FIC: Beyond the Lethe, Part 1 (PG-13)
I'm not sure when I officially started writing this story; I know I was writing pieces of it in February, but I'm certain the idea started to develop well before that. This was difficult for me to write in a way that I've never experienced before, and even now, I'm at a loss to explain why. Anyway, it's done, it's here, and I hope you enjoy it. ♥
Title: Beyond the Lethe (part 1)
Author: ZS
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~16,425
Disclaimer: all JKR's.
Notes: grateful thanks to earthmoon and luzmaria8 for everything.
Spoilers: none for HBP.
Summary: For Harry, forgetting was easy...
Harry takes the stairs two-by-two up to his flat. His groceries are wilting from the heat of the city, and he needs to get the steak into the fridge and the frozen yogurt into the ice box. Renata had chided him, saying that he really needed to save his money instead of spending it on extravagant perishable foodstuffs, but Holden had backed him up, saying that Harry could spend the meager raise that his manager had allotted the grocery clerks the week before any damned way he pleased. As Harry reaches the landing before the last flight of stairs, he can hear the phone ringing. It's probably the druggist to tell him that his medications are ready to be picked up, or Holden or Renata calling to confirm their lunch plans for later that week. They would kill him if they knew he hasn't been taking proper care of himself.
Just over a year ago, Harry woke up in the hospital with bandages around his head and a dull headache. They told him he'd had another episode-meaning he'd been found raving incoherently or asleep so deeply that not even inflicting pain had been able to rouse him. It had happened on and off since he could remember-which wasn't much, really; the disease had ravaged both the short-term and long-term parts of his memory. He'd been lucky that it had left the rest of his brain relatively intact. He'd spent most of his childhood in various psychiatric institutions, being medicated and tested. It's been only recently that he's been able to lead a fairly normal life: holding down a steady job, having friends, contemplating going to school.
He fumbles with his keys, turning them one way and then the other in the lock, and stumbles over the threshold. The phone continues to ring-the volume is set high because of Harry's recurrent and alternate bouts of insomnia and deep, nearly impenetrable sleep-and he's about to put the bags on the counter and reach for the phone when something sharp prods him in the back and a low, quiet voice says, "This'll be easier if you don't move."
Harry swallows.
"My wallet's in my back pocket," he says.
The floor creaks as others enter his flat. There have been a rash of muggings in this area over the past week, and all Harry can think about are the gruesome details reported in the paper: throats slit, bodies dumped.
The phone shrills on.
"Of course it is. Turn around."
They don't want his money, Harry realizes. And he doesn't have anything of value in his flat. He doesn't have a television or a computer. The only electronic equipment he has are a radio that stops working when the barometer reaches a certain humidity level, and an old stereo system. All the paintings were given to him by Holden to decorate his minimalistic flat, who said he had a friend who was an artist and needed the storage space.
Harry doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to turn around. If he can identify them, he is as good as dead. Like this, he still might have a chance.
"Potter, we don't have all day."
They know his name. They must have been watching him, maybe going through his rubbish bins. Harry can't understand why.
Straight ahead, the fire escape is just outside the window.
"Just Petrify him and let's get the fuck out of here. We've already stayed too long."
"No. No unnecessary spells. Potter, let's-"
Harry turns and throws the bag of groceries as hard as he can into the gaggle of people behind him. He runs as hard as he can in the opposite direction and runs up hard against the sill. The sill sticks, and Harry catches a glimpse of his pursuers in the reflection of the window before hands grab his arms and shoulders. They drag him away from the window and onto the floor. Everyone is shouting now, and the goddamned phone is still ringing, and Harry can hear glass breaking all around him.
Someone sits down on his chest, which startles Harry into ceasing his struggles.
"Why are you doing this?" he says, staring up into the black void of the person's obscured face.
The man pulls off his hood, revealing blond hair and a resigned expression. He looks at Harry with such familiarity that Harry is taken aback and barely notices the stick that is pointed at his forehead.
"Because I have to. Try to remember that. Commoneo."
*
Harry opens his eyes to find that he is still sitting on the floor in his flat. Looking around, he realizes that he is alone, but for the man that had been sitting on his chest, who is now sitting on his couch, legs crossed, impeccably dressed.
The only difference between now and then is that Harry knows exactly what epithet to call him.
"Malfoy? What's going on?"
"I'm glad you're sitting down. We need to talk."
*
Dark Mark Sighted in Forbidden Forest... Ministry Officials Unable to Investigate Due to Extenuating Circumstances.
Disturbances Reported in Forbidden Forest; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Closed.
Unicorns Fleeing Forbidden Forest: Eyewitness Accounts pg. 8-9.
Peter Pettigrew Arrested in Diagon Alley; Ministry Confirms Links to You-Know-Who.
Explosions Rock Diagon Alley. Twelve Confirmed Dead, Twenty Still Missing.
Where Is Harry Potter?
Harry flings the stack of Daily Prophets across the room in frustration.
"Let me out of here!" he shouts, and his voice echoes around the expanse of the room.
Despite his words, Malfoy didn't do much talking. He asked Harry a few basic, inane questions-what's your name? where were you born? what year is this?-and then Apparated them away. Since then, Harry's been in this small room that has been stuffed full of boxes containing back editions of the Daily Prophet. For a while, he was dizzy and disoriented, as evidenced by the time he spent vomiting in the corner. While he waited for his stomach to settle, his eye was caught by the newspaper's various headlines, but reading them had only made him more nauseated.
He sits down on a bundled stack of papers and rubs his forehead. The memory block gave way to a massive headache that is blooming behind his eyes, but he finds that he remembers everything: Voldemort, the Diagon Alley explosions, the Forbidden Forest. He even remembers seeing Voldemort's body.
Except…
…there is definitely an ‘except', like a stopped-up drain inside his head that he can't unclog. He isn't whole, and the frustration that comes from knowing it makes him first rattle the doors in their frames with his bare hands, and then really, honestly, try to break them down. He's shocked when he hears a distinct crack, and then a crackle as a seam splits the doors from bottom to top before fracturing.
Standing on the opposite side of the doors when they collapse into hundreds of pieces is Malfoy, who has his arms crossed and a look of bemusement on his face. Oh yes, he remembers Malfoy too: all sneer and posturing and angles and sharpness, except-and there's that word again-the person he is confronted with seems to not fit the shape in Harry's mind as well as he should have.
"Are you done?"
"Apparently?"
Harry doesn't even have his wand. He can't believe he's just… done that.
"Sorry about the abduction," Malfoy says, and his mind is obviously elsewhere; Harry knows he isn't sorry at all.
"The sirloin steak was expensive, you know," Harry says. "And I hope you put the frozen yogurt in the freezer."
"I've already sent someone to clean up and make sure nothing spoils."
"Sure."
Malfoy shrugs.
"Really," he says. "Can't have spoiled food or nosy neighbours drawing attention to the fact that you're missing."
Only then does Harry really begin to realize that he is in well over his head.
*
There's chai tea, there's an assortment of Indian takeaway, and there's a palpable sense of surrealism.
Harry stares at the items on the table while Draco goes and makes himself comfortable, curling up in one of the chairs and not waiting for Harry to do the same before helping himself to the food.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
"You, breaking and entering."
"I'll not mince words, Harry. There's a reason why we've gone to the substantial trouble of reversing your memory block. Believe me, if we didn't require your cooperation..."
"Who's 'we'?" Harry says.
Malfoy clears his throat, and Harry realizes for the first time how uncomfortable he looks.
"You should sit down," Malfoy says.
"I'm fine," he says, swearing loudly when Malfoy spells a chair to smack into the back of his knees and push him up to the table.
"Let's review, shall we? Approximately one year ago, the Dark Lord built a massive structure in the Forbidden Forest. Shortly thereafter, Peter Pettigrew was discovered in Diagon Alley ranting and raving. A spell had been cast upon him so he could speak only one sentence: that Harry Potter must answer the Dark Lord's summons, or there would be terrible consequences."
"He was calling me out. Yes, I remember."
"In a plebeian manner of speaking, yes. Naturally, you wanted to go. Just as naturally, you were strictly forbidden. Hogwarts was closed while the danger was assessed. A few days later, a bomb exploded in Diagon Alley. Twelve people were killed. The night you received the news, you snuck off to play the hero. You were, however, painfully inept at sneaking. We tried to stop you, but your bullheadedness was slightly more developed."
