merlin, Draco, what the hell is wrong with you?" he exploded, and shot up from his chair.
"What," he said slowly, and tried to lessen the volume of his voice, "ever possessed you to do such a stupid, thoughtless thing?"
Somewhere in the back of Harry's mind, he took note that insulting Draco was not the way to go about seeking answers from him. But he was just so angry! Angry, and frightened out of his bloody mind! What if he'd fallen asleep on that sofa instead of gone to their bedroom? What if he'd taken longer at Diagon Alley, or made another detour? Draco could have very well stopped breathing by then! And then what?
And then Harry would have found his lover dead on their bedroom floor, and he didn't know what he would do with himself.
The thought settled in his mind like a fog, and Harry fell back into the chair, his legs given out. He pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead, and exhaled shakily.
"You could have died, Draco," he said after a while, and cursed his voice for breaking. "You could have died, and I would have been so distressed I would have probably followed you."
He saw rapid movement in front of him, but was too lost in his own piling thoughts to pay much mind to it. The scary thing about what he'd just said is that it was true. Draco was the only thing that was keeping Harry sane at the moment. His only reason for living. If Draco had died… Harry wouldn't have been able to take it. His life was practically over, anyway. What more did he have to live for if the love of his life was gone?
He hadn't even realized he'd started to cry until a warm hand cupped his cheek and a small voice pleaded, "Don't cry, please. Please, Harry, don't cry."
Harry zoomed in on Draco's face, to see tears there as well, and released a shaky breath.
"Gods, Draco, I thought I lost you," he croaked, and grabbed the hand to his face roughly. Either Draco didn't mind the tight squeeze, or he didn't feel it.
"Please, love, please… I don't understand. I don't understand what you were trying to do. Were you—" Harry's voice caught, "were you trying to kill yourself?"
Draco's red eyes widened and he shook his head. "No, Harry. No. Never," he whispered.
"Then why?"
Draco gulped slowly, and glanced down.
"You," he finally said.
Harry felt as if his world had tilted.
"Me?"
Draco nodded, and shut his eyes. "Yes."
"I don't understand." Harry pleaded.
Draco sighed, and turned his head so that it once again facing the ceiling. He pulled his hand from Harry, and chewed on his lip.
"You," he started, then changed direction, "I'm not anorexic, or whatever they told you. I was just trying to lose weight."
If the circumstances had been less serious, Harry would have rolled his eyes and retorted that it was the same thing, pretty much, and that he could have guessed that for himself. Instead, he asked slowly, "But why, Draco?"
"Because you didn't want to have sex with me."
Harry froze.
"What?" he managed to get out, finally.
Draco sniffled, and Harry could tell that he was trying not to cry. "You didn't want to have sex with me, Harry. You told me I was getting fat, and right after that, plain out refused to sleep with me anymore."
Harry's mind was whirling.
"Draco, I never said you were—"
"Yes you did," Draco snapped suddenly, and turned his glare on Harry. "You did. The night we were at the Weaselette's house. You told me that if I kept on eating as I was, I would get fatter. Fatter, Harry! Because I was eating too fucking much!"
"Draco." Harry made to reach for his hand, but Draco swiped it away.
"And then you refused to sleep with me, didn't so much as fucking look at me when I was all but throwing myself at you! And now you have the gall to act like—to act like you're the victim here! That it's my fucking fault this all happened!"
"Draco, wait—"
"Get out, Harry! Just fucking get out!"
His voice cracked from the effort to scream, and no less than five seconds later, the door to the room burst open.
"What is going on here?" Healer Rumesore demanded.
He looked past Harry and at the bed, where Draco was sitting up and all but vibrating with anger, and tsked.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Potter, but you have to leave."
"What?" Harry snapped? "No, I—"
He was suddenly grabbed by his arms by two men, and he struggled to break free.
"Get off me!" He yelled.
"You can come back in as soon as both you and Mr. Malfoy have calmed," the Healer said sternly, and turned his back on Harry.
"Draco!" Harry called, and looked toward the bed desperately.
Draco didn't even look glance at him.
"Draco," he said again, weakly. When Draco refused to turn to him once more, Harry sagged in on himself and allowed the Healers to drag him out.
They escorted him back to the waiting room and instructed him to sit still until Healer Rumesore came to get him.
Harry nodded numbly, and they shot him a final weary glance before they disappeared through the flapping doors.
Harry stared after them.