"Malfoy, who's 'we'?"
"We, as in collectively speaking. More on that later. The important thing is that you left. Is all this..."
"It's still jiving with my recollection, yes."
Harry tries the tea, which is creamy and spicy, and tries and fails not to feel like he has gone entirely insane.
"Excellent. There was no doubt as to where you'd gone. We found the wall of restrictive magic around the structure undisturbed, but for footprints in the sand and a few drops of blood. In the meantime, there were attacks on the Muggle and Wizarding World alike. It appeared that the Death Eaters had orders to wreak havoc. Three days after you vanished, the Death Eaters showed signs of weakening. And then, their magic failed entirely. As for you, one moment you weren't there, and then, you were. We've maintained surveillance over the property since then. Only recently, we've discovered… stirrings."
Harry is riveted to the sound of Malfoy's voice. He wants to believe he is lying, and that this is some elaborate joke. But while pettiness had never been a deterrent for Malfoy, concocting a plot as elaborate as this for the sake of cruelty… well… Harry isn't sure.
"Harry. We need you to go back inside the structure. The Dark Lord... we think he may be back."
"You think he's still alive."
"I'm not saying that," Malfoy says. "But there are signs that indicate that precautions need to be taken, and we need you to help us investigate further."
"You're saying that he's still alive. You're saying that I've been lying this whole time-"
"Harry, stop jumping to fucking conclusions-"
"What part of this are you not understanding? The Ministry gave me Veritaserum while I was still in the hospital. They pulled out my memories and put them into a Pensieve. Passed the bowl around so everyone who was invested in the Ministry's future see Voldemort's body and go to sleep at night. He's dead! What more could you possibly want from me?"
Harry bolts from the room. The corridors twist and turn and he notices none of this. He gets as far as the wards will let him, and then, as far as brute force wandless magic. He is so far gone that even Malfoy's voice behind him makes him whirl around and lash out with a fist.
Malfoy slowly straightens, wiping the blood from his split lip. "Are you done?"
"Are you offering?"
Malfoy's gaze is caught by the shimmering remnants of the wards that Harry has managed to destroy.
"Gravely won't be pleased. It took her team two weeks to erect these." He looks at Harry suddenly. "Your magic is stronger than I recall."
"Don't even talk to me," he says, even though his body is screaming for explanations and answers. "Bastard. You could have warned me. You should have."
"Did you think you were being brought here to reminisce about old times?"
"At the time, I was being abducted. I had no idea what the hell you wanted, nor did I consent to any of this."
Malfoy regards him quietly. Once again, Harry wonders where Malfoy's learned this quiet intensity, but he can't recall anything other than the shoving matches they had back at Hogwarts.
"Let me go," Harry says. "I didn't have a choice before; this time, I'm making a choice. I want no part of this. Oblivate me and send me home."
Malfoy touches his lip once more. It's already starting to swell.
"I think we'd benefit from a change in scenery, don't you?"
"Where are we going?"
Malfoy takes hold of his arm and uses his wand to wipe away the wards. They go outside, and Harry feels the tingle of impending magic all up and down his spine.
"Nowhere in particular," Malfoy says, and both of them pretend to not know that he is lying.
*
"This didn't go as I'd envisioned it," Malfoy says, as they walk down a residential street. Harry begins to think that his initial assessment was wrong: he doesn't recognize the area, and Malfoy just seems to be putting one foot in front of the other. It's still night, and the air feels the same, so they haven't traveled very far. Harry watches Malfoy carefully and wonders what game he is playing.
"What do you mean by that?"
"At the very least, I thought you'd be nostalgic and sentimental."
"Why?"
"Wizarding world? Magic?"
"What about them?"
Draco gives him an appraising look. "Your memories are still gone, aren't they."
"I have memories, Malfoy. Draco," he amends, just to see if he can use Malfoy's first name around as easily as Malfoy seems to be using his. "I remember you all right."
Draco resumes walking. "Of course you do. But as a side effect of what happened to you, you don't remember your friends, or family, or any of the good things that have happened to you."
"My family never wanted anything to do with me. And I never had any friends when I was in school. There were no good things."
Draco gives him a strange look and Harry can't understand why.
The streetlights start to click on, one small section at a time.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Draco says, stopping suddenly, and Harry is thrown by those words coming out of that mouth. Caught up in the rhythm of their walking, he stumbles to a halt. Draco is looking at a house. The front drapes are wide open and the interior is lit. It's a nursery, he realizes, and inside, there is a woman holding a baby up against her shoulder.
"What is this?"
"That," Draco says, "is a baby."
"And?"
"And you knew her parents when you were in school."
Draco is setting him up for something. If only he could figure it out, he would have some protection.
"So?"
"She was born four months ago into a world without the Dark Lord. Can you imagine that, Harry?"
Harry's heart begins to hurt, like it's being crushed.
"You need me to save everyone," he says quietly. "Again."
"Me and everyone else."
"You bastard," Harry says. "This is a guilt trip."
"It is," Draco says, and when Harry turns to look at him, he's staring at the tip of Draco's wand. "Shall we get this over with?"
"Wait," Harry says, and he sounds desperate to his own ears. He needs time to think, but Draco isn't letting him have it. "Why should I do this?"
"Do you really need me to do your thinking for you?"
"I've had a long day."
"You should do it so you can make sure the bastard is properly dead this time."
"And then what? When he's properly dead."
"Then we'll have this conversation all over again, and you can be whomever you want."
Harry takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm him. He desperately wants his other life back, the uncomplicated existence of having a menial job and an empty flat. He wants anything but this.
"If there's only a little bit of time left, then don't you think I deserve every second to live in ignorant bliss?"
Draco gives him a hard look. "You know what? Go ahead and walk away. Enjoy your worry-free existence. When the world starts ending, and you don't understand why, you'll be able to truthfully tell yourself that you don't have the power to do anything about it. But right now, you don't have that excuse. You're the only one who can do anything about the end of the world."
Harry has never seen Draco Malfoy so impassioned about something, nor so determined not to let it show. He finds it terrible and amusing that he is capitulating to this not because he is obligated to save the world again, but because he wants to spend more time with this intriguing person that Draco Malfoy has grown up to be.
"Tell me again why you care," he says.
"Because, for whatever reason, I'm the only one who can do anything about you."
Explain that to me, Harry wants to say, but he's suddenly out of words. He promises himself that he'll find a way to ask that question before the end comes.
*
"McEvoy, Harry Potter. Harry, McEvoy is one of the top Unspeakable agents. He's the head Auror working this case."
"Hello," Harry says.
McEvoy has a tense, pursed look about him, and permanent furrows of skepticism etched into his forehead. He has dark, bushy eyebrows, apparently to compensate for his receding hairline; his eyes are very dark and when McEvoy levels his gaze at Harry, it actually seems to carry weight.
As Draco continues to lead Harry around the top secret Unspeakable Headquarters (a box factory gone out of business) introducing everyone in sight, Harry sees the same naked relief in everyone's eyes. It's uncomfortable to the point of embarrassing, and Harry can't meet anyone's gaze but Draco's.
"Here's the rest of your team. Gravely. She's heading up the spells side of things: incantations, runes, arithmancy."
Gravely nods at him before returning to her conversation. She isn't imposing in height-petite, up to Harry's chin only-but she has striking black hair and brown eyes.
They approach a man with olive skin, wild, thick hair, and sideburns that extend past his earlobes.
"This is Wheaton," Draco says. "He's taking care of the tactics, evaluating our approach, and troubleshooting anything that happens unexpectedly."
Harry gives him a quiet "hello". He can't believe the scope of this mission. It is Voldemort, yes, but can't recall the Ministry ever being so organized or efficient.
"You all right?"
Harry is startled to find Draco addressing him.
"I'll feel better when you tell me what you want me to do."
"Like you said, you've had a long day. I'll show you where you can sleep for a few hours."
"No. I want to start now, get it over with."
"We're not ready for you just yet. Besides, you'll be better able to help us when you're fresh."
"I'm not sleeping naked," he blurts out, and Draco isn't fazed at all.
"No need. I've sent someone back to pick up a few of your things. You'll find them in your room. Oh… there's one more thing. Before you go to sleep, there's a potion for you to drink on the side table."
"What for? I sleep fine."
"I know," Draco says, opening the door. "Goodnight."
*
Nightmares coalesce like ghosts from smoke. His hand bleeds in reverse, droplets from the black floor leaping up to his fingertips and soaking back into his skin. The darkness doesn't fade, however; at first, it's only his fingertips that are stained black. Then, faster and faster, more of his hand is enveloped. Everything the darkness consumes becomes gnarled and twisted, and his fingers disjoint and lock. His elbow seizes, and the flesh of his upper arm corrodes and chars. The darkness races towards his face, and as he draws breath, his jaw locks into a permanent scream.
*
Harry lurches awake, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He casts off his blankets, gasping, his arm connecting with someone's midsection, accompanied by an expletive and a strong hand at his back.
"Here. Use this."
It's Draco, Harry realizes, holding a basin under his chin and his hair away from his forehead. He coughs and vomits and chokes. He struggles to get away; he wants to scratch off his clothes and tear at his flesh till he bleeds.
"Hold still," Draco says. From the corner of his eye, Harry can see someone else, someone holding a wand to his forehead. Panicking, Harry flings his arm out but Draco grabs it, somehow managing to put down the basin without spilling anything.
Draco maneuvers behind him, holding his arms against his body so he can't move.
"What are you doing?" he gasps.
"Shh. Preserving your dreams while they're still fresh in your mind."
Harry holds back a moan of pain as the dream is ripped from his head, a long oil-black strand that glistens wetly when it's dropped into a jar.
"You bastard," Harry says, still struggling, still reeling.
"Try not to talk. Drink this."
Draco holds a straw to Harry's lips, but Harry balks and the glass flies into the wall, shattering and spraying water everywhere.
"Gravely. How does it look?"
Gravely pours the stand into a small Pensieve and waves her wand. Harry's stomach churns. He feels violated, like someone has peeled his skin off. He claws at Draco, who is too close and touching him too much. Draco finally lets him go, and Harry scrambles off the bed and into the corner.
"Too soon to tell just yet. I need one minute," Gravely says, but continues to stare at Harry.
Draco looks at him, too. "Let me explain."
"Give me my wand."
"We're trying to obtain background information about the rings before we do a breach."
"You poisoned me. You took that memory from me without my permission."
"A Dream Draught is hardly poison, Harry."
"It's poison if I don't know what it is. You misled me."
"I did. So both of us can get through this as painlessly as possible. I'm sorry you don't agree.
The dream would not be authentic if you'd known what we were planning."
"Give me my wand."
Everyone trades glances and Harry wonders if this is some kind of sick joke. Finally, Draco breaks the tableau and walks carefully over to the bed. He reaches beneath the pillow and pulls out Harry's wand.
"Here," he says, and tosses it in a high arc to Harry.
Once the wand is in his hand, Harry feels much better. He holds it up and everyone stays at bay but they don't look particularly intimidated; no, there's more concern than fear in everyone's eyes, except for Draco's, which radiate a kind of tired resignation.
"Gravely?" Draco says.
"So far, no good."
"What?"
"It's nothing we don't already know. The Forbidden Forest, the entrance, the blood."
"Fuck. FUCK."
"Wait. There's more. A series of concentric circles, one inside the other. Like rings. And a strange object in the middle of it... I can't make it out."
Draco nods at the other people in the room. "Get everyone together." As they leave, Gravely included, Draco addresses Harry. "We need you to tell us everything about your dream."
"Do you really think I have anything to say to you right now other than 'get the fuck away from me'?"
Harry literally pushes Draco from the room. He puts a complicated locking charm on his door, splashes water on his face, and gets dressed. He sits on the bed and just breathes. Then, he goes and opens the door, unsurprised to find Draco leaning against the wall, waiting.
"I still don't know how you think I can help you," Harry says. "I don't remember anything."
"Will you at least try?" Draco says, and Harry takes a deep breath, and nods.
*
In the briefing room, they've set up the Pensieve that holds Harry's fractured dream memories. It's projecting into the free space above the huge rectangular table for all to see, and as Harry approaches it, feeling all eyes on him, he feel exposed. He sees Gravely with her quill and ink; Wheaton, who is fiddling with his side burns; McEvoy, who is at the head of the table; there are ten or twelve others who don't even seem to breathe as Harry walks towards them. There is one empty chair at the far side of the room, facing McEvoy. That one is for him, Harry supposes. The only other empty chair is beside McEvoy. That one is Draco's, Harry understands, being the next lead operative in this mission. He takes a deep breath. But it is Draco who speaks, addressing Wheaton, who is sitting next to Harry's seat.
"Find another chair," Draco says.
Wheaton opens his mouth to argue, but instead he shuts his mouth and vacates the chair. He doesn't go far, however, lingering nearby with his own roll of parchment.
Harry slides into his chair. Draco sits down. McEvoy clears his throat. A dozen quills are picked up.
"Mr. Potter," McEvoy says. "Start at the beginning."
An hour later, it feels like they are still at the beginning. Harry has a clear memory of entering the rings, but everything after that is veiled by a foggy mist. He can feel a dozen eyes on him. There is water, and he reaches for it often just to fill the parts where there is nothing he can say.
This time, his water glass is empty. He hesitates, and in his peripheral vision, he can see everyone staring. Suddenly, the silence is filled by the sound of water being poured. Draco is filling his water glass. Harry gulps gratefully at the water. His bladder complains; he has drank far too much. And everyone continues to stare.
"I don't remember."
Harry's head hurts. There must be a painting inside it, and every excruciating moment he has to spend going over and over details he doesn't remember-can't remember, doesn't want to remember-picks at the fibers of the canvas till the strands unravel and shred.
McEvoy sighs audibly and changes the display that the Pensieve is showing to the shimmery object that Gravely first described. There are markings all over its surface, like runes, but too indistinct to make out clearly.
"What is this?"
"I don't know. An urn? A jug? A decorative planter?"
McEvoy gives Draco a narrow look.
"Which is it, Mr. Potter?" he says, sliding his gaze back to Harry.
"I don't know."
"These memories are yours, Mr. Potter. We extracted them from your mind."
"Thank you for the reminder," Harry says.
McEvoy throws up his hands. "This is pointless."
"You're the ones who brought me here!" Harry yells, suddenly on his feet. The air crackles, and his water glass sings with the strain.
"Whoa, whoa." Wheaton is there, stepping in front of Harry. "I think it's time we took a break."
Harry doesn't need an engraved invitation. He is out of his chair and out the door before anyone has really moved. He goes to the loo and spends a long time washing his hands and staring at his reflection in the mirror. When he's run out of excuses to dawdle, he returns to the hallway to find Draco waiting, leaning up against the wall.
He doesn't say anything; Harry doesn't need him to say anything.
"You think I'm choosing to not remember," he says, reading into Draco's expression as much as he can.
"What happened to you was traumatic, and it's obvious you chose not to remember for your survival. But you need to take us back there so we can help you get through it once again. The more you can tell us now, the better prepared we'll all be."
Harry mimics Draco's pose and closes his eyes. He finally decides to voice a question that has been gnawing at him since he was brought here.
"Where are my friends? You said… I had friends. Why aren't they here?"
"They know nothing about this. We're keeping them in the dark for their own good."
Harry thinks this over. "And why you?"
"You keep asking me the same question."
"Because I think you're not being entirely truthful."
"Fine, Potter. You want to know why I'm participating in this little exercise in faint hope and eleventh hour heroics? I want to live."
"And it has nothing to do with me."
"Why should it? All your good memories are missing; you're obviously not missing any of me, are you."
Harry shakes his head slowly. "But why you?"
"We hoped it would be easier for you to interact with someone you felt neutral about."
"Since when have I ever felt neutral about you?" Harry blurts, and then finds himself blushing.
"Believe me, Potter, you had friends. But after your last confrontation with the Dark Lord, your memories were skewed. Oh, you remembered the spats and the rows, all right. In fact, you spent an entire hour alternatively screaming and giving the cold shoulder to two of your best mates after you woke up in St. Mungo's."
"I did?"
"It was rather entertaining. But apparently, the Healers had a different opinion. After trying in vain to reverse the damage you'd sustained, they decided it would be ultimately detrimental for you to live without any good memories. So we selectively blocked some of your memories and filled in the gaps. Then we helped you leave the Wizarding World."