Part Four
Harry fell into his bed more exhausted than he'd ever felt in his life. He hadn't even taken off his coat and shoes when he entered the apartment. He went straight upstairs, probably tracking mud as he went, in a tired haze.
At the hospital, Draco had fallen asleep right after Harry had left his room. The Healer had assured Harry that it had been a natural sleep, but he wasn't quite sure of that. Draco had never been one to sleep when he was upset.
But then, Draco had never been malnourished and half-starved before, either.
Harry had used up the entire ten minutes he spent in the waiting room trying to think of when he'd ever called Draco fat. He'd almost thrown up when he recalled that he had said it.
But he'd only been joking that time! Harry had been drinking just a little more than he usually did, and Draco had stolen the Apple Pie from his plate. He remembered telling Draco something along the lines of him getting fat if he kept on eating as he did, but surely Draco knew that Harry was only kidding! That Draco was the furthest thing from fat if he knew one. And even if he had been fat, Harry would never had cared! Sure, he loved Draco's body—it was lithe and slim and well toned, with curves and slants in all the right places. But that wasn't the only thing he loved about him. And how could Draco not know that?
Because you never gave any indication that it wasn't, that voice in his head countered. How many times have you complimented Draco on having a perfect body? How many times have you said that you loved his beautiful physique?
Harry groaned and buried his head into the pillow. Maybe, if he pushed hard enough, he would suffocate.
He could hope.
He rolled over onto his back, and after a while, decided that his shoes were uncomfortable. He kicked them off, only struggling a little because of the perfect fit, and clenched his toes when they finally fell to the rug with a soft thud.
Harry non-verbally spelled off his robes—one of the few tasks he was able to without actually speaking—and pulled the futon far above his head. He closed his eyes and just laid there.
He'd been ignoring Draco.
Ever since the Healer diagnosed him with… with his Dementia, he'd been so swallowed up in self-pity that he'd completely ignored his lover. He said something hurtful to Draco, and had cast him aside.
Harry clenched his hands into fists and turned to his sides.
To him, it was perfectly normal to not be in the mood for sex. He just wasn't in the frame of mind for it. And how could he be, when he was suffering from a disease? When it occupied almost every one of his thoughts, and lingered at the front of his mind like a dementor at a Quidditch game.
It was different for Draco, though. Draco didn't know what was going on with Harry. He didn't know because Harry never told him anything. All he knew was that all of a sudden his partner no longer wanted to be with him, be around him.
And Harry had gotten angry at him for doing something stupid.
It wasn't Draco's fault. He'd been pushed into it by Harry. It would have been different, perhaps, if Harry hadn't taken to ignoring him—and he could see it now, that he had been. Ignoring him, avoiding him, eluding him at every turn. Draco had probably tried to reach out to him on some occasion, on some level, and in all probability, Harry had rebuffed him. He couldn't remember if he had, but he wouldn't put it past himself.
Even people from the outside had tried to help. Both Ron and Hermione had inquired about their relationship, had asked about Draco's health. Draco had even gone talking to Charlie! That should have been Harry's first clue right there. Since when did Draco talk about his problems to anyone besides Harry?
Since Harry became unavailable to him.
The corners of Harry's eyes stung, and he pressed them tightly closed.
Draco thought that Harry no longer wanted him. Harry, and no one else, had made him feel that way. He'd made Draco, the love of his life, feel unwanted. Unloved.
And as Draco said, Harry had the gall to act as if he were the victim. As if he weren't at fault.
Harry pulled the covers from his face and took in a gasp of air, feeling suffocated. He curled into a fetal position, and hugged his arms over his chest.
He'd waited long enough. Draco had the right to know now, rather than later.
Harry owed him at least that much.
Harry closed his eyes and whispered "Nox".
He'd tell him tomorrow.
Harry stared at the door with the number 25C engraved onto it. Draco was awake, Healer Rumesore had already told him. Had been awake since early morning. Harry had gone into work early, vaguely explained the situation to Kingsley— emphasis on the "vaguely"—and had asked for a leave from work for a week.
He didn't think that Kingsley would have given it to him, to be honest, but he did. He'd all but kicked Harry out of the Ministry, much to his surprise (and suspicion).
Harry had Flooed to St. Mungo's right after, and headed straight for Draco's room. He needed to tell Draco fast, before he got cold feet and tried to run.
He hadn't been quick enough.
Harry hesitated as he reached for the knob. He didn't know how he would tell Draco. What he would tell him. How in the world do you tell your loved one that you had a disease that would slowly eat away at your memories until there was nothing left?
Merlin, he didn't think he could.