"You… you built me a fabricated life."
"Yes, Potter. A fabricated life. How many people get a second chance to live an entirely different existence without the baggage of their previous life?"
Harry doesn't know what to say. In the corner of his eye, he can see someone with bushy sideburns-Wheaton-trying not to be obvious in his staring.
"Why do you keep looking at me?" he says.
"Me? Oh. No reason." Wheaton looks embarrassed.
Harry opens his mouth to say more, but Draco interjects.
"Wheaton assisted with the Potter Project."
"Don't tell me you called it that," Harry says.
"Did you expect a fancy acronym?" Draco returns.
Wheaton looks back and forth between the two of them and has a look on his face that says he wishes he could be anywhere but here at the moment.
"We tried to design a life for you that would be a seamless fit," he says, trying to fill the empty space.
"And the part where I was crazy…"
"…was the most plausible explanation we could come up with which would explain any residual memories you may have retained from the Wizarding World."
Harry tilts his head. "How is it you know so much about me?"
"I… read your file. I need to go back to the meeting now."
Wheaton leaves abruptly.
"He's very strange," Harry says.
Draco nods. "I've often thought so."
"Why don't I have any happy memories left?"
"The only one who can answer that is you."
Draco excuses himself then, and Harry paces the corridors for a while. When he finally returns to the briefing room, it's starkly different in appearance.
"What's going on?"
"I thought we would try something different," Draco says, and shuts the door behind him.
The central table remains, as does the Pensieve, and all the chairs but one is gone. There is a single flickering light from a pillar candle that warps and contorts the shadows on the walls.
Harry walks forward and stubs his toe on apparently nothing. However, there is a corresponding 'ow' that startles him.
"They're still here," Draco says with a raised eyebrow, "but for all intents and purposes, it's just us."
"And a flask of mysterious liquid," Harry says, as Draco retrieves a potion from underneath a white cloth. Harry's stomach turns as he remembers the Dream Draught. "I'm not drinking that."
"No, you're not. Sit down and we'll get started. I'm going to try to retrieve your memories using a slightly more experimental method. The Pensieve will collect your thoughts as you experience them."
"And project them for everyone to see."
Draco nods.
Feeling exposed, but seeing no other alternative, Harry sinks into the chair. Draco picks up the candle and holds it horizontally over the potion. The surface of the potion catches fire and flares so brightly that Harry has to look away. When he looks back, the potion is no longer lit; instead, it is emitting a thin curlicue of white smoke that smells faintly like incense.
Harry's eyes fall closed of their own accord.
"All right, Harry. I want you to imagine a staircase with ten steps. You are standing at the top of this staircase. You are perfectly safe, and you will remain safe throughout this exercise. Do you understand? Good. As I count backwards from ten, you're going to take the stairs one at a time. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, you'll be back inside the rings. Remember that nothing can hurt you. Ready? Ten..."
At nine, Harry feels the air sour. At seven, the light starts to fade. At five, the temperature drops and his skin prickles with goosebumps. At three, he can hear the sounds of a fight. At one, Voldemort falls dead at his feet.
He recoils, gasping. Draco's voice filters back to him.
"Nothing can hurt you," he says. "On a scale of one to ten, how much anxiety do you feel?"
Harry walks around the body. He sees a smear of blood on his own hands, and he rubs at it.
"I'm all right. Maybe a two."
"Good. Now look around. What do you see?"
Harry looks. There's a long, dark corridor to his left, lit faintly by widely-spaced torches. To his right is a vast cavern with steep walls. Marked on the ground are three circles, one inside the other. A shimmering object sits in the center of the rings, and he makes his way towards it.
As he crosses the first circle, a sharp pain lances through his arm, and his left hand is severed at the wrist.
"Oh god. Six," he says.
"This isn't real, Harry. Focus."
Swallowing hard, Harry crosses the second circle. A blinding light explodes inside his head and he falls to his knees.
"Eight," he gasps. But the shimmering object is right there, just inside the third circle. He forces himself towards it, crawling now. As he crosses into the third circle, pain stabs him in the heart. He stretches out his hand, but it falters. He can't do this, he can't.
"Ten," he says.
His fingers touch the shimmering object. But instead of cold relief, there is only blackness, only despair. Voldemort fills him, twisting, hurting. Black blood starts flowing from Harry's ears and eyes and nail beds. It fills his mouth, and he can taste himself dying, being consumed.
"Ten!" he screams, and then a voice cuts through his panic.
"Harry. Listen to me. There is a moving staircase in front of you. Step onto it. Don't argue with me, just do it. Good. As I count backwards from ten, you will ascend the stairs. Your anxiety level will decrease with each consecutive number, and will be gone by the time you awaken, completely relaxed and refreshed."
"Draco-"
"Ten."
At nine, the blood stops flowing. At seven, Harry sees that his hands are whole. At five, the constricted feeling in his chest releases. At three, he can breathe more easily. At two, a fragment of light appears at the top of the stairs. At one, Harry opens his eyes.
The room is still mostly dark, and the single candle continues to burn. The potion is all but spent, and the veil around him has been lifted. Harry, feeling calm and distant from what he's just experienced, looks around. Everyone, including Draco, looks pale and shaken.
After a round table discussion about what the circles and Harry's injuries and the strange object might represent, they suggest a break. Harry tries to fade into the background. But nobody approaches him-whether out of respect or fear or instruction, he's not sure-but he's extremely grateful.
Only Draco comes close, offering a cup of water, and leans on one of the chairs.
"That object contained the Dark Lord's essence. How did you do it?"
Harry shakes his head. "I don't remember."
"This is important, Harry. Did you bring anything with you? Did you Transfigure something?"
"I don't know!"
"So the next thing you know, you're in the infirmary?"
"I don't-"
Suddenly, there is shouting, followed by a stampede of footsteps. Harry watches as the hallway is filled with team members rushing back into the briefing room, and he follows at a distance, Draco trailing after him.
Gravely and Wheaton are huddled around a device that is spinning madly. Their faces are pale.
"McEvoy," Gravely says, and McEvoy's expression hardens.
"Alpha team, proceed to the site immediately. Beta team, deployment is in one hour; you'd better have all your gear together by then or you'll be left behind."
"What-" Harry says, but he doesn't know how he means to finish that sentence. "Now?"
"Whatever it is that's been registering on our monitoring devices has just increased in activity by three hundred percent," Wheaton says, in between directing and barking orders at his team.
"You mean Voldemort is back."
"It means we need to be on site and investigate further. But it's a distinct possibility," Gravely says, and piles scrolls into the arms of one of her team members before shooing him off.
"Sir," Draco says, addressing McEvoy. They don't exchange any words that Harry can hear; he is busy watching the Voldmort/weather vane spin, and spin, and his heart is beating so hard it hurts. "Harry. Come on."
He is surprised to find Draco taking his arm and leading him away from the chaos.
"What's… where are we going? I need to help them." But he hasn't helped at all so far; all he's managed to do is obfuscate the situation.
"You will. We'll be following Beta team to the site in the morning. That way, they'll have a chance to set up their equipment and you'll have a chance to get ready."
"I'm…" not, he doesn't say. He'll have to be ready. He just doesn't know how.
*
Hours later, Harry is still awake. Footsteps up to his door herald someone's approach, and the person doesn't even knock before trying the doorknob.
"Come in, Draco," he says. "Checking up on me?"
"If you like."
Draco hasn't slept at all, either; there are dark shadows under his eyes.
"Well, I can't sleep, and there's no way in hell I'm drinking another one of your Dream Draughts."
"Good," Draco replies. "I wasn't going to brew you another one anyway."
"Good." Harry studies Draco for a moment, but Draco's face is carefully neutral. "Was there a time when you thought Voldemort was gone, too?"
"Of course. There was about a three month lag."
"What did you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did you do when you thought you were free?"
"Research, mostly. Memory retrieval using spells and potions. Stop looking at me like that; did you expect me to have been lounging around in a seaside resort sipping wine and eating biscotti?"
"You could have been," Harry says lamely.
Draco snorts. "Please."
"Was it like this?" Harry says, suddenly bold. "Before everything happened, was it like this between us?"
Draco doesn't even think about his answer.
"No," he says. "Go to bed, Potter."
"Is that all you came here for?"
Draco waves over his shoulder, and Harry sighs. But when he closes his eyes, sleep comes quickly.
*
Part 2
Title: Beyond the Lethe (part 1)
Author: ZS
Rating: PG-13
Words: ~16,425
Disclaimer: all JKR's.
Notes: grateful thanks to earthmoon and luzmaria8 for everything.
Spoilers: none for HBP.
Summary: For Harry, forgetting was easy...
Harry takes the stairs two-by-two up to his flat. His groceries are wilting from the heat of the city, and he needs to get the steak into the fridge and the frozen yogurt into the ice box. Renata had chided him, saying that he really needed to save his money instead of spending it on extravagant perishable foodstuffs, but Holden had backed him up, saying that Harry could spend the meager raise that his manager had allotted the grocery clerks the week before any damned way he pleased. As Harry reaches the landing before the last flight of stairs, he can hear the phone ringing. It's probably the druggist to tell him that his medications are ready to be picked up, or Holden or Renata calling to confirm their lunch plans for later that week. They would kill him if they knew he hasn't been taking proper care of himself.
Just over a year ago, Harry woke up in the hospital with bandages around his head and a dull headache. They told him he'd had another episode-meaning he'd been found raving incoherently or asleep so deeply that not even inflicting pain had been able to rouse him. It had happened on and off since he could remember-which wasn't much, really; the disease had ravaged both the short-term and long-term parts of his memory. He'd been lucky that it had left the rest of his brain relatively intact. He'd spent most of his childhood in various psychiatric institutions, being medicated and tested. It's been only recently that he's been able to lead a fairly normal life: holding down a steady job, having friends, contemplating going to school.
He fumbles with his keys, turning them one way and then the other in the lock, and stumbles over the threshold. The phone continues to ring-the volume is set high because of Harry's recurrent and alternate bouts of insomnia and deep, nearly impenetrable sleep-and he's about to put the bags on the counter and reach for the phone when something sharp prods him in the back and a low, quiet voice says, "This'll be easier if you don't move."
Harry swallows.
"My wallet's in my back pocket," he says.
The floor creaks as others enter his flat. There have been a rash of muggings in this area over the past week, and all Harry can think about are the gruesome details reported in the paper: throats slit, bodies dumped.
The phone shrills on.
"Of course it is. Turn around."
They don't want his money, Harry realizes. And he doesn't have anything of value in his flat. He doesn't have a television or a computer. The only electronic equipment he has are a radio that stops working when the barometer reaches a certain humidity level, and an old stereo system. All the paintings were given to him by Holden to decorate his minimalistic flat, who said he had a friend who was an artist and needed the storage space.
Harry doesn't turn around. He doesn't want to turn around. If he can identify them, he is as good as dead. Like this, he still might have a chance.
"Potter, we don't have all day."
They know his name. They must have been watching him, maybe going through his rubbish bins. Harry can't understand why.
Straight ahead, the fire escape is just outside the window.
"Just Petrify him and let's get the fuck out of here. We've already stayed too long."
"No. No unnecessary spells. Potter, let's-"
Harry turns and throws the bag of groceries as hard as he can into the gaggle of people behind him. He runs as hard as he can in the opposite direction and runs up hard against the sill. The sill sticks, and Harry catches a glimpse of his pursuers in the reflection of the window before hands grab his arms and shoulders. They drag him away from the window and onto the floor. Everyone is shouting now, and the goddamned phone is still ringing, and Harry can hear glass breaking all around him.
Someone sits down on his chest, which startles Harry into ceasing his struggles.
"Why are you doing this?" he says, staring up into the black void of the person's obscured face.
The man pulls off his hood, revealing blond hair and a resigned expression. He looks at Harry with such familiarity that Harry is taken aback and barely notices the stick that is pointed at his forehead.
"Because I have to. Try to remember that. Commoneo."
*
Harry opens his eyes to find that he is still sitting on the floor in his flat. Looking around, he realizes that he is alone, but for the man that had been sitting on his chest, who is now sitting on his couch, legs crossed, impeccably dressed.
The only difference between now and then is that Harry knows exactly what epithet to call him.
"Malfoy? What's going on?"
"I'm glad you're sitting down. We need to talk."
*
Dark Mark Sighted in Forbidden Forest... Ministry Officials Unable to Investigate Due to Extenuating Circumstances.
Disturbances Reported in Forbidden Forest; Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Closed.
Unicorns Fleeing Forbidden Forest: Eyewitness Accounts pg. 8-9.
Peter Pettigrew Arrested in Diagon Alley; Ministry Confirms Links to You-Know-Who.
Explosions Rock Diagon Alley. Twelve Confirmed Dead, Twenty Still Missing.
Where Is Harry Potter?
Harry flings the stack of Daily Prophets across the room in frustration.
"Let me out of here!" he shouts, and his voice echoes around the expanse of the room.
Despite his words, Malfoy didn't do much talking. He asked Harry a few basic, inane questions-what's your name? where were you born? what year is this?-and then Apparated them away. Since then, Harry's been in this small room that has been stuffed full of boxes containing back editions of the Daily Prophet. For a while, he was dizzy and disoriented, as evidenced by the time he spent vomiting in the corner. While he waited for his stomach to settle, his eye was caught by the newspaper's various headlines, but reading them had only made him more nauseated.
He sits down on a bundled stack of papers and rubs his forehead. The memory block gave way to a massive headache that is blooming behind his eyes, but he finds that he remembers everything: Voldemort, the Diagon Alley explosions, the Forbidden Forest. He even remembers seeing Voldemort's body.
Except…
…there is definitely an ‘except', like a stopped-up drain inside his head that he can't unclog. He isn't whole, and the frustration that comes from knowing it makes him first rattle the doors in their frames with his bare hands, and then really, honestly, try to break them down. He's shocked when he hears a distinct crack, and then a crackle as a seam splits the doors from bottom to top before fracturing.
Standing on the opposite side of the doors when they collapse into hundreds of pieces is Malfoy, who has his arms crossed and a look of bemusement on his face. Oh yes, he remembers Malfoy too: all sneer and posturing and angles and sharpness, except-and there's that word again-the person he is confronted with seems to not fit the shape in Harry's mind as well as he should have.
"Are you done?"
"Apparently?"
Harry doesn't even have his wand. He can't believe he's just… done that.
"Sorry about the abduction," Malfoy says, and his mind is obviously elsewhere; Harry knows he isn't sorry at all.
"The sirloin steak was expensive, you know," Harry says. "And I hope you put the frozen yogurt in the freezer."
"I've already sent someone to clean up and make sure nothing spoils."
"Sure."
Malfoy shrugs.
"Really," he says. "Can't have spoiled food or nosy neighbours drawing attention to the fact that you're missing."
Only then does Harry really begin to realize that he is in well over his head.
*
There's chai tea, there's an assortment of Indian takeaway, and there's a palpable sense of surrealism.
Harry stares at the items on the table while Draco goes and makes himself comfortable, curling up in one of the chairs and not waiting for Harry to do the same before helping himself to the food.
"What's the last thing you remember?"
"You, breaking and entering."
"I'll not mince words, Harry. There's a reason why we've gone to the substantial trouble of reversing your memory block. Believe me, if we didn't require your cooperation..."
"Who's 'we'?" Harry says.
Malfoy clears his throat, and Harry realizes for the first time how uncomfortable he looks.
"You should sit down," Malfoy says.
"I'm fine," he says, swearing loudly when Malfoy spells a chair to smack into the back of his knees and push him up to the table.
"Let's review, shall we? Approximately one year ago, the Dark Lord built a massive structure in the Forbidden Forest. Shortly thereafter, Peter Pettigrew was discovered in Diagon Alley ranting and raving. A spell had been cast upon him so he could speak only one sentence: that Harry Potter must answer the Dark Lord's summons, or there would be terrible consequences."
"He was calling me out. Yes, I remember."
"In a plebeian manner of speaking, yes. Naturally, you wanted to go. Just as naturally, you were strictly forbidden. Hogwarts was closed while the danger was assessed. A few days later, a bomb exploded in Diagon Alley. Twelve people were killed. The night you received the news, you snuck off to play the hero. You were, however, painfully inept at sneaking. We tried to stop you, but your bullheadedness was slightly more developed."
"Malfoy, who's 'we'?"
"We, as in collectively speaking. More on that later. The important thing is that you left. Is all this..."