How would Draco react? What would he say? Would he cry? Would he get angry at Harry for withholding that information for nearly a month?
Would he leave him?
Unease fluttered about in Harry's stomach, feeling like lead and heat.
This had been a bad idea. There was no way he would be able to tell Draco. It was hard enough acknowledging it to himself most days. Maybe he could see Healer Humberbeck and ask her to tell Draco for him? Or maybe he could write it in a letter and leave it for Draco to read…
The meaning of Harry's thoughts dawned on him heavily, and he scowled.
There he went again, running away from Draco. It was his own cowardice that had caused Draco to be here. That got Draco so sick. When had he grown to be such a coward? When had he become afraid to tell Draco the truth?
When the truth became too painful to deal with, he recognized.
Harry closed his eyes briefly. He mustered up all the courage he had—every iota of it he possessed—and turned the knob on the door.
He moved in quickly, once again feeling the whoosh of charged magic in the air, and shut the door behind him sharply.
Harry took a deep breath, and moved forward.
Or, Harry's mind provided unhelpfully as he watched Draco, who'd been staring with his lips parted at Harry for the past five minutes, He could go into shock.
"Draco?" Harry called quietly. He had half a mind to poke him on the arm, but he didn't dare. Quite frankly, he was a bit afraid of how Draco would react after being pulled from the trance he'd fallen into.
Harry sat at Draco's bedside, in a plush chair brought in by the Healers. There'd been tea, too, but that had been quickly discarded when Harry's hand began to tremble too much to keep the cup still. He'd placed it on the floor a half-an-hour ago. It was now forgotten.
"Draco," Harry repeated again, and leaned forward to take Draco's hand.
"Alzheimer's?"
Harry jumped, startled by the first sound to come out of Draco since Harry had finished telling him, and retreated his hand.
Harry nodded. "Yeah."
Draco looked utterly confused with his eyebrows scrunched and his mouth formed in an impenetrably tight line.
"That doesn't make any sense, Harry," he said finally. His eyes were so wide, Harry was surprised they were still on his face.
"Alzheimer's is for old people. You're not old, Harry."
Harry sighed, and reclined further into his chair. His ankles were crossed, and he was shifting them restlessly.
"I know I'm not."
"Then how could you have Alzheimer's!" Draco snapped, suddenly, as if Harry were playing a game on him that he couldn't recognize.
"It's called "Early Onset Dementia, Draco," Harry intoned, and he thought he sounded a bit like Healer Humberbeck when he said it. "Or Young Alzheimer's. It's… it's the same… disease… only targeted towards younger people."
"I've never heard of men in their twenties getting Alzheimer's!"
Harry smiled ruefully. "You know I've always been unique."
"This isn't funny, Harry!" Draco snapped, and Harry's small smile was wiped from his face. There went his 'make light' approach.
"So… so you're telling me what, exactly? That you're going to be losing all your memories?" Draco was shaking, and Harry wondered if he even realized he was.
"Yeah," Harry managed to get out. "That's exactly what it means."
Draco froze again. He stared at Harry—disbelievingly, accusingly—as if Harry were to blame. As if he were the reason why Draco's world must have felt, at that moment, just as disjointed and broken as Harry's had when he first found out. Just as disjointed and broken as Harry's world still was.
"When did you find out?" came a whisper.
Harry didn't know why he was whispering, too. "Officially? A month ago."
Draco mouthed the words, stupidly.
"I'm sorry, Draco."
Draco shook his head, "And you didn't think, Harry, to tell me earlier than this!"
Harry sighed, tiredly. "I just… I just couldn't."
"You couldn't." Draco repeated.
"Yeah."
Draco slumped into his bed, his back so hunched over that Harry worried his spine would snap.
"You're going to lose all your memories," he stated blankly.
"Yeah." Harry's eyes began to burn again.
"In only a manner of…?"
"Months. A year. At the very latest, a year and a half."
Draco nodded slowly. "A year and a half."
"If I'm lucky," Harry swallowed.
"You're never lucky," Draco quietly said, and slunk further into his bed until he was lying down, head on his pillows, and staring up at the ceiling.
Harry laughed—a soft, almost choked laugh that made his throat burn something painful. "No, I'm not."
Draco nodded, and kept on staring up.
Harry closed his eyes, then glanced at his fists.
They both tried to be as silent with their tears as possible.