"It's still jiving with my recollection, yes."
Harry tries the tea, which is creamy and spicy, and tries and fails not to feel like he has gone entirely insane.
"Excellent. There was no doubt as to where you'd gone. We found the wall of restrictive magic around the structure undisturbed, but for footprints in the sand and a few drops of blood. In the meantime, there were attacks on the Muggle and Wizarding World alike. It appeared that the Death Eaters had orders to wreak havoc. Three days after you vanished, the Death Eaters showed signs of weakening. And then, their magic failed entirely. As for you, one moment you weren't there, and then, you were. We've maintained surveillance over the property since then. Only recently, we've discovered… stirrings."
Harry is riveted to the sound of Malfoy's voice. He wants to believe he is lying, and that this is some elaborate joke. But while pettiness had never been a deterrent for Malfoy, concocting a plot as elaborate as this for the sake of cruelty… well… Harry isn't sure.
"Harry. We need you to go back inside the structure. The Dark Lord... we think he may be back."
"You think he's still alive."
"I'm not saying that," Malfoy says. "But there are signs that indicate that precautions need to be taken, and we need you to help us investigate further."
"You're saying that he's still alive. You're saying that I've been lying this whole time-"
"Harry, stop jumping to fucking conclusions-"
"What part of this are you not understanding? The Ministry gave me Veritaserum while I was still in the hospital. They pulled out my memories and put them into a Pensieve. Passed the bowl around so everyone who was invested in the Ministry's future see Voldemort's body and go to sleep at night. He's dead! What more could you possibly want from me?"
Harry bolts from the room. The corridors twist and turn and he notices none of this. He gets as far as the wards will let him, and then, as far as brute force wandless magic. He is so far gone that even Malfoy's voice behind him makes him whirl around and lash out with a fist.
Malfoy slowly straightens, wiping the blood from his split lip. "Are you done?"
"Are you offering?"
Malfoy's gaze is caught by the shimmering remnants of the wards that Harry has managed to destroy.
"Gravely won't be pleased. It took her team two weeks to erect these." He looks at Harry suddenly. "Your magic is stronger than I recall."
"Don't even talk to me," he says, even though his body is screaming for explanations and answers. "Bastard. You could have warned me. You should have."
"Did you think you were being brought here to reminisce about old times?"
"At the time, I was being abducted. I had no idea what the hell you wanted, nor did I consent to any of this."
Malfoy regards him quietly. Once again, Harry wonders where Malfoy's learned this quiet intensity, but he can't recall anything other than the shoving matches they had back at Hogwarts.
"Let me go," Harry says. "I didn't have a choice before; this time, I'm making a choice. I want no part of this. Oblivate me and send me home."
Malfoy touches his lip once more. It's already starting to swell.
"I think we'd benefit from a change in scenery, don't you?"
"Where are we going?"
Malfoy takes hold of his arm and uses his wand to wipe away the wards. They go outside, and Harry feels the tingle of impending magic all up and down his spine.
"Nowhere in particular," Malfoy says, and both of them pretend to not know that he is lying.
*
"This didn't go as I'd envisioned it," Malfoy says, as they walk down a residential street. Harry begins to think that his initial assessment was wrong: he doesn't recognize the area, and Malfoy just seems to be putting one foot in front of the other. It's still night, and the air feels the same, so they haven't traveled very far. Harry watches Malfoy carefully and wonders what game he is playing.
"What do you mean by that?"
"At the very least, I thought you'd be nostalgic and sentimental."
"Why?"
"Wizarding world? Magic?"
"What about them?"
Draco gives him an appraising look. "Your memories are still gone, aren't they."
"I have memories, Malfoy. Draco," he amends, just to see if he can use Malfoy's first name around as easily as Malfoy seems to be using his. "I remember you all right."
Draco resumes walking. "Of course you do. But as a side effect of what happened to you, you don't remember your friends, or family, or any of the good things that have happened to you."
"My family never wanted anything to do with me. And I never had any friends when I was in school. There were no good things."
Draco gives him a strange look and Harry can't understand why.
The streetlights start to click on, one small section at a time.
"I'm sorry, Harry," Draco says, stopping suddenly, and Harry is thrown by those words coming out of that mouth. Caught up in the rhythm of their walking, he stumbles to a halt. Draco is looking at a house. The front drapes are wide open and the interior is lit. It's a nursery, he realizes, and inside, there is a woman holding a baby up against her shoulder.
"What is this?"
"That," Draco says, "is a baby."
"And?"
"And you knew her parents when you were in school."
Draco is setting him up for something. If only he could figure it out, he would have some protection.
"So?"
"She was born four months ago into a world without the Dark Lord. Can you imagine that, Harry?"
Harry's heart begins to hurt, like it's being crushed.
"You need me to save everyone," he says quietly. "Again."
"Me and everyone else."
"You bastard," Harry says. "This is a guilt trip."
"It is," Draco says, and when Harry turns to look at him, he's staring at the tip of Draco's wand. "Shall we get this over with?"
"Wait," Harry says, and he sounds desperate to his own ears. He needs time to think, but Draco isn't letting him have it. "Why should I do this?"
"Do you really need me to do your thinking for you?"
"I've had a long day."
"You should do it so you can make sure the bastard is properly dead this time."
"And then what? When he's properly dead."
"Then we'll have this conversation all over again, and you can be whomever you want."
Harry takes a deep breath, but it does little to calm him. He desperately wants his other life back, the uncomplicated existence of having a menial job and an empty flat. He wants anything but this.
"If there's only a little bit of time left, then don't you think I deserve every second to live in ignorant bliss?"
Draco gives him a hard look. "You know what? Go ahead and walk away. Enjoy your worry-free existence. When the world starts ending, and you don't understand why, you'll be able to truthfully tell yourself that you don't have the power to do anything about it. But right now, you don't have that excuse. You're the only one who can do anything about the end of the world."
Harry has never seen Draco Malfoy so impassioned about something, nor so determined not to let it show. He finds it terrible and amusing that he is capitulating to this not because he is obligated to save the world again, but because he wants to spend more time with this intriguing person that Draco Malfoy has grown up to be.
"Tell me again why you care," he says.
"Because, for whatever reason, I'm the only one who can do anything about you."
Explain that to me, Harry wants to say, but he's suddenly out of words. He promises himself that he'll find a way to ask that question before the end comes.
*
"McEvoy, Harry Potter. Harry, McEvoy is one of the top Unspeakable agents. He's the head Auror working this case."
"Hello," Harry says.
McEvoy has a tense, pursed look about him, and permanent furrows of skepticism etched into his forehead. He has dark, bushy eyebrows, apparently to compensate for his receding hairline; his eyes are very dark and when McEvoy levels his gaze at Harry, it actually seems to carry weight.
As Draco continues to lead Harry around the top secret Unspeakable Headquarters (a box factory gone out of business) introducing everyone in sight, Harry sees the same naked relief in everyone's eyes. It's uncomfortable to the point of embarrassing, and Harry can't meet anyone's gaze but Draco's.
"Here's the rest of your team. Gravely. She's heading up the spells side of things: incantations, runes, arithmancy."
Gravely nods at him before returning to her conversation. She isn't imposing in height-petite, up to Harry's chin only-but she has striking black hair and brown eyes.
They approach a man with olive skin, wild, thick hair, and sideburns that extend past his earlobes.
"This is Wheaton," Draco says. "He's taking care of the tactics, evaluating our approach, and troubleshooting anything that happens unexpectedly."
Harry gives him a quiet "hello". He can't believe the scope of this mission. It is Voldemort, yes, but can't recall the Ministry ever being so organized or efficient.
"You all right?"
Harry is startled to find Draco addressing him.
"I'll feel better when you tell me what you want me to do."
"Like you said, you've had a long day. I'll show you where you can sleep for a few hours."
"No. I want to start now, get it over with."
"We're not ready for you just yet. Besides, you'll be better able to help us when you're fresh."
"I'm not sleeping naked," he blurts out, and Draco isn't fazed at all.
"No need. I've sent someone back to pick up a few of your things. You'll find them in your room. Oh… there's one more thing. Before you go to sleep, there's a potion for you to drink on the side table."
"What for? I sleep fine."
"I know," Draco says, opening the door. "Goodnight."