Part Five
The days that followed were both awkward and strained for Harry and Draco. Draco was kept at St. Mungo's until they deemed him properly fit to run a quarter mile without passing out. They prescribed him nutrient-based potions, and scheduled him for intensive therapy. Healer Rumesore had pulled Harry aside just before Draco had been able to check out and sternly warned him to keep an eye on his eating habits. Harry promised him he would.
He didn't lie.
Draco, on his part, had been eating as the Healer instructed most of the time. Harry still had to deal with the occasional complaint of "not hungry" from him, but Harry would simply bind Draco to his chair and keep him there until he promised to eat everything.
Even with Draco's eating disorder being addressed, there was still tension between them. For starters, whenever Harry tried to talk about the dementia, Draco would freeze up and avert the subject. Even an utterance of the word "Alzheimer's" around him would send him scurrying off. It was as if he truly believed that by ignoring it, it would go away. When Harry told him that he'd already tried that approach, and that it didn't work, he simply lashed out at Harry and fled to their bedroom. He would cast so many wards on the door that even Harry, an Auror, wouldn't be able to get in. Harry had found himself sleeping in one of the empty guest rooms more in the three months that followed Draco's checkout from the hospital than in the five years they'd been living together.
Harry still hadn't told his friends about the disease. He didn't know when he could. Healer Humberbeck had stressed the importance of it at least twice at each of their appointments, and Harry would simply ignore her until she gave in and moved on to other topics.
He didn't know how to tell Ron and Hermione, his best friends since he was eleven. Or Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who'd always acted as his surrogate parents. Harry and the Weasley family had shared so many memories together—far more than he could say about anyone else, even Draco. How could he tell them that he would be forgetting everything they ever did together? Every fight they ever fought, every battle they ever won, every birthday or death or family gathering? He just couldn't.
Perhaps he would have been able to if Draco were with him. If he'd at least had Draco's support. But he didn't, he knew he didn't, and how could he expect anything else? But it still would have been nice. Draco knowing, but pretending that he didn't, made Harry feel more alone that he'd ever felt before.
Draco didn't realize this, though, and pretended not to notice whenever Harry's growing symptoms—his increasing bouts of forgetfulness, his inability to maintain new (and old) information—showed itself in front of him.
He pretended to ignore it until he couldn't any longer.
It had been too long since Harry and Draco had dined out. They used to do it all the time—Harry, while he didn't mind cooking, usually preferred not to; and Draco, who didn't like to cook at all, simply preferred to eat at extravagant places—but had stopped when Harry lost the desire to eat in public. When he brought up dining at Wingardium to Draco—his partner's favorite restaurant— Draco had smiled brilliantly at him and told him it was a lovely idea.
They were now taking their seats at the very posh French Wizarding restaurant, escorted by waiters in red silk and floppy hats.
"I almost forgot how flashy this place was," Harry commented as he sat down and pushed his chair in.
Draco followed suit and shot him a teasing frown. "It's not 'flashy', Harry. It's designer. There's a difference."
Harry snorted and rolled his eyes. If there was, he couldn't see it.
Their waiter, a short man named Pierre Wilmer, brought them their menus, and they quickly ordered.
"I'll have what he's having," Harry told him, returning the long booklet. He never made any attempt to read the French gibberish on the menu, and wouldn't start now.
Draco scoffed. "I could be ordering octopus testicles for all you'd know," he pointed out, mischievously.
Harry grinned at him. "I trust you to have better taste than that."
Draco sniffed, but didn't argue. And how could he, when it was true?
The waiter finally brought out their dinner—after a salad course, and a soup course, a fruit course, and a spread of appetizers so wide it could very well have been their combined entrées—and Harry decided it was as good a time as ever to break his news to Draco.
"I quit the Auror Division," he interjected abruptly, just when Draco brought his fork and knife full of pork to his mouth.
Draco's hand faltered before it reached its destination, and the strip of meat fell back to the plate with a plop. Harry pretended not to have noticed it.
Draco cleared his throat and set his fork down. He picked up his napkin, dabbed at the invisible food at the side of his mouth, and meticulously folded it back onto his lap. Harry didn't call out the obvious attempt at procrastination. He waited, instead, until Draco finally looked up at him.
"Oh?" he said coolly, and lifted his fork back up.
"Yeah. I handed in my letter of resignation this afternoon."
"I see," was all he said. Draco picked up his wine glass and took a generous sip. He shot it one irritated look—as if he were upset it weren't a stronger drink—before he set it back down.
"Are you upset?" Harry found himself asking.
Draco shook his head. "It was expected," he said tersely.