*
Nightmares coalesce like ghosts from smoke. His hand bleeds in reverse, droplets from the black floor leaping up to his fingertips and soaking back into his skin. The darkness doesn't fade, however; at first, it's only his fingertips that are stained black. Then, faster and faster, more of his hand is enveloped. Everything the darkness consumes becomes gnarled and twisted, and his fingers disjoint and lock. His elbow seizes, and the flesh of his upper arm corrodes and chars. The darkness races towards his face, and as he draws breath, his jaw locks into a permanent scream.
*
Harry lurches awake, tasting bile in the back of his throat. He casts off his blankets, gasping, his arm connecting with someone's midsection, accompanied by an expletive and a strong hand at his back.
"Here. Use this."
It's Draco, Harry realizes, holding a basin under his chin and his hair away from his forehead. He coughs and vomits and chokes. He struggles to get away; he wants to scratch off his clothes and tear at his flesh till he bleeds.
"Hold still," Draco says. From the corner of his eye, Harry can see someone else, someone holding a wand to his forehead. Panicking, Harry flings his arm out but Draco grabs it, somehow managing to put down the basin without spilling anything.
Draco maneuvers behind him, holding his arms against his body so he can't move.
"What are you doing?" he gasps.
"Shh. Preserving your dreams while they're still fresh in your mind."
Harry holds back a moan of pain as the dream is ripped from his head, a long oil-black strand that glistens wetly when it's dropped into a jar.
"You bastard," Harry says, still struggling, still reeling.
"Try not to talk. Drink this."
Draco holds a straw to Harry's lips, but Harry balks and the glass flies into the wall, shattering and spraying water everywhere.
"Gravely. How does it look?"
Gravely pours the stand into a small Pensieve and waves her wand. Harry's stomach churns. He feels violated, like someone has peeled his skin off. He claws at Draco, who is too close and touching him too much. Draco finally lets him go, and Harry scrambles off the bed and into the corner.
"Too soon to tell just yet. I need one minute," Gravely says, but continues to stare at Harry.
Draco looks at him, too. "Let me explain."
"Give me my wand."
"We're trying to obtain background information about the rings before we do a breach."
"You poisoned me. You took that memory from me without my permission."
"A Dream Draught is hardly poison, Harry."
"It's poison if I don't know what it is. You misled me."
"I did. So both of us can get through this as painlessly as possible. I'm sorry you don't agree.
The dream would not be authentic if you'd known what we were planning."
"Give me my wand."
Everyone trades glances and Harry wonders if this is some kind of sick joke. Finally, Draco breaks the tableau and walks carefully over to the bed. He reaches beneath the pillow and pulls out Harry's wand.
"Here," he says, and tosses it in a high arc to Harry.
Once the wand is in his hand, Harry feels much better. He holds it up and everyone stays at bay but they don't look particularly intimidated; no, there's more concern than fear in everyone's eyes, except for Draco's, which radiate a kind of tired resignation.
"Gravely?" Draco says.
"So far, no good."
"What?"
"It's nothing we don't already know. The Forbidden Forest, the entrance, the blood."
"Fuck. FUCK."
"Wait. There's more. A series of concentric circles, one inside the other. Like rings. And a strange object in the middle of it... I can't make it out."
Draco nods at the other people in the room. "Get everyone together." As they leave, Gravely included, Draco addresses Harry. "We need you to tell us everything about your dream."
"Do you really think I have anything to say to you right now other than 'get the fuck away from me'?"
Harry literally pushes Draco from the room. He puts a complicated locking charm on his door, splashes water on his face, and gets dressed. He sits on the bed and just breathes. Then, he goes and opens the door, unsurprised to find Draco leaning against the wall, waiting.
"I still don't know how you think I can help you," Harry says. "I don't remember anything."
"Will you at least try?" Draco says, and Harry takes a deep breath, and nods.
*
In the briefing room, they've set up the Pensieve that holds Harry's fractured dream memories. It's projecting into the free space above the huge rectangular table for all to see, and as Harry approaches it, feeling all eyes on him, he feel exposed. He sees Gravely with her quill and ink; Wheaton, who is fiddling with his side burns; McEvoy, who is at the head of the table; there are ten or twelve others who don't even seem to breathe as Harry walks towards them. There is one empty chair at the far side of the room, facing McEvoy. That one is for him, Harry supposes. The only other empty chair is beside McEvoy. That one is Draco's, Harry understands, being the next lead operative in this mission. He takes a deep breath. But it is Draco who speaks, addressing Wheaton, who is sitting next to Harry's seat.
"Find another chair," Draco says.
Wheaton opens his mouth to argue, but instead he shuts his mouth and vacates the chair. He doesn't go far, however, lingering nearby with his own roll of parchment.
Harry slides into his chair. Draco sits down. McEvoy clears his throat. A dozen quills are picked up.
"Mr. Potter," McEvoy says. "Start at the beginning."
An hour later, it feels like they are still at the beginning. Harry has a clear memory of entering the rings, but everything after that is veiled by a foggy mist. He can feel a dozen eyes on him. There is water, and he reaches for it often just to fill the parts where there is nothing he can say.
This time, his water glass is empty. He hesitates, and in his peripheral vision, he can see everyone staring. Suddenly, the silence is filled by the sound of water being poured. Draco is filling his water glass. Harry gulps gratefully at the water. His bladder complains; he has drank far too much. And everyone continues to stare.
"I don't remember."
Harry's head hurts. There must be a painting inside it, and every excruciating moment he has to spend going over and over details he doesn't remember-can't remember, doesn't want to remember-picks at the fibers of the canvas till the strands unravel and shred.
McEvoy sighs audibly and changes the display that the Pensieve is showing to the shimmery object that Gravely first described. There are markings all over its surface, like runes, but too indistinct to make out clearly.
"What is this?"
"I don't know. An urn? A jug? A decorative planter?"
McEvoy gives Draco a narrow look.
"Which is it, Mr. Potter?" he says, sliding his gaze back to Harry.
"I don't know."
"These memories are yours, Mr. Potter. We extracted them from your mind."
"Thank you for the reminder," Harry says.
McEvoy throws up his hands. "This is pointless."
"You're the ones who brought me here!" Harry yells, suddenly on his feet. The air crackles, and his water glass sings with the strain.
"Whoa, whoa." Wheaton is there, stepping in front of Harry. "I think it's time we took a break."
Harry doesn't need an engraved invitation. He is out of his chair and out the door before anyone has really moved. He goes to the loo and spends a long time washing his hands and staring at his reflection in the mirror. When he's run out of excuses to dawdle, he returns to the hallway to find Draco waiting, leaning up against the wall.
He doesn't say anything; Harry doesn't need him to say anything.
"You think I'm choosing to not remember," he says, reading into Draco's expression as much as he can.
"What happened to you was traumatic, and it's obvious you chose not to remember for your survival. But you need to take us back there so we can help you get through it once again. The more you can tell us now, the better prepared we'll all be."
Harry mimics Draco's pose and closes his eyes. He finally decides to voice a question that has been gnawing at him since he was brought here.
"Where are my friends? You said… I had friends. Why aren't they here?"
"They know nothing about this. We're keeping them in the dark for their own good."
Harry thinks this over. "And why you?"
"You keep asking me the same question."
"Because I think you're not being entirely truthful."
"Fine, Potter. You want to know why I'm participating in this little exercise in faint hope and eleventh hour heroics? I want to live."
"And it has nothing to do with me."
"Why should it? All your good memories are missing; you're obviously not missing any of me, are you."
Harry shakes his head slowly. "But why you?"
"We hoped it would be easier for you to interact with someone you felt neutral about."
"Since when have I ever felt neutral about you?" Harry blurts, and then finds himself blushing.
"Believe me, Potter, you had friends. But after your last confrontation with the Dark Lord, your memories were skewed. Oh, you remembered the spats and the rows, all right. In fact, you spent an entire hour alternatively screaming and giving the cold shoulder to two of your best mates after you woke up in St. Mungo's."
"I did?"
"It was rather entertaining. But apparently, the Healers had a different opinion. After trying in vain to reverse the damage you'd sustained, they decided it would be ultimately detrimental for you to live without any good memories. So we selectively blocked some of your memories and filled in the gaps. Then we helped you leave the Wizarding World."
"You… you built me a fabricated life."