Harry nodded. "Yeah. My work's been too heavily affected already. Kingsley noticed too, and asked me about it, and that's when I told him."
Draco bowed his head for Harry to continue, shoulders as stiff as a board.
"He was shocked," he continued, watching Draco attentively. "Badly. I actually thought he would cry. Said he would come over for dinner sometime soon." Harry added, "He'll probably bring Madame Bones with him. Do you think he'll ever propose to her in this decade? I would like to see it happen before I—"
"Excuse me," Draco said, suddenly. He pushed his chair back and sat up, and ignored the napkin that had fallen off his lap and to the floor. "I need to use the loo."
"Oh," Harry said, slightly surprised. "Right. Go ahead."
Draco gave him a small, seemingly forced, smile, and turned away. He was out of Harry's sight in mere seconds.
Harry looked down at his plate and sighed.
After ten minutes, Harry began to grow slightly worried. What the hell was taking Draco so long? The waiter—and Harry couldn't remember his name—had already dropped by once to ask if everything was alright. Harry quickly assured him that it was and sent him off. He was wondering, now, if he should have asked the waiter to check to see if Draco was okay.
Another five minutes passed, and just when Harry was about to stand up, ready to check on Draco himself, Draco walked into his line of sight.
"Sorry," he apologized as he reached the table and assumed his seat. "My stomach was acting up."
Harry shot him a concerned look, and Draco shook his head with a smile.
"I'm alright," he said, trying to be reassuring.
Harry didn't buy it. He couldn't tell if it was because of the dim lighting of the place, but Draco appeared rather pale.
The waiter came by again and asked whether the food was not to Draco's liking. Draco reassured the man and waved him away. The rest of the dinner went by quietly, with both Draco and Harry making small comments about work and friends here and there. When they pushed their plates to the center of the wide, circular table, they disappeared with a pop. The waiter came by with the tab, collected their Galleons, and escorted them back out.
Harry was retrieving his robe from the man at the front desk when a hand clamped over his shoulder.
He turned around, quickly, and shoved one hand into his pocket where his wand lay.
"Harry Potter, it's been a while!" A man who looked to be in his early thirties, with dark brown hair and eyes, exclaimed, and slapped Harry on the back roughly.
Harry took a step back from the man and narrowed his eyes curiously.
"I'm sorry sir, but who are you?" he asked.
The man's eyes opened wide in surprise, and then squinted small when he laughed.
"You're hilarious, Harry. So, what brings you out today? I haven't seen from you in a while. The wife and I are always—"
Harry glanced around anxiously, wondering where Draco went. He had no idea who this man was. He was acting rather familiar, though. Was he a co-worker?
"And Draco! There you are! I was beginning to wonder if Harry here came to dine by his lonesome self!"
Harry nearly sagged in relief when Draco stepped beside him, cloak already on.
"Hello, Porter. It's been a while." Draco greeted, and shook hands with the man.
Porter (apparently) beamed at him. "It has! I was just telling Harry here how the wife and I are always dining here, wondering when we'd run into you again. We thought you dropped off the face of the earth or something!"
Draco chuckled. "We haven't dined out too often lately."
Porter sighed, wistfully. "No, of course not. Your Harry can actually cook. The day my wife manages to boil a pot of water without burning it will be a miracle."
Draco chuckled again, and Harry scowled in frustration.
"So, Harry," Porter said, turning to him, "how's the Envionope working out for you?"
The what?
"I'm sorry, sir, but I don't know what you're talking about."
Porter merely quirked a brow at him. Draco looked at him sharply.
"Still pretending you don't recognize me, are you?" he said, jovially. "Alright, Harry. I'll play along."
He let out a deep laugh, and turned when a female's voice called his name.
"And there's my Samanda, as impatient as ever." He said, shaking his head.
"Bye, Draco," he shook his hand. He turned to Harry, and forced down a grin. "And good day to you, Mr. Potter." He joked.
"Good day," Harry retorted, biting back his irritation.
Porter laughed again, waved, and headed back into the restaurant.
Harry watched as he left.
"Who was that, Draco? Have he and I met before?"
Harry turned to face him, and watched Draco nod numbly.
"Yes. He's the fellow you bought the Envionope from."
"The what?"
Draco opened his mouth to answer, then shut it and shook his head. "Nothing. I want to go home, Harry."
Harry shot another irritated look at Draco, but nevertheless nodded.
Draco was the first to pop out. Harry stared at the spot his lover had disappeared from, sighed, and followed.
A/N: Con crit and reviews are always welcome =)