"Yes, Potter. A fabricated life. How many people get a second chance to live an entirely different existence without the baggage of their previous life?"
Harry doesn't know what to say. In the corner of his eye, he can see someone with bushy sideburns-Wheaton-trying not to be obvious in his staring.
"Why do you keep looking at me?" he says.
"Me? Oh. No reason." Wheaton looks embarrassed.
Harry opens his mouth to say more, but Draco interjects.
"Wheaton assisted with the Potter Project."
"Don't tell me you called it that," Harry says.
"Did you expect a fancy acronym?" Draco returns.
Wheaton looks back and forth between the two of them and has a look on his face that says he wishes he could be anywhere but here at the moment.
"We tried to design a life for you that would be a seamless fit," he says, trying to fill the empty space.
"And the part where I was crazy…"
"…was the most plausible explanation we could come up with which would explain any residual memories you may have retained from the Wizarding World."
Harry tilts his head. "How is it you know so much about me?"
"I… read your file. I need to go back to the meeting now."
Wheaton leaves abruptly.
"He's very strange," Harry says.
Draco nods. "I've often thought so."
"Why don't I have any happy memories left?"
"The only one who can answer that is you."
Draco excuses himself then, and Harry paces the corridors for a while. When he finally returns to the briefing room, it's starkly different in appearance.
"What's going on?"
"I thought we would try something different," Draco says, and shuts the door behind him.
The central table remains, as does the Pensieve, and all the chairs but one is gone. There is a single flickering light from a pillar candle that warps and contorts the shadows on the walls.
Harry walks forward and stubs his toe on apparently nothing. However, there is a corresponding 'ow' that startles him.
"They're still here," Draco says with a raised eyebrow, "but for all intents and purposes, it's just us."
"And a flask of mysterious liquid," Harry says, as Draco retrieves a potion from underneath a white cloth. Harry's stomach turns as he remembers the Dream Draught. "I'm not drinking that."
"No, you're not. Sit down and we'll get started. I'm going to try to retrieve your memories using a slightly more experimental method. The Pensieve will collect your thoughts as you experience them."
"And project them for everyone to see."
Draco nods.
Feeling exposed, but seeing no other alternative, Harry sinks into the chair. Draco picks up the candle and holds it horizontally over the potion. The surface of the potion catches fire and flares so brightly that Harry has to look away. When he looks back, the potion is no longer lit; instead, it is emitting a thin curlicue of white smoke that smells faintly like incense.
Harry's eyes fall closed of their own accord.
"All right, Harry. I want you to imagine a staircase with ten steps. You are standing at the top of this staircase. You are perfectly safe, and you will remain safe throughout this exercise. Do you understand? Good. As I count backwards from ten, you're going to take the stairs one at a time. When you get to the bottom of the stairs, you'll be back inside the rings. Remember that nothing can hurt you. Ready? Ten..."
At nine, Harry feels the air sour. At seven, the light starts to fade. At five, the temperature drops and his skin prickles with goosebumps. At three, he can hear the sounds of a fight. At one, Voldemort falls dead at his feet.
He recoils, gasping. Draco's voice filters back to him.
"Nothing can hurt you," he says. "On a scale of one to ten, how much anxiety do you feel?"
Harry walks around the body. He sees a smear of blood on his own hands, and he rubs at it.
"I'm all right. Maybe a two."
"Good. Now look around. What do you see?"
Harry looks. There's a long, dark corridor to his left, lit faintly by widely-spaced torches. To his right is a vast cavern with steep walls. Marked on the ground are three circles, one inside the other. A shimmering object sits in the center of the rings, and he makes his way towards it.
As he crosses the first circle, a sharp pain lances through his arm, and his left hand is severed at the wrist.
"Oh god. Six," he says.
"This isn't real, Harry. Focus."
Swallowing hard, Harry crosses the second circle. A blinding light explodes inside his head and he falls to his knees.
"Eight," he gasps. But the shimmering object is right there, just inside the third circle. He forces himself towards it, crawling now. As he crosses into the third circle, pain stabs him in the heart. He stretches out his hand, but it falters. He can't do this, he can't.
"Ten," he says.
His fingers touch the shimmering object. But instead of cold relief, there is only blackness, only despair. Voldemort fills him, twisting, hurting. Black blood starts flowing from Harry's ears and eyes and nail beds. It fills his mouth, and he can taste himself dying, being consumed.
"Ten!" he screams, and then a voice cuts through his panic.
"Harry. Listen to me. There is a moving staircase in front of you. Step onto it. Don't argue with me, just do it. Good. As I count backwards from ten, you will ascend the stairs. Your anxiety level will decrease with each consecutive number, and will be gone by the time you awaken, completely relaxed and refreshed."
"Draco-"
"Ten."
At nine, the blood stops flowing. At seven, Harry sees that his hands are whole. At five, the constricted feeling in his chest releases. At three, he can breathe more easily. At two, a fragment of light appears at the top of the stairs. At one, Harry opens his eyes.
The room is still mostly dark, and the single candle continues to burn. The potion is all but spent, and the veil around him has been lifted. Harry, feeling calm and distant from what he's just experienced, looks around. Everyone, including Draco, looks pale and shaken.
After a round table discussion about what the circles and Harry's injuries and the strange object might represent, they suggest a break. Harry tries to fade into the background. But nobody approaches him-whether out of respect or fear or instruction, he's not sure-but he's extremely grateful.
Only Draco comes close, offering a cup of water, and leans on one of the chairs.
"That object contained the Dark Lord's essence. How did you do it?"
Harry shakes his head. "I don't remember."
"This is important, Harry. Did you bring anything with you? Did you Transfigure something?"
"I don't know!"
"So the next thing you know, you're in the infirmary?"
"I don't-"
Suddenly, there is shouting, followed by a stampede of footsteps. Harry watches as the hallway is filled with team members rushing back into the briefing room, and he follows at a distance, Draco trailing after him.
Gravely and Wheaton are huddled around a device that is spinning madly. Their faces are pale.
"McEvoy," Gravely says, and McEvoy's expression hardens.
"Alpha team, proceed to the site immediately. Beta team, deployment is in one hour; you'd better have all your gear together by then or you'll be left behind."
"What-" Harry says, but he doesn't know how he means to finish that sentence. "Now?"
"Whatever it is that's been registering on our monitoring devices has just increased in activity by three hundred percent," Wheaton says, in between directing and barking orders at his team.
"You mean Voldemort is back."
"It means we need to be on site and investigate further. But it's a distinct possibility," Gravely says, and piles scrolls into the arms of one of her team members before shooing him off.
"Sir," Draco says, addressing McEvoy. They don't exchange any words that Harry can hear; he is busy watching the Voldmort/weather vane spin, and spin, and his heart is beating so hard it hurts. "Harry. Come on."
He is surprised to find Draco taking his arm and leading him away from the chaos.
"What's… where are we going? I need to help them." But he hasn't helped at all so far; all he's managed to do is obfuscate the situation.
"You will. We'll be following Beta team to the site in the morning. That way, they'll have a chance to set up their equipment and you'll have a chance to get ready."
"I'm…" not, he doesn't say. He'll have to be ready. He just doesn't know how.
*
Hours later, Harry is still awake. Footsteps up to his door herald someone's approach, and the person doesn't even knock before trying the doorknob.
"Come in, Draco," he says. "Checking up on me?"
"If you like."
Draco hasn't slept at all, either; there are dark shadows under his eyes.
"Well, I can't sleep, and there's no way in hell I'm drinking another one of your Dream Draughts."
"Good," Draco replies. "I wasn't going to brew you another one anyway."
"Good." Harry studies Draco for a moment, but Draco's face is carefully neutral. "Was there a time when you thought Voldemort was gone, too?"
"Of course. There was about a three month lag."
"What did you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"What did you do when you thought you were free?"
"Research, mostly. Memory retrieval using spells and potions. Stop looking at me like that; did you expect me to have been lounging around in a seaside resort sipping wine and eating biscotti?"
"You could have been," Harry says lamely.
Draco snorts. "Please."
"Was it like this?" Harry says, suddenly bold. "Before everything happened, was it like this between us?"
Draco doesn't even think about his answer.
"No," he says. "Go to bed, Potter."
"Is that all you came here for?"
Draco waves over his shoulder, and Harry sighs. But when he closes his eyes, sleep comes quickly.
*
Part 